2006 was an auspicious year full of doubt, dread and irritation. It had been eleven years since 9/11 and the new war in Iraq was going on three years thanks to Bush 2 or shrub, as I liked referring to him. I don’t recall if our illustrious VP Dick, the dick, Cheney had shot one of his best friends in the face with a shotgun while quail hunting, but if it hadn’t happened, I predict it will. Nah I know. Lou Rawls, with all of his mellifluous deep tones passed, what a loss and Bella Abzug. While this was the world outside my immediate life, inside the confines of my existence I was two years into a new position, Program Manager in Senior and Adult Services over quality assurance and fraud. It was exciting, no one had done this before. I was building a new program, new people, new goals, new strategies. An oddity was my new team took over a space formerly holding the Alcohol and Drug Bureau, where I worked. I moved into my boss’ old office – new furniture though.
I spent a fair amount of time writing up plans for the program, making presentations to the Board and traveling to statewide meetings, where this was being replicated. I was getting to know the administrative hearings process which also fell under my umbrella; and we were also beginning to deal with some budget pull backs. I had regular battles with the County DA who wanted the fraud effort and its money and I was road blocking as much as possible.
It was Thursday. For some reason I do not understand, many of the events of my life happen on Thursdays – but that’s for another story. I had spent Wednesday night at the gym lifting weights and trying to be in shape. I was a little sore when I headed to the office. Still feeling bad I took a couple of aspirins to reduce the pain. Not much help, so I called my boss to say I wasn’t feeling well and I was going home.
The street I live on is residential on my side but turning west there is a park, medical office buildings and Mercy Folsom Hospital. As I was getting close to that crossroad I started getting dizzy and sweaty and cold, so I turned left, pulled into the ER lot, walked in and said “I think I’m having a heart attack. The desk clerk was kind enough to inform me it wasn’t called that anymore it was an event, like it should require a Hallmark card –Congratulations on your Heart Event. Event or attack, which is what it felt like, it was true. Over the next three days I was ambulanced to Mercy General, downtown Sacramento, had a stent surgically implanted through my femoral artery, which requires you to sit quiet with a five pound sandbag wedged in your crotch for six to eight hours until it closes so you don’t bleed out. Not very comfortable, mind you. By Monday I went back to work.
I decided with this death scare it was time to replace my old and long faded tattoo with something big, powerful and protective. A dragon draped languidly over my shoulder. A guardian for my health to ward off any such events in the future. It was important that it be three toed (Japanese – not Chinese with five) and a yin-yang symbol for balance. My daughter was fourteen and wanted to watch. It was a tattoo place on K Street, soon to be torn down as the city reclaimed downtown Sacramento – tattoo places would have to go. The artist was recommended by a friend.
We arrived and my kid was wide eyed. She had never seen such a place, nor the array of people being worked on or waiting. We were ushered into a private room for the first day of line work. Loud grunge and smash music playing, it began. Shave my chest, put the ink trace in place and start your engines - the electric whine and buzz of the machine; the artists deft hands tracing lines, building the dragon slowly.
Trust me when I say the first stuff hurts like fuck, until the adrenaline kicks in, then you get hypnotized by the sound and music and buzz. Occasionally I would wince with a quick intake of air when he worked his way over the collarbone. My daughter would ask, “are you going to cry dad?”
“No, honey.” I replied. After this happened a few more times she declared “this is boring, I’m going to call mom and go shopping”, which she did. Fickle! Seven years later I sat the whole time she got her tattoo and never asked. She didn’t cry once. So proud.