Mom was a "Wingnut," just like me and the tattoo of The West Wing on my left arm is in remembrance of something special we two shared. I'm asked about it often and although the reason for my tattoo can be simply stated, the story behind it cannot.
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| Ann Fasano (aka Mom) about 18 months before her death and the tattoo commemorating her, our favorite show and--just maybe--a minor miracle |
As I said, Mom was a “Wingnut”—an avowed and passionate fan of the television show The West Wing—just like me. Aside from our tendencies toward neatness and a mutual fondness of Manhattans (hers sweet, mine dry) we didn’t have a whole lot in common.
But one thing we did share was our love of the television show The West Wing, a writing/directing/acting tour de force and arguably the finest drama in television history. Over the years we watched and re-watched The West Wing together several times, enjoying it more each time and mourning its loss after seven seasons when production wrapped in 2006.
After never having smoked a day in her life and recently retiring from 40+ years spent working in a smoke-filled office Mom succumbed to lung cancer on February 16, 2011 at the age of 69. Mom watched what she ate, exercised and took excellent care of herself. Thanks to her efforts and a few good genes Mom appeared about 15 years younger than her actual age for most of her adult life. She was youthful and vital, elegant and graceful.
Whereas some teenagers consider their parents to be a mortifying embarrassment, my sister Linda and I were always proud to show Mom off to our new friends, boyfriends and girlfriends. Far from being the embarrassing parental stereotype dreaded by teens since the dawn of time Mom was hip, vibrant, pretty and warm. Embarrassed? Are you kidding me? She made us look good! Never did I tire of hearing my friends utter in shock, "That’s your mom?!?”
The cancer had already reached stage four by the time it had been diagnosed in September 2009. Like C.J. Cregg in The West Wing’s fourth season episode “The Long Goodbye,” Linda and I endured our own long goodbye as the cancer spread to Mom’s brain. What first manifested itself as minor memory lapses quickly and cruelly progressed to a point where Mom was conscious but seemingly unaware of her surroundings and largely unable to communicate.
Although she enjoyed traveling and going out, our mother was at heart a homebody. Wanderlust kept her on the move and move she did…often! Be they modest apartments or spacious houses, wherever she went Mom's homes were masterworks of decorating and design that somehow managed to remain both comfortable and inviting.
Once it became clear that Mom could no longer care for herself or be left alone Linda and I took leave from our jobs so that we could care for her in the one place she loved most and into which she’d lovingly poured so much of herself: her home. For upwards of three months either Linda or I—or both of us together—was with Mom around the clock, each minute spent with her a heartbreaking blessing greedily held tight.
It wasn’t long before all Mom could do was eat, sleep and rest comfortably on her sofa, awake but no longer able to express whatever thoughts might have gently flitted through her mind. With few other options watching television together soon came to occupy the majority of our waking hours.
Linda and I weren't always certain that Mom even noticed that the television was on, much less ascertain what she might have wanted to watch. Playing it safe we opted for what we knew had always been her favorite movies and TV shows. Three guesses as to which shows I most often put on.
As we progressed through the episodes, I began to notice something remarkable taking place. Despite her mental isolation from the world around her and her inability to communicate with those of us in it, Mom would smile or at times laugh softly at many of the same moments in The West Wing as she had before her illness.
Somehow The West Wing was able to pierce the darkness and connect with our mother like nothing else could. This mere--though beloved--television program had become something precious, wondrous and sacred. The closest thing to a miracle I've ever known.
Shortly after Mom's death I decided to get a tattoo, something that in some way related to her memory. Rather than give in to clichés such as "Mom" or her birthday or date of birth I wanted something that was quintessentially us. After some online searching for just the right image and an appointment with the tattoo artist The West Wing literally became a part of me.
Aaron Sorkin, Tommy Schlamme et al. did much more than craft a superb television program. Some of my mother's last happy, lucid thoughts occurred in a universe of their creation, the same universe in which I was to witness whatever precious few smiles and laughs she had left.
My West Wing tattoo is memory-made-flesh. Memories of a world where smart was sexy. Where truth, facts and right mattered. Where our best and brightest came together with passion and noble intent to serve the common good with uncommon devotion. Where we took pride in the knowledge that our nation's leader was the smartest person in any room he entered rather than the dumbest or most corrupt.
Permanently emblazoned within my very skin it is all of those things and one thing more: for as long as I exist it too shall exist as a loving tribute to a woman who made the world a better place and graced the lives of all whose paths she crossed.
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| Me & Mom (2007) |
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