Papa Bob and Pooh Bear

I have eight tattoos, all with some meaning. Most of them are sad. I have a rose for my estranged mother on my ribcage, a tiny R2D2 for an abusive ex (I’ve never even seen Star Wars), a skeleton bird with sunflowers marking a sad, lost, childhood that I find myself grieving over from time to time. But my favourite tattoo isn’t sad at all. Most people will see it and ask something along the lines of “Oh my gosh, is that Winnie the Pooh on your leg?” and I tell them that it is and I’ll pull my pant leg up or my sock down and give them a better look. “So cute!”, they exclaim “I used to love Winnie the Pooh!”

“So did my godfather,” I’ll respond. It’s obvious then that with the past tense usage and my fond tone of voice, that it’s a memorial tattoo, and they tend to get a little uncomfortable.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," they say

"Don't be!" I always respond. Because this tattoo isn't really sad at all.

Pooh is my first tattoo, even though he shouldn’t have been. I was at one tattoo studio in the city with the aforementioned ex, waiting for his appointment to get started. I had what was supposed to be my first one booked at a different studio the next day, so I just wandered about the room, killing time and looking at the incredible art all over the walls. I overheard an apprentice talking to another artist saying that he had so much free time and might as well go home. As a knee-jerk reaction due to what I could only assume was because of complete boredom, I butted in and said: “tattoo me!”

He eagerly agreed.

We sat at the computer, and he asked me if I had any idea of what I wanted on the spot. Instantly, I said, “Winnie the Pooh.”

I had a sudden image in my head that I hadn’t thought of before. I’ve always known that I wanted a tattoo dedicated to my Papa Bob, my godfather from back in the states, but I wasn’t sure of what. The man was cool and had many arbitrary passions- old video games, egg rolls from a particular gas station, random tools, my godmother, and, Winnie the Pooh.

“Okay,” the artist replied, “how do you want him?”

We eventually stumbled across a picture of Pooh Bear holding onto a balloon. “That one,” I said. “But make the balloon heart-shaped.”

I thought this was a nice touch, considering how much I loved the man. The apprentice got started right away, and within 20 minutes, I was on the table and under the needle. I remember it not hurting as much as I expected, and my heart pounding. However, in the end, I was in love with the final result and even happier still that my first tattoo was a dedication to the man who for years, was quite literally my only hope.

Now, for the real backstory (TRIGGER WARNING):

I was severely abused as a child.

My father physically, emotionally, sexually, and mentally abused my mother and me my whole life until their divorce when I was 13. I had no real idea of how a family was supposed to look or love each other until we moved to the same town as my Papa Bob. I would stay at his house whenever my parents had to run errands, and I was even allowed to stay the night once or twice. During my stays, he would show me a new Nintendo 64 game he had found at the local pawn shop or a random wood carving he had made that week. I distinctly remember his apartment smelling like a vintage antique store, and it was very fitting. He had bits and bobs all over the place, including half of a wall covered in nothing but random hammers and tools hanging from a pegboard. Realistically, he was much too old to be my godfather, but I know now that he and his wife were my parents’ only friends and I’m grateful for that.

Another fond memory I have of him was the relationship he had with my godmother.

I am originally from America, and as everyone knows, the system isn’t great over there. Like, any of the systems. Due to their financial situation and age, they had to downsize from a family home to these little quaint assisted living apartments that I came to love and remember so fondly. However, I learned later that for them to qualify for them, they had to be single so legally, my godfather and godmother divorced and they couldn’t stay in the same apartment. However, they found other ways to be close.

They specifically requested apartments on the other side of the other, so that structurally, their bedrooms would be next to each other. Whenever one would go to sleep, they would knock on the wall until the other responded, signifying that they were in bed as well, right next to them. My godmother would make him cookies and sometimes watch us play Super Mario. Until my teen years, they were the only ones who provided an example of what love even meant.

Papa provided comfort, solace, love and light when I couldn’t get it at home. I was too young to understand much of what was going on, so I don’t ever remember mentioning the abuse to him. This made the time with him almost more special to me, as he was my guardian angel without ever even knowing I needed guarding.

When we got the news that he was in an induced coma at the hospital, I begged my family to go to Dodge’s and get the eggrolls that he loved so much. I was too young to understand he couldn’t eat them because he wasn’t awake, but I persisted because what if Papa did wake up and he was hungry?

They eventually agreed.

We got to the hospital, and I rushed to have a look at him. The man I loved so dearly was an awful shade of grey and had tubes sticking out of his nose, but I cuddled him and kissed his cheek anyway. His skin was cold- he wasn’t as warm and fragrant as I remembered our hugs to be. I sat the paper bag of eggrolls down on his bedside table and cried a little. My mother tried to console me, but I wanted my Papa Bob. This was November 22nd, 2009.

Robert Damas passed away on November 23rd, 2009. He was 71. Thanks for waiting for me, Pops.

“How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” -Winnie the Pooh