GI JOE

The military gave my brother purpose. It also broke him

- LISA GREGOIRE

WHEN MY big brother Joe died two years ago at age sixty-three, alone on his bedroom floor in Greenwood, Nova Scotia, he had more than sixty tattoos on his body but no teeth. Years of anxious clenching and grinding had left his molars so cracked and painful that, in desperation, he'd had all his teeth removed in favour of dentures. He died before the new teeth arrived. He died before his next tattoo, which, according to his day planner, was scheduled for two days after the funeral. “I called the artist to tell him about my dad, and he was shocked,” Joe’s daughter, Angela, told me. “I said, ‘Let’s keep the appointment. I’ll get whatever he was going to get.’ The guy pulled up the email thread with dad and said it was the number on the nose of the jet he flew—938. I was so relieved it wasn’t a naked woman.”

To be clear, Joe was no pilot, though it had been his childhood dream to be- come one. Knowing this, a friend had taken him flying once and let him take the co-pilot’s controls for a few minutes. Angela and her brother, Steven, know this story well. Both got “938” tattooed on their inner biceps. You see it when they clasp hands behind their heads and lean back, like Joe often did. A 2015 psycho- logical assessment report that led to my brother’s post-traumatic stress disorder diagnosis noted, “Overall, Mr. Gregoire is in very poor condition with persistent psychological symptoms.... He goes for tattoos regularly, up to monthly.... He acknowledges that there is an urge for pain release.”

Joe's tattoo artist cancelled his other appointments the day of "938" to respect the kids' grief, and he refused to take their money. There were a couple young people at Joe's funeral who looked like tattoo artists, and I wish I'd hugged them and thanked them for helping my brother.