tats

Yesterday, I got a tattoo. Actually, four tattoos. Yes, four. It was blissful torment to see them grinding out in all their bloody, ink-slinging glory. I savored every painful prick of the artist's iron. I prefer to think of my tats as marks of deep tribulation. No, strike that. Maybe, stigmatas of infinite anguish. Oh, that's good.

Okay, they're tattoos, but they're not really tattoos. Fine, they are more like four freckles. But, I demanded the nurse who made them wear a bandana and tank top. And, they are ink, they are permanent, and they really, really stung. Happy?

So, I'm halfway through with chemo (hooray), and here comes another oncologist. "Not sick and tired enough? Let's blast you with radiation. We'll be behind this lead-lined wall." The "tats" are to help the doctor know where to point, with continued accuracy, the beam that is going to zap more of the cancer cells that they can't see and don't know are there. Invisible beams shooting at microscopic invaders that may not exist, hmmm. Sometimes I wonder if this isn't just some huge, well-organized grift - with a capital G and that rhymes with C and that stands for cancer.

My regiment will be a 15-minute session, once a day, for six weeks. On the days I also have chemo, it will be a long day because, of course, they are not at the same location. But, if I get started now, I will be done with everything by the end of July, with a couple of weeks of summer to spare before school begins.

Then, I plan to get a real tattoo. I've always liked the pinup classics, like Vargas and Petty. Maybe a bald sailor girl proclaiming my own V-Day. 

peanut head

I am bald.

The doctors were right, of course, they said I would lose my hair. Over the last few days, it has been coming out in tufts in my hands. So, rather than pathetically hang on to the very last strand of my golden fleece, I let go. It was fun, kinda.

I asked my sister and my niece to do the honors. I remembered being told that they shave my brother-in-law's head. Turns out they did it once. So, since I wanted to keep it in the family, I let them shave me anyway. On one condition, no blood.

We sat on our back deck on a beautiful June evening and, with a brand new pair of clippers, had an early Halloween, carving my pumpkin into a frightful array of follicle nightmares. They were timid at first, but once they got going, they could have put any military barber to shame. Didn't cut me once. Although, the maniacal laughter got a little annoying.

How does it look? My wife thinks it looks good and that I shouldn't wear a hat. Without my glasses, she thinks I look like a badass. She's being nice. I'm not convinced. With my glasses, I think I look like some deranged soldier from Full Metal Jacket. My cranium is smaller than I thought, which makes me think my brain is smaller as well. Perhaps when my sister called me peanut head, she wasn't referring to its shape, but its size. 

I have some folliclely-challenged friends who have absolutely no sympathy for me, at least as far as my hair. Enjoy this moment, my friends. I can't say I understand how they feel, because mine will grow back. But, at least for the summer, I have a chance to walk in their SPF 50 shoes.

Even though it has been less than a day, I am ready for it to come back. It doesn't feel right. But, I know that like the long hours of chemo and waiting for the tired, sick feeling to go away after each set of treatment, it will require patience. What doesn't.