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.