Black cat rising

For many years I have thought about/talked about/considered getting a tattoo – a small black cat, somewhere that would only be visible if I was in a bikini. I have always decided against it, for a number of reasons – one being that at this point I have gone 37 years untattooed while virtually EVERYONE else my age has at least one. I have remained unmarked.

And then here comes cancer, and it’s all pleased with itself because it’s already marked me, and will mark me with ink when radiation begins. “Hey, lady! Guess what! Here’s a scar! And another scar! And ANOTHER scar! And guess what else? TATTOOS! Ahahahaha! You can get rid of me, but you’ll never be able to look in a mirror and not remember me!”

So I’m thinking maybe it’s time. Maybe I should get my first tattoo BEFORE radiation. A middle finger to cancer, a way to not allow it to be the first to mark me in that way, and to show it that maybe it’s taken one of my lives, but I have 8 more in me.

Maybe.