Tattooed lady

Much to Nath, my younger brother's disappointment, I have never really been interested in getting a tattoo. I think it has something to do with my instinctive fear of needles. Or just my brilliant common sense.

But when diagnosed and going through treatment, Nath would say to me that if I can live through that, then surely I am brave enough to get a tattoo. He even designed one for me. I'm, um, thinking about it. Maybe. Probably not...

When I discovered that I'd actually have to get tattooed for radiotherapy, Nath was the first person I told. He was overjoyed. Until I told him they weren't all that interesting. Rather, they would resemble black freckles that would help the radiation team line me up in the right spot each time I needed to get zapped. Still, Nath thought it was at least a start.

Yesterday I got my four new little black freckles. Truth be told, they actually look more like blackheads. Yes, very attractive, I know. I'm sure that before long, I'll forget they're actually tattoos and try to exfoliate them away.

Far from being inked in a back alley tattooing parlour, by a bald man, with a long goatee, minimal teeth and loads of scary pictures on his body, I was tattooed in the sterile confines of a hospital. The nurse dabbed blobs of ink onto my chest, then using something that looked like a big sewing needle, pricked my skin and pushed the ink into the tiny incisions. Not exactly my idea of a fun day out, but it was interesting.

I texted Nath after leaving the hospital. I told him that there's no way I'm ever getting a real tattoo. He thinks he'll be able to wear me down. I'll just let him believe that for a little while.

So now I'm the tattooed lady. But you'll practically need a magnifying glass to see them.