the tat
For the record, anyone who says a tattoo doesn’t hurt is lying. True, you eventually get to a point where you’re able to zone out the pain simply because you skin becomes numb from the constant sharp pricking, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. And when the artist tells you not to move (after all how can he paint on a moving canvas) you try damn hard not to, but it doesn’t always work, it goes against your natural instinct.
I think Vinnie must have been grinding his teeth with irritation by the eight hundredth time he told me not to move.
I could not have asked for a better tattoo artist than Vincent Crowley. He was extremely patient with me through the entire process and I know I was not the easiest person to work with.
When I first decided to get a tattoo, I looked at a bunch of flash in just about every parlor in town, but I really hated the thought of having someone else’s ideas permanently stuck to my body. How can it really be art if Polly Sue has my tattoo too? I wanted something that when I walked by a mirror naked, I would see something inspirational, something that I would love forever.
My mom Carla is the greatest. When I told her I was getting a tattoo, she wanted to know all about it. Then when I finally settled on the Tree of Life, she went through about a thousand pictures of trees with me. She was fabulous. She helped me pick out good things about some trees and bad things about others. She asked pertinent questions that made me think, and she never ever made me feel like putting a permanent mark on my body was trashy or a bad idea as long as I thought it through. After about a zillion drawing appointments and rough drafts and do-overs, Vinnie came up with something beautiful, something that to this day when I walk by a mirror naked, I catch my breath because it’s so much more to me than just a tattoo.
I made the fated appointment for May 10, two days after my eighteenth birthday. My gift to myself. I went home that night giddy to tell Carla all about it and show her the final drawing.
She was sitting at the kitchen table, a blank stare on her face. I sat down and she looked me in the eye.
“I have cancer,” she said.
I lost my breath and started wailing uncontrollably. My mommy had cancer. My mommy. It was unbelievable, surreal in the most horrible sense.
“It’s in my uterus and they don’t know if it’s gotten any farther than that because Dr. Lane didn’t catch it when she should have. Dr. Fairdale says she thinks I’ve had it about seven months.”
I sobbed. “What’ll happen?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She started crying then. “In that time it could have spread to my lungs or possibly my bones. They won’t know until they run some tests after the surgery.” She paused, “I might die.”
I didn’t sleep or eat for days and I completely forgot about my appointment with Vinnie until my boyfriend Lucas called and reminded me. I asked him to call in and cancel for me since I wasn’t up to it.
Carla went into the hospital for surgery less than a week later. They did a complete hysterectomy, removed every girlie organ inside my mommy and told her they would have the results for whether or not it had spread in about three to four weeks.
Three to four weeks! They expected me to wait three to four weeks to find out if the rest of my mother’s life was going to be less than a year, if she was going to have to spend weeks dealing with the sickness that follows Chemotherapy.
I sat with her in the hospital, spent the night on the pull out couch, and when she wasn’t too doped up on morphine to seem like a dull imitation of my mom, I talked to her and held her hand.
The next month was more hellish than ever. They sliced open her stomach, which made it really hard for her to do a lot of everyday things like climb the stairs, ride in a car, hug other people, and even laugh very much. I spent as much time as possible at home caring for her and just keeping her company. It never any got easier to wake up in the morning and see my mommy seem like not quite my mommy.
I finally made another appointment with Vinnie for June 11. I kissed my mom good-bye and she wished me luck.
“It really is a beautiful tree,” she whispered in my ear. I smiled.
On the drive to the shop I blasted Alanis Morissette, my soul music, the entire way. I couldn’t stop smiling. For the first time since the day Carla told me she had cancer, I was genuinely happy all the way through.
When I got there Vincent was just finishing up another tattoo and I sat down to admire what was soon going to be on my body.
My cell phone rang. A call from home. I dreaded the worst.
“Najla,” my mommy said, “Dr. Fairdale called with the results.”
I couldn’t breathe. We weren’t expecting to hear back for another three days. My heart was thundering like mad and all of a sudden I felt all of the happiness that I had on the way there sucked out of me. It was replaced with the most extreme terror I have ever felt in my entire life.
“I don’t have cancer,” I heard from the other end of the line. “I’m ok.”
The relief and pure joy that flooded over me at that moment was astonishing. I collapsed on the shop floor and started to cry. She was ok. My mommy wasn’t going to die from that horrible parasite. She’d be there when I graduated college and got married and had kids. She’d be there.
I told her I loved her over and over again. After a little while she said she had to call and tell everybody else. I hung up the phone and screamed.
I turned to Vinnie, “Even if you completely fucked up this tattoo, I wouldn’t care. My mommy doesn’t have cancer!”
Vinnie didn’t screw up at all. He did a beautiful job. My Tree of Life isn’t all that big, about a three-inch circle from top to bottom at the small of my back. But every time I walk by a mirror naked and see my Tree of Life, I remember the day that I found out my mom was full of life, not cancer, and it means the world to me.
Although there is now a more updated version of this story, I don't have access to it right now.
I think Vinnie must have been grinding his teeth with irritation by the eight hundredth time he told me not to move.
I could not have asked for a better tattoo artist than Vincent Crowley. He was extremely patient with me through the entire process and I know I was not the easiest person to work with.
When I first decided to get a tattoo, I looked at a bunch of flash in just about every parlor in town, but I really hated the thought of having someone else’s ideas permanently stuck to my body. How can it really be art if Polly Sue has my tattoo too? I wanted something that when I walked by a mirror naked, I would see something inspirational, something that I would love forever.
My mom Carla is the greatest. When I told her I was getting a tattoo, she wanted to know all about it. Then when I finally settled on the Tree of Life, she went through about a thousand pictures of trees with me. She was fabulous. She helped me pick out good things about some trees and bad things about others. She asked pertinent questions that made me think, and she never ever made me feel like putting a permanent mark on my body was trashy or a bad idea as long as I thought it through. After about a zillion drawing appointments and rough drafts and do-overs, Vinnie came up with something beautiful, something that to this day when I walk by a mirror naked, I catch my breath because it’s so much more to me than just a tattoo.
I made the fated appointment for May 10, two days after my eighteenth birthday. My gift to myself. I went home that night giddy to tell Carla all about it and show her the final drawing.
She was sitting at the kitchen table, a blank stare on her face. I sat down and she looked me in the eye.
“I have cancer,” she said.
I lost my breath and started wailing uncontrollably. My mommy had cancer. My mommy. It was unbelievable, surreal in the most horrible sense.
“It’s in my uterus and they don’t know if it’s gotten any farther than that because Dr. Lane didn’t catch it when she should have. Dr. Fairdale says she thinks I’ve had it about seven months.”
I sobbed. “What’ll happen?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She started crying then. “In that time it could have spread to my lungs or possibly my bones. They won’t know until they run some tests after the surgery.” She paused, “I might die.”
I didn’t sleep or eat for days and I completely forgot about my appointment with Vinnie until my boyfriend Lucas called and reminded me. I asked him to call in and cancel for me since I wasn’t up to it.
Carla went into the hospital for surgery less than a week later. They did a complete hysterectomy, removed every girlie organ inside my mommy and told her they would have the results for whether or not it had spread in about three to four weeks.
Three to four weeks! They expected me to wait three to four weeks to find out if the rest of my mother’s life was going to be less than a year, if she was going to have to spend weeks dealing with the sickness that follows Chemotherapy.
I sat with her in the hospital, spent the night on the pull out couch, and when she wasn’t too doped up on morphine to seem like a dull imitation of my mom, I talked to her and held her hand.
The next month was more hellish than ever. They sliced open her stomach, which made it really hard for her to do a lot of everyday things like climb the stairs, ride in a car, hug other people, and even laugh very much. I spent as much time as possible at home caring for her and just keeping her company. It never any got easier to wake up in the morning and see my mommy seem like not quite my mommy.
I finally made another appointment with Vinnie for June 11. I kissed my mom good-bye and she wished me luck.
“It really is a beautiful tree,” she whispered in my ear. I smiled.
On the drive to the shop I blasted Alanis Morissette, my soul music, the entire way. I couldn’t stop smiling. For the first time since the day Carla told me she had cancer, I was genuinely happy all the way through.
When I got there Vincent was just finishing up another tattoo and I sat down to admire what was soon going to be on my body.
My cell phone rang. A call from home. I dreaded the worst.
“Najla,” my mommy said, “Dr. Fairdale called with the results.”
I couldn’t breathe. We weren’t expecting to hear back for another three days. My heart was thundering like mad and all of a sudden I felt all of the happiness that I had on the way there sucked out of me. It was replaced with the most extreme terror I have ever felt in my entire life.
“I don’t have cancer,” I heard from the other end of the line. “I’m ok.”
The relief and pure joy that flooded over me at that moment was astonishing. I collapsed on the shop floor and started to cry. She was ok. My mommy wasn’t going to die from that horrible parasite. She’d be there when I graduated college and got married and had kids. She’d be there.
I told her I loved her over and over again. After a little while she said she had to call and tell everybody else. I hung up the phone and screamed.
I turned to Vinnie, “Even if you completely fucked up this tattoo, I wouldn’t care. My mommy doesn’t have cancer!”
Vinnie didn’t screw up at all. He did a beautiful job. My Tree of Life isn’t all that big, about a three-inch circle from top to bottom at the small of my back. But every time I walk by a mirror naked and see my Tree of Life, I remember the day that I found out my mom was full of life, not cancer, and it means the world to me.
Although there is now a more updated version of this story, I don't have access to it right now.