Inked

I had a comment on a post recently from a fellow “infertile” (I so despise that label, but misery does love company!) and she was talking about how she had gone out and purchased a huge box of tampons hoping that Newton’s Law would work its magic and she would find herself pregnant and with no use for said tampons the following month. It made me laugh out loud because I’ve been considering something similar, only on a more extreme level.

I love my tattoos. The two on my wrists:

(Live Strong [left] and Love & Be Loved [right]) are the only two I have, and I waited 26 years before finally getting them. I’ve wanted a lot of different tattoos over the years, but nothing ever really seemed important enough to have etched onto my skin for the rest of my life (and thank God! When I was 18 I came thisclose to having “Daddy’s Little Defect” tattooed to my right shoulder in a serious act of rebellion. I can’t even think about how much I would have hated that tattoo today). Still, I have always loved wrist tattoos and the past few years I’ve really wanted to get something inspirational there. When everything with my health started happening, I was really struggling. I knew something was wrong, even before my Doctors fully acknowledged it. What’s worse is, even before I really had a reason to believe so, I just had a feeling that that “something” that was wrong was going to make it incredibly  hard for me to ever get pregnant. That feeling was crippling to me (surprisingly, the actual confirmation was easier to handle than the constant believing without really knowing).

After my first surgery (when I finally had a diagnosis and plan of action) I decided it was time to imprint some reminders of the kind of life I want to lead on my wrists. I wasn’t proud of how I had let myself fall over the last few months, and I was even less proud of how, in the midst of all my struggling, I had pushed those who loved me away. I’ve never been great at asking for help or allowing others to take care of me. I’ve always felt like relying on someone meant that I needed them, and that if I needed them my strength was in question. It’s one of the main reasons I’m single; I place my strength above and beyond all else, including letting people in. I know this about myself, and I know strength and love are two conflicting themes in my life. I thought about a dozen different ways to depict this; searched imagery on the web and learned all about Sanskrit. Finally one day it just dawned on me that I was making it all too complicated. If it was in some language I didn’t understand, what was the point? I wanted to be able to look at my wrists and be reminded daily of the two traits I wanted desperately to be able to coexist. I wanted it to be painstakingly clear to me whenever I saw them.

Without telling a soul, I made my appointment for a week later. On the drive to the tattoo parlor I did call my dad to tell him what I was doing. He has always been anti-tattoo, but he actually took the news very well. With his blessing, I knew I was ready to do this. I wanted to be able to look down at my wrists and be reminded that I can be strong and still have love in my life as well. When I explained my tattoos to my grandmother, she asked me why I couldn’t have just gotten some post-it notes instead. Classic. I also realized shortly after the fact that “Live Strong” is Lance Armstrong’s motto, and that anyone who saw this tattoo was now going to think I was a cancer survivor (this is proven to me every time I have blood drawn now and the technician automatically asks about my cancer history). Ooops. I still didn’t care. They were my favorite new accessories.

The entire experience was surreal. I loved it. I loved every second of it. It felt empowering, and in that moment I really needed to feel empowered. Ever since, it has taken all of my willpower not to get 1000 different words tattooed across my body (big shocker there, right? That I [little Miss “I have too much to say”] would want nothing but literary tattoos! I love the idea of being covered in words… words make me happy.) I had to make myself a promise that I wouldn’t get another tattoo for at least a year, so that hopefully the euphoria will have worn off and I will have realized that 2 is enough! But what would I get done if I didn’t allow myself to care at all? I would have:

PEACE

LOVE

FREE

tattooed to the back of my neck in honor of my favorite Amy Steinberg song. I would have “HOPE” tattooed down my side. “Everything happens for a reason” would serve as my right anklet and “Love is all you need” would be my left. “No regrets” would go on my right shoulder, and then I would leave room for other words to guide my life by as inspiration hit.

But the new one I’ve thought of? I want to have the word “MIRACLE” tattooed across my belly in big bold letters. In keeping with my commenter’s feelings, I figured it would kind of be like testing the fates. After all, it makes sense that if I have a tattoo all the way across my stomach then of course I’m going to get big and fat and stretch-marky; it’s inevitable! I’m pretty sure those are the laws of physics (or attraction, or some other science I never figured out!) Either way, if I had that tattoo I can’t imagine it not getting ruined. I always used say that I would never get a tummy tattoo because I would never want a stretched out patch of ink after I went through childbirth, so I’m pretty sure this would now be the perfect way to ensure a growing baby!

Alas, I will probably never get another tattoo (no matter how much I may want to). I think 2 were enough for my grandma and dad to handle, and they really did take it like troopers. So instead, I will simply dream about all the new tattoos I would like to get, and hope that my belly will be ruined with or without new ink across it.

And if I do get MIRACLE tattooed across my gut, I'm not telling a soul!