Ink
By Courtney Ruttenbur Bulsiewicz
What’s on the Menu? by Jenna Le, M.D.
Two pinprick tattoos—simple, black, almost missable—dot the sides of my husband’s ribs, drawing an imaginary line through his body, precision marks the radiologists used to aim their treatment at his tumor.
When he got those tattoos, I sat in the blue and gray waiting room shaking my foot, biting my lip. I was angry at everyone in the radiology department, feeling guilty about that anger, and trying to suss it out. I was furious because radiation came after everything else: two biopsy surgeries, numberless blood draws, bone marrow and imaging tests, six chemotherapy sessions each one followed by an immune-system-boosting-bone-aching-shot I tried massaging out of his body each night, a bout of pneumonia, and numerous other minor symptoms he went through. I wanted that to have been enough.
Also, I was prepared for those things. I knew of people who had cancer; I knew what it entailed, or thought I did. Surgeries, tests, sickness, those made sense. But when the radiologist told us that Wayne would be given tattoos so the technician could more precisely align the radiation, I was completely caught off guard. People talked about radiation as a treatment for cancer, sure, but who knew that hospitals were in the business of inking their patients? Tattooing him, not by his choice, was more torture-like than everything else he had gone through to rid himself of his tumor. It seemed as though the tattoos were just another way in which cancer was claiming its place, and I wanted it gone.
The ink in a tattoo holds its place in the skin through the body’s immune system. The ink attacks, an invader the body sends certain types of blood cells to consume. But the body surrenders, not strong or quick enough, probably especially when fighting off cancer. Cells that stay suspended in perpetuity will have already taken in the ink and many of those cells will remain, colored. Though a tattoo fades with time as your immune system tries to fight off the foreign dye, most of the ink will stay for a person’s entire life since it’s embedded so deeply into the skin. Much like my husband’s cancer.
Wayne’s tumor burrowed into his body. A grapefruit-sized mass of cells amidst his heart and lungs. Even after treatment, some of the tumor will remain, dead but still present: a matrix, the oncologist called it, small remnants that haunt me. The cancer tattooed itself to my husband, and the marks left by its presence has left me with a residue of fear and anxiety. Fear that the matrix will come alive again, shoot off cancer-causing cells to invade other parts of his body—the oncologist said that couldn’t happen. But she also said the cancer could return in other ways. The latent effects of some of the treatments could cause the very thing they aimed to cure.
To heal a tortured body is believed to be the reason behind the very first tattoo. Archeological research shows the oldest tattoo was tapped into Otzi the Iceman who lived around 3300 BC. His mummified body revealed groups of parallel lines tattooed over his spine and ankles. Researchers believe the tattoos were likely created as a therapeutic remedy to treat pain. I wonder if it worked, if Otzi was relieved of his ailment. That it was repeated all over his body in multiple groups makes me think maybe it didn’t, or else why would he have to keep having it done? Or, maybe it was the perfect remedy, so Otzi kept returning to have his skin tapped black. I wonder how Otzi felt about his tattoos. Did he hide them away and cringe when he caught sight of them--reminders of his struggle? Or did he show them off as battle scars?
My eyes are no longer drawn to the tattoos every time Wayne gets in the shower, and I don’t run my fingers over them every time we come together unclothed. But they are still there. I knew they would always remain. I think that is what makes me angry. Those tattoos will always be reminders of the past, of the pain that pops up with every checkup when we are back in a waiting room. I am biting my lip again and wondering. Is this it? Has the cancer come back? Will Wayne need to go through treatment again? Will his skin be etched once more by cancer’s marks?
About the Author:
Courtney Ruttenbur Bulsiewicz is an essayist whose work has been published in The Tusculum Review, Inscape, Brevity, and Context. She lives in the Mountain West with her husband and two sons.
About the Artist:
Jenna Le, MD, is author of two poetry collections, Six Rivers (NYQ Books, 2011) and A History of the Cetacean American Diaspora (Indolent Books, 2018), an Elgin Awards 2nd Place winner. Her art has appeared in Jubilat and Lantern Review. Her website is jennalewriting.com.