Suddenly, tattoos

You'd think that a person who'd waited 47 years to get her first tattoo would select something attractive or meaningful, something worth showing off--a hovering hummingbird on the biceps, say, or "I Heart My Volvo" on the ankle. But no: my tattoos are just dots, six of 'em, and they're in a location I'm not likely to show off to anyone who's not (a) my husband or (b) a certified medical professional.

But these tattoos are not designed to be ornamental. They exist only to guide the medical professionals charged with exposing my errant cells to large doses of radiation.

That's something else I've managed to avoid all my life: voluntarily exposing my innards to radiation. Remember all those times back in elementary school when we had to duck-and-cover under those wooden desks to practice avoiding nuclear fallout? Now I'm expected to welcome radiation, to open my arms wide to its wonders. Feel the burn, baby.

And never mind how carefully I've avoided opening my bloodstream to alien substances. After 47 years of clean living, I'm getting a port installed to make it easier for my blood vessels to receive regular doses of potent poisons. I don't drink or smoke or do drugs--but I do ingest poison on a regular basis.

Poisonous drugs, radiation, tattoos--three things I never thought I'd need but that have suddenly learned to welcome into my life. It's all part of the New Normal.

Hey, maybe that's what I should get on my next tattoo...