Tattoos and Tumors

I wear a frog on my left arm. It’s a tattoo, a little friend formed one day in the Mojave desert, poke by poke, the small dots of ink lodging in my skin permanently.

It’s a wood frog—a species found north north north, in the cold winters of Canada. This particular animal baffles scientists: each winter it digs a little burrow, buries itself deep, and then proceeds to completely freeze and, by every known definition of the word, die.

No breathing. No blood flow. The little guy is frozen solid.

But then, upon a break in the snow or spring’s first defrost, a miracle happens; the frog awakes, blood recirculates, the entire creature reanimates, coming back from this death-like experience now that winter’s dangers have passed.

I had a friend once say the most magical thing: imagine how wise that frog must be, getting to live so many lives in a single lifetime?

I took the metaphor to heart. This was in a year BC—Before Cancer—and it was incredible to think of a life of growing wisdom; were I just to embrace the change, embrace that some things must die for others to be born.

And so, a few years later, still BC, I got the tattoo, a reminder of this concept.

And a year after that, almost to the day, I received my cancer diagnosis.

And 18 months after that, almost to the day, I received worse news still: metastasis, incurable.

So, the frog. You might think someone with this overthought metaphor on their body would be well-versed in accepting mortality. Would be someone who sees every moment as ephemeral, embracing what is now, grieving appropriately what was and is no longer.

But ideals and realities are always different, and as much as I thought I was already That Guy—living at the edge of life’s potential, embracing all the universe offers as a gift—upon hearing the incredible word I realized I was, in fact, just a regular human. Scared out of my mind. Angry. In denial. Etc.

So, while BC Katie tried to make visible the metaphors that governed her life (there are other tattoos…), AC Katie wears permanent, but invisible, glasses.

These have a multitude of lenses—ways of seeing the world. Such as…

The calendar doesn’t exist beyond 90 days. Treatment is ever-changing, and while I’m told (and am trying to believe) my body will be in good shape for awhile, I still find myself afraid to attach too much to a vision of the future, knowing I may not be able to see it out, distracted by doing things to save my life instead. I am trying to embrace this as the ultimate “living in the now,” but many days it just feels like being buried in the snow, not sure if or when spring arrives.

People pleasing feeds cancer. Not literally, as far as I know—but having people around that need me but aren’t able to reciprocate my caregiving, won’t cut it. For someone very attached to her independence (thanks, trauma!), this is terrifying. But it’s necessary to learn to trust and lean on others—and to let go where folks can’t make the evolution with me.

Trust and grab joy. As I write this, a newly adopted cat—one of two—purrs in my lap. I have wanted cats for as long as I can remember but rationalized away from it. Too much work. Difficult for travel. Kinda messy. But they bring me so much joy, and it turns out that is a rare, precious, life-sustaining thing. So I got the cats—and am saying “yes” to any other things that spark warmth and excitement in my gut, that place of authentic self. It doesn’t have to make sense, or be perfect.

Back to the frog—I see the irony in a permanent picture to symbolize life’s impermanence. And for some time thought that was just a funny quirk, a silly added layer of this overthought adornment.

But then I learned how tattoos actually work. Because our skin cells, like most cells, continually regenerate. And in this case the cell holding the ink simply passes it on to future generations of cells—a microscopic family heirloom, if you will.

And while I hate the parallels between this and cancer—how both live in me now—I am trying to embrace a vision of this being how my whole body works as well. Cancer doesn’t have to be ever-expanding, ever-scary—it can simply be a thing my body carries, from one cell cycle to the next, an unchosen stowaway tucked among the 37.2 trillion or so other cells that I get to infuse with my light, my joy, my health.

And, occasionally, with ink. More metaphors and perspectives for life’s journey.

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