My Radiation Tattoos

There was a random Tuesday in May of 2025 where I had to drive to this Brutalist structure in suburban Massachusetts and get some tattoos.

Not the fun kind, but three small blue-green dots that would align with precision inside a proton blasting, life saving robotic machine. My oncologist called it my “mapping day”, but it didn’t feel like much of an adventure.

I drove to the cancer center full of quiet rage. Listening to Pantera and Meshuggah at deafening levels. I needed to scream all the anxiety and fear out of my body before I showed up like it was just another day. Once I was there, everyone was friendly enough. I was the youngest one there every time.

I proceeded to put on the light blue hospital gown and two radiation techs introduced themselves as Hannah and Jess. Hannah was this petite, cute pixie of a woman with fluffy golden wheat hair and a warm, friendly smile. Jess was a bit more serious and focused on setting up the machinery.

As I lay on my back inside a machine similar to an MRI, the techs prepped me for my dot tattoos. They would be simple pokes by hand similar to ancient indigenous traditions. I expected it to feel like getting a flu shot. Nothing more and nothing less.

The machine whirred around me with soothing, seaside whooshing sounds.
The first two pokes were on either side of my rib cage.

Piece of cake. No problem.

The last one was directly in the center of my breasts, on my sternum.

As she pushed the thick, stubby needle into my breast bone, a thunderbolt of shocking pain shot through my entire body. It was as if this nerve she hit was connected to every other nerve ending in my body.

The second she finished, I took a deep breath and shouted, “FUCK YOU HANNAHHH!’

She looked at me in shock. I looked at the other tech and then we all burst out laughing hysterically. When we caught our breath, she said, “Oh my gosh, that just made my day!”

It was such a cinematic moment and I really cherish it. This incredible moment of pure, life affirming laughter and unexpected joyfulness.

I named my sternum tattoo Hannah and I would see her occasionally throughout my 4 weeks of radiation treatment for breast cancer. We would giggle and I would give her the middle finger. Jess and Hannah live rent free in my head whenever I need some joy.

In that terrible moment halfway through my cancer treatment, these two lovely women gave me the gift of levity and for that I am grateful.

I still look at my radiation tattoos sometimes and whisper “Fuck you, Hannah.” And it makes me laugh every time.