Kind Like Katey

About a month after my sister Katey passed away, I decided I wanted a tattoo for her.

Not just something I picked off a wall. I knew exactly what I wanted it to mean, so I came up with the design myself and took my ideas to the tattoo artist. He drew it out, brought all those pieces together, and I absolutely loved it.

Every part of it represents something.

The heart is for love.

The breast cancer ribbon is for everything Katey went through.

The birds represent her finally being free from the pain.

And the cherry blossoms are for her favorite tree.

Beautiful, right?

What was NOT beautiful was getting the damn thing tattooed on me.

I already had two tattoos, so I wasn’t walking in completely clueless. I knew tattoos hurt. It’s needles repeatedly stabbing you in the skin. Obviously, it’s not going to feel great.

But those other tattoos did not prepare me for this shit.

This one starts on the front of my left shoulder and comes down toward my cleavage. It took at least an hour—maybe longer. Honestly, it felt like seventeen.

The shoulder part? Fine.

I could handle that.

Then he started getting lower.

Sweet Jesus.

When he got down into the breast area, I wanted to cry. I wanted to quit. Quite frankly, I wanted to punch him in the face.

I swear to God, it felt like he kept going over the SAME. FUCKING. LINE.

Over.

And over.

And over.

At some point, I had to go somewhere else in my head because I was seriously questioning every life choice that had brought me to that chair.

And then I thought about Katey.

I thought about chemo.

I thought about cancer.

I thought about everything her body had been put through and everything she endured before she died.

And I told myself:

If Katey could go through all of that, I can sit here and get this fucking tattoo for her.

So I stayed.

I gritted my teeth, probably silently cursed that poor tattoo artist a few hundred more times, and let him finish.

And I’m so glad I did.

I love that tattoo. I love what it represents. I love that every single piece of it tells a little part of Katey’s story and what she meant to me.

But here’s something strange.

The lower part of that heart—the part that hurt the absolute worst when he tattooed it—has never completely stopped hurting.

Even years later, I can still feel it.

And after I had my own mastectomy, that area became even more sensitive. My breasts changed. The nerves changed. So many sensations disappeared or became completely different.

But somehow, that little piece of the heart I got for my sister?

I can still feel it.

Maybe there’s absolutely nothing poetic about that. Maybe it’s just nerves and scar tissue and bodies being fucking weird.

But I kind of like to think there is.

Of all the places I could still feel something…

of course it’s the heart.