It never occurred to me that tattoos would be used to map the boundaries of my radiation treatment zone. Four small green dots, inked clumsily by a radiation technician, were my initiation into tattoo culture. The dots, the size of freckles, remind me of the first points of an incomplete dot-to-dot game of my youth and the picture isn’t revealed until all the dots are joined by lines drawn in sequential order. But my dot tattoos were neither interesting, artistic nor meaningful in a positive way. They did, however, give me bragging rights and all of a sudden I had more tattoos than anyone I knew.  

It seemed that overnight tattoo culture was everywhere. It was the subject of reality TV shows, produced a raft of tattoo artist stars, and provided fodder for Instagram. Several of my friends celebrated birthdays, vacations and milestones by getting “inked”. I didn’t get the allure, and the permanent inking of skin seemed slightly repulsive to me. I swore I would never get a tattoo, but cancer made a liar out of me.