My tattoo speaks of cancer.
It speaks of years of an un-lived childhood, where the fear of death infected each aspect of my life every day.
It was a fight I never asked for, and one I couldn't survive.
They said I would live for 6 months. I was ten years old.
My tattoo speaks of the surgeon's knife invading my skull. Of blood and bandages, vomit and violence.
It speaks of confusion and chaos, of tantrums and tears, of anger and anxiety.
It speaks of my mother's tortured face, and my father's voice singing a goodbye song as I lay dying.
It speaks of devotion and doctors, of hospitals and heroes, of chemo and courage.
It speaks of radiation and recovery, of scars and strength.
It speaks of my battle, my victory.
My tattoo speaks of a miracle.
written by debbie