Back to the future

Thursday afternoon, loaded up on Advil and an abundance of courage, I headed in for my bi-monthly laser tattoo removal treatment. A half hour later, covered with ointment and wrapped in gauze, with a small ice pack taped to my lower back, I drove home in devastating pain. And now, here it is, 48 hours later, and the lasered area is still throbbing--you know, that heartbeat you feel in a part of your body that is in pain? Yeah...it's still beating in there today.

Have I ever mentioned how very much I regret ever getting the tattoo? "Six inches of four-color ridiculousness" is what I affectionately call it. Regret is its real name.
Don't you think that it's amazing it takes just a one-time, two-hour appointment to have a tattoo etched INTO your body, yet it's taken nearly TWO YEARS and 13 treatments for me to have it (almost) removed?! And because tattoo ink is not at all regulated, there is no way for them to actually know how long it will take for the tattoo to completely fade away. Especially the reds and the blues in the 'art'. Let me kindly mention, on top of it all, that the cost of removal is more than TEN TIMES the cost of the original tattoo.
Yep, regret is expensive. Actually, I have to admit that the memory, at this point, as well as the regret is long gone. It's only the damn tattoo that remains.
But not for much longer. Every 8 weeks I am faithful to my appointment, to make sure of that.
I have done all I can to make the best of the situation, as I have learned to do in every other area of my life. I love the girls who work at Dr. Tattoff and SO enjoy entertaining them with my cries of woe and pain while undergoing the treatment. I always ask when they are going to open a bar in there, noting that a stiff shot of Vodka or Tequila--before and after--would beat the hell out of the weak, topical anesthesia they offer. When they mention that perhaps I have a low tolerance to pain, I quickly remind them that I had two babies--with NO medication whatsoever--and that it hurt FAR less than the laser treatment to my back! I swear they draw straws for who gets to go work on me. Because I make it so much fun for them. I apologize profusely through laughter the whole way into the room and beg for them to double the anesthesia and time they let it soak in.
Though they swear to me that I am not the loudest and that there are those who scream throughout the entire (five minute) procedure, they have often asked me if I could try to 'be good' this time. Those are the times when there are 'consults' in the waiting room. They PLEAD with me to be quiet with my pain...offer me foam balls to squeeze and assorted bullets to bite down on. Sweet Mariel, a former labor nurse, tells me stories of her wedding plans and the new home she is decorating. Of course while she paints a sweet picture of her bridal gown, I can hear the popping of my skin and, worse yet, I can smell it burning. The smell is unmistakably burned up microwave popcorn--only it's not. It's me. All the while I am screaming, crying, biting a chunk out of the foam ball and yelling for her to periodically STOP when I just can't take it any more. (In between I cry out, "MOTHER OF MERCY! DEAR JESUS! HOLY #@&!!" and actually, a few unprintables things.) Have I made it clear that it hurts like hell?!
Funny as it might (not) seem, my favorite time to be there is when they have consultations sitting in the waiting room. "The room of regret" I call it. People looking to find out how much it costs--and how long it will take--to get rid of a memory. Well, it's usually a name, a quote--something they obviously loved so deeply at one point that they thought they would want it printed on their body for the rest of their life...but it's mostly the memory they want to vanish. And they will pay deeply for it, I assure you.
As Mariel finished me up this time, salving up my burned, broken, bleeding flesh and carefully wrapping me up in gauze, she looked at my file and said, "Well, that was your 13th treatment, Julie. I thought we'd be done by now, but, obviously you can see that you're going to definitely need three or four more...those reds and blues are gonna be tough."
Attempting to stand up, smelling the burned up popcorn behind me, I asked her if there was ANY other option...a pill, a cream, a miracle that could make this regretted ridiculousness fade away sooner and quicker and much less painfully.
She said, "Well, yes, actually, there is one other option. Your tattoo has faded sufficiently now, enough that you could have ANOTHER tattoo put over it."
I laughed for the first time that whole visit. (I do believe I actually said, "Are you F*CKING kidding me?!") I continued, "And is there a tattoo that you would suggest for me, sweet Mariel?"
She said, "Well, no one's name and no one's face, for sure." She continued, "I guess I have never had to remove a Dodgers tattoo...why don't you go with that?!"
Can I see a show of hands of anyone who'd like to see a Dodgers Logo on the lower back of a (nearly) 50 year old woman? Yeah. It's gonna freeze over first.
We both laughed. She was (somewhat) kidding...
Truth is, though not as quickly as I'd like, it really is fading away...
blistering, peeling, burning and aching in the mean time...but definitely lightening up and ever so slowly actually fading away.
Today it is bubbling over with colorful blisters and the whole area is still swollen and bright red. I've doubled up on Advil and have added a little Tequila to my Fresca tonight. The itching will come next and being on my lower back it is obviously rubbed by anything I wear--jeans, pantyhose--anything and everything. Today I've worn only loose yoga pants and a tee shirt...and have gone through a tube of Neosporin.
Needless to say, it looks like hell but the ONLY saving grace is that it is NOT on my leg or arm or my face...or anywhere that anyone could see it. Of course, I'm lucky too, that I AM the only one who sees it. And I have to really make an effort to look.
Interestingly, most people have no idea that I ever even had a tattoo and when I mention it, I am often told that I am so not the type. And I agree. Please note, of course, that my daughter (at last count) has EIGHT tattoos and she is currently a missionary in Africa. Not sure what "the type" is anymore actually...but it's not me, not anymore for sure.
I always hope that no one accidentally sees it--and I never show it to anyone!
I guess I never really did. The meaning was never really meaningful to me...and I stopped liking it just a few months after I got it.
It's actually always been a sore subject...Now it's just sore.
I got the tattoo six years and six months ago.
I stopped showing people at least six years ago.

I'll tell you this much for sure though...
I can't wait to show you where it used to be.