Diary - Sunday, April 22nd, 2001

Experiencing pain

I was going to write about the Alice Cooper concert I went to recently, which was as marvelous and mad a performance as any I've seen. And I did love it so, for Uncle Alice is a consummate performer and well versed in throwing the audience into a thrill of music - for someone like me who enters that state easily enough, it was wonderful.

But since the churr of a machine and the heat of my current pain is still intense, instead I'm going to write about the tattoo that I started to get today. Alice can come another day. I remember his grin well.

I say started because it is a very large piece, covering my entire back and moving somewhat over my hips. I had hoped to get both wings outlined today, but instead my artist Claudia chose to do one of them and include all of the detailing. While it would be nice to be symmetrical immediately, after thinking about it I have decided that the ability to sleep comfortably on one side of my body is probably worth the wait.

I was nervous when I walked in. Not desperately, I've dealt with enough pain over the years that a lot of it has become merely an act of will. But I was wondering. How exactly Claudia might have changed my design. Whether she would make a mistake.

And, after checking...where she was.

Twenty minutes later, my friend Dr Zero (shown elseJournal) showed up to get his tattoo designs looked at by Claudia as well, but our Swiss artist had not yet arrived. Half an hour past the appointment date she appeared, dripping wet and reasonably miserable, from a combination of missed trains and broken tram shelters. Poor thing. It has been storming in biblical proportions down in Melbourne.

We waited again while she dried off, and by this time I was paused, frowning, not annoyed but twitchy. Over the next fifteen minutes she appeared, pressed stencils against my back, checked the wings for size, and gradually assembled what I came to think of as the 'iron on'. At the same time she examined Dr Zero's design, and they discussed it.

Then it came time to go and sit down in the chair. She seemed a little surprised when I was fine with disrobing, considering that Brandt and Dr Zero were present, odd really. One is my husband, the other a friend.

And then she got me to get comfortable, lean over, and arranged her tools. And she made one brief sweep across my back.

"Did that hurt?"

"No...no it felt like you touched me lightly."

"Ah, good, your body it accepts the tattoo."

I chuckled to myself. Claudia has a wonderful Swiss accent which makes her sound very fresh and innocent, and when combined with blonde hair and dark eyes the picture adds up to anything but a tattoo artist. Certainly not when you consider the image portrayed in the various magazines, which are often tasteless and irritating.

The phrase sounded like something that could have been uttered by an ancient eastern sage.

Then she made the next line. I frowned lightly at the touch of it.

"Hurts?"

"Stings, a little. Not badly."

I realised as she continued to work that she was doing so in the most pain-dull area of my back. As she moved over a rib gradually I began to tighten up. It does indeed hurt worse over bone, even such slender arcs as ribs.

The pain was not severe, you understand. There was no agony. Nothing I could not handle. The buzzing sound of the gun was setting my teeth a little on edge, but with Brandt holding my hand it was all quite bearable. We talked, I wondered what it looked like, I felt the sunburn-feel of the area already worked over.

But gradually, slowly, she moved onto more sensitive areas of my back and I began to wince every so often. No single stroke was ever enough to make me breathe hard or gasp, but the whole of the effect was building up slowly, gradually becoming intense and more than a little hard to take.

She called a break with one third of the single wing done. I was well ready for it, and happy to get a cup of tea. I was also a little cold, starting to get the first hint of trembling hands. It had taken an hour - I was surprised. Sitting still for an hour while a small needle rams repeatedly into you was certainly an interesting experience.

We move to first person. The memory is too fresh for detachment.

On to the second hour. And now my body's reserves of adrenaline and endorphins are gradually beginning to wear down. As she moves the gun over tender areas, such as close to my spine or down over my kidneys, it gets frankly painful. I give up gritting my teeth against it and sigh, trying to breathe in and out regularly. I should be meditating, but the pain is too sharp.

Eventually it gets to the point where not only my hands are shaking. So are my legs. I have to call a stop - I can't deal with the pain any more.

"I have to take a break, I'm sorry."

"Oh, you're doing really well! Most first timers don't get anything near this big!"

Most first timers, I think, are brighter than myself.

The last half hour is the worst. It's onto the lower back, the spine, sensitive areas where the pain spikes and spikes. My breathing's stopped being even close to regular, and I'm dizzy from the chemicals my body is sending spinning around my brain. Now I am counting the minutes until it is over, feeling exhausted.

My skin has gone cold despite the sweat. As she pauses, I can sense her getting uncomfortable with how much my entire body has begun to shake.

"Are you okay? You seem pretty bad."

"It's getting hard to take."

"I'll just finish it off. Hold on for another ten minutes."

Ten long minutes. She wrapped strokes around my side and I bit into my hand, trying to breathe through the shape of the feel of the taste of the scent of it again and again and again trying to remember to breathe, not to shake, the cold, the chill, my body saying 'I'm just too tired now, just stop it...'

She leans back "Done!"

I relax, finally breathe out.

Then the gun buzzes up again and another line burns across. I can hear her grinning as I wince.

"Sorry, joking. Now I'm actually done."

I frown skeptically "Really?"

"Yes...now a hot towel - it will suck the sting out. Then you must use..."

But no one here is interested in the aftercare. And I know what she says even as she says it. The cream to use, no bathing, hot showers, keep it clean, keep it clean, and then...

"When do I book in for the next wing?"

"You're already booked in," she grins "This Friday."

I blanch.

Let's hope my system has recovered enough for that. I think the real thing was the time of it all. An hour I could handle easily, two I could bear. But longer and my body began to shut down, started whispering things about torture, about how it was not meant to sit there quietly through this much pain, how please stop, just rest, just rest, just rest. Please.

And I knew I could not let it rest, because I would not get back under the needle if that happened. So I went through it. I shook for an hour afterwards. I go into shock easily, being hypoglycemic, stagger around with my mind thick and my fingers as cold as ice.

And on Friday I go through it again.

And after that.

Until the wings are coloured, are red and gold and orange and purple. Until I bear the mark of my muse.

I am content in this. I will breathe through it all in the end.

It is only pain.