Mikey. From Brooklyn.

Do you remember my last post? The one in which I apologized profusely to some stranger guy for “hurting” him? Well, scratch that. I didn’t hurt anybody. He’s Mikey from Brooklyn and he doesn’t give a fuck. I have to start from the beginning.

In an attempt to start healing my broken heart, (which I’m still not ready to write about), I created an profile on OK Cupid. It was great! I received so many messages, tons of compliments and so much attention. Mike’s message stood out to me because he’s a native Brooklynite (very rare these days), has lots of tattoos and seemed like a laid back, fun person. I liked him right away. We started texting back and forth and he wanted to hang out right away, but I was a little taken aback by his aggressive approach. I also listened to too many people. My shrink said stay away. My friends were “iffy.’ He seemed like his interest was mostly sexual and I don’t know why, but at that short moment in time, I didn’t feel comfortable with that.

Silly me, that is just what I needed!! A no-strings, no commitment, sexual relationship. A fuck buddy!

Anyway, I acted all crazy and told him that I didn’t think we were a good fit and to please stop contacting me. He was definitely confused–he didn’t understand what he had done wrong. Honestly, he didn’t do anything wrong.

Friday rolls around and I spend an agonizing day with my girl. I just quit smoking, I had serious PMS. I was in physical pain and my heart was still freshly wounded. Big Daddy was having a barbecue that night, and I had been excited to go for weeks! I even switched a day with the ex to go, but by the time he picked up my girl, I was exhausted and in tremendous period and lower back pain (I’ve gotta get that lower back checked out). I told Big Daddy I couldn’t make it after all and I collapsed into bed, praying for the pain to go away. I checked the weekend forecast. Hot and sunny. I knew one thing. I did not want to spend the weekend alone.

I scrolled through my phone and I found Mikey’s number. I sent him a text message.

Hey! I’m sorry for the way I acted relier this week. I’m never like that.

I understand if you don’t respond to me, but I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

He responded immediately. He told me not to worry about it and that he was sorry if he had sent off some vibe that turned me off. We decided to meet up the next day either at the pool or the beach. I told him I would give him a “make up” kiss. Relief. I wouldn’t be spending the weekend alone.

The next morning we spoke on the phone. The fancy pool was having a party for Veuve Clicquot and it would be a scene. He suggested the beach, I agreed and he told me he would pick me up around 11 AM. He was right on time and pulled up in his 1978 Mercedes Benz. Classic. Mint Condition. He was standing beside the car and when we were thisclose we shared a quick hug. He’s barely 5’6. I say 5’5″ because I’m 5’4″ and I was at eye level with him. It didn’t seem to matter, though. I was instantly attracted to him. What Mikey lacks in height, he makes up for in swagger. In fact, he might have the most swag of any guy I’ve ever known. I hopped into the passenger seat, we decided to hit the Rockaways and away we went.

I spoke for most of the ride to the beach. It made sense since he was driving and had to pay attention to the road and navigator. He was super easy to talk to. I told him just about everything he needed to know about me as a potential love interest right away so that there wouldn’t be any secrets. He was cool with everything. When we arrived at the beach, he told me to wait on the boardwalk while he parked his car at his parents house not too far away. I called my friend T-Money, who is a Rockaway girl, to let someone know where I was and who I was with. He sent me a text to find a spot to settle in and I found a great big open spot among the masses of beach goers right by the water. It was lovely.

He met me, settled in and wanted to jump right into the water. So in we went. It was fun. The water was warm and the waves were big. He grabbed my legs here and there to check out the tattoos I have on my feet. We talked while bobbing up and down in the water. I was wearing a strapless bikini, so I was a little scared of it falling off amongst the waves, but it was all good. Since it was “my time”, by breasts were enormous for my otherwise tiny figure. Mikey liked that. He said so.

Back on the sand, we basked in the late summer sun and he reminded me of the promised “make-up kiss.” I liked Mikey, so I didn’t mind. He’s a good kisser. It was fun. He sort of poked around my body checking out this and that–the tattoo I have above my lady parts was slightly sticking out, and he touched it before he asked to see it. When I showed it to him, Mikey liked it. We made out some more and he told me to stop because he couldn’t hide his excitement in his swim shorts. I couldn’t help but grab a feel. It was good.

Our next trip into the water was different. This time we went in to cool off from our make out session and to make out some more in the water. I wrapped my legs around him and we kissed and kissed and kissed. I ran my tongue along his salty neck and heard him grunt slightly. I whispered “Do you like that?” in his ear and he whispered back “Yes.” He felt up my entire body beneath the ocean and his hands felt so good. We stayed in the water for what seemed like most of the afternoon and finally made our way back to our little spot. We hung out and dried off in the sun, talked about getting something to eat and relaxed, happy that we were us at that moment in time.

We decided to leave. We grabbed some food and a beer and then took the mile and a half walk home to his parent’s house where he had left his car. I didn’t even put on my clothes until we hit a commercial strip. The conversation turned to sex and that’s when I really started to get to know him. He asked me questions about rough sex, threesomes, favorite positions. It turns out that he had the best threesome of his life TWO WEEKS AGO. I tried to quench the pangs of jealousy I felt. I told myself “It’s too soon for that shit, Suzy!” and went on to ask him about his oral abilities, foreplay, and other sexual generalities.

On the car ride home he kept one hand on the wheel and one hand up my shorts. He knew it was “my time” so he kept his distance from the good stuff, but still, that shit turned me on. He was rock hard and I took him into my hand and started caressing it lightly. Suzy and Mikey liked it.

We went back to his pace and jumped into the shower. We started kissing. Hard. He grabbed me by the back of my hair and turned me around against the shower wall. He rubbed himself against my ass and thighs. He used his fingers to tease me and asked me how I liked it. He told me talk to him and I did. We were filthy in that shower.

Showered and slightly refreshed, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I wanted to cry. My nose and chin were slightly sunburned. The dark circles that my sunglasses his so well were prominent in the bathroom light. My sweaty, salty, unwashed wet hair was a mess of tangles around my face. I stared into that mirror and slowly, all of the day’s pleasures were wiped away. I was still me. I was still broken ol’ me.

He was getting group text messages from his friends because one of his buddies was in from San Francisco and wanted to go out. He was tired and said he would rather stay in. He asked me if I thought it was fucked up if he blew of this visitor. I told him yes and so he said “Ok, I’ll call you an Uber and take another shower then go meet them for a quick dinner.” When my reaction was “Huh?” He reminded me that I was the one who told him to go out. He was right. I did tell him to go out. He paid for the cab  in advance and I was back home in twenty minutes. I was so tired, I didn’t even shower. I figured the rinse I had at his house was good enough. I threw on some pajamas and went straight to bed.

The next morning I felt weird. I knew he had to travel for business early in the week and I figured he was busy. The day was hot and filled with heavy thunderstorms. The perfect excuse to stay inside. At around 9 O’clock, I sent him a text message “Safe travels this week! Kisses!” He responded with a thank you and I wrote back “See you around. Have a good night!” He wished me a good night too and that was that.

I couldn’t find a place to write about all of the little things I learned about Mikey that day–like his love of luxurious things, his throng of female “friends”, his ardent desire to remain uncommitted (I stressed that too.) and his immaculate nature in both his home and appearance, but they all added up to something very scary.

I like Mikey.

And I’m never calling him again.

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From Brooklyn to Afghanistan

The sound of silence didn’t last very long as I woke up the next morning to a text message from a foreign number on my cell phone. It was from an old boyfriend, someone I had almost purposely lost touch with over the years. He was crazy (they all are) but I dated him on and off for about eighteen months back in 2003 and 2004. We met online and on our first date, we discovered that I knew his father through my work, a man he despised with such intensity, it was difficult for him to swallow the beer that sat in front of him as we talked about his hatred for the man who gave him life.

The night before our second date, he called to confirm and told me he was getting a tattoo that night. I playfully responded “Well, I’m not playing nurse tomorrow, so don’t go crazy.” I met up with him the next morning for Sunday brunch and a few minutes into our meeting, remembered the tattoo. “So…what did you get?” I asked him. He explained that upon meeting me, I stirred up such intense feelings within him, that I was the inspiration for his latest tattoo. I was a little concerned, a bit flattered and wildly curious. “Let’s see it!” I exploded. I couldn’t wait any longer. He held out his hand and right there in big, black, bold letters was the word “HATE” spewed across his fingers.

I gasped.

“Um, I…I…Uh, how was I the inspiration for that?”

He replied “I haven’t thought about my father in a long time. I try not to think about him at all, what he did to my Mother, to me and to my brother. I hate him. When we were talking about him in that bar, it brought up all of these old feelings. I had to express it. You helped me to remember those feelings, not to repress them.”

I asked him why he had to display his feelings across his hand in big, black, bold letters? I mean, couldn’t he have written his Dad a letter and then thrown it away? Or perhaps a nice journal entry or a poem?

Nope. The tattoo would have permanency.

Despite the “HATE” tattoo, I continued to see this man for quite a while. He did have some good qualities. He was smart, funny, well-read, experienced and of course, good in bed. He was also an alcoholic with no real life goals and quite the liar. We dated from early fall until February, when he broke it off with me. We saw each other a few times in-between  the winter and summer and then spent the summer together. When I met my STILL husband, and broke off the relationship with him for the first time, it was MD who took me back into his arms. We had fun together.

I don’t remember exactly how it ended, I think it just kind of faded away, but my STILL husband and I finally became serious, got married, got pregnant and it was at that point in my life that I decided to join Facebook. He was one of the first friend requests that I received. I denied his request and though I did think about him from time to time, he was one of the few men who didn’t seem to have any lasting impact on me. We dated for a long time. I inspired his “HATE” tattoo. We hung out a lot, and yet, I could go years without thinking or wondering about him at all.

Until this past Sunday. The text message read “Hi TattooGirl. It’s MD. I don’t know if you remember me. I used to live on X street. How are you?

I shook the sleep out of my head and reread the message. Should I respond? Of course I should respond!! Why shouldn’t I invite another crazy back into my life?

I replied “I’m doing well, despite what you may have read in the rags. How are you?”

He was confused. He wrote back that he didn’t know what I meant about the “rags.” He was writing from Afghanistan. He had joined the Army several years ago and was on his second deployment. He had text messaged me from a calling card and told me it was best to contact him through Google Chat. I don’t understand Google Chat, so I just used plain ol’ e-mail and that’s what we’ve been doing since Sunday…catching up through e-mail.

I told him all about the scandal, the divorce, the cancer, and my daughter. He told me about his decision to join the Army and sent some photographs. We joked around a bit and then I asked him “What comes next, MD? Is the Army your new home? Your new career? You sound happy and fulfilled. I’m proud of you”

A few hours later I was sitting in the waiting room of my Oncologist’s office when I heard the buzz of a new e-mail. It was his reply and this is what he wrote:

“Honestly, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ll never be truly happy or fulfilled. I’m constantly searching for challenges and that’s what gives me satisfaction. Physical, mental, whatever. Pushing myself, constantly. I love that. No one back home really understands what I do or why I joined., least of all what my service means. And I get that. It’s a pretty alien concept. New York Jews don’t join the Army and go to Afghanistan for their mid-life crisis, They buy sports cars and sleep with 19 year old blondes. That’s not me.

To be honest, tattoo girl, I was never happier than I was on my last deployment, sitting on a mountainside, haven’t showered in weeks, no laundry, crunchy socks, eating MRE’s and drinking warm water, getting shot at randomly. Once, I got shot at while taking a dump. Now that was a humbling experience. Me and 10 other guys. I’d come off patrol at 6 AM, read notes from underground, sleep, wake up and do it again. Simple existence, nothing mattered more than what I was doing right then and there. No internet, no phones, no way to communicate with anyone aside from my team and platoon…”

I had to hold back my tears. How could people change so much in eleven years? I don’t mean just him. I mean me, too. God, we have both changed so much. Our lives are completely different than they were when we used to date back in ’03-’04. We are different people, and for some strange reason, we still connect. We can still have a conversation a million miles away from one another and it’s meaningful. I felt so much stirring up inside of me after I read that e-mail. I was proud of him, I felt sorry for him, I connected with his feelings of being misunderstood, I felt a useless existence in comparision to what he was experiencing, what he was contributing to our society, our country… He made me want to DO something. How many people actually DO something?

He is.

And despite the questions that swirled around in my head about his former character, his hate, his lies…they are a decade old. And so are we, me and MD. We’re a decade older now and I’m still here and he’s over there and I never would have thought of him had he not sent me that message last Sunday morning, but all week, he’s all I can think about–not in a sexual or romantic way, but in a human way.

I look forward to his next e-mail.



 

My Addictions.

I have an addictive personality. I become addicted to things, people, actions, and substances quickly and when those addictions begin to bubble up inside of me, it could and has landed me in some trouble.

I’ll begin with the more benign addictions and work my way down the list to the more dangerous ones.

Clothing & Shoes

I love to shop. I’ve been known to say “fuck it” and spend the car payment or some other important bill on a hot pair of shoes, a party dress I’ll never wear, GOWNS–like I’ll ever need a friggin’ GOWN, sexy underwear, tank tops, maxi-dresses, cute jackets, “going-out” wear, lots of underpinnings and jeans, jeans, jeans-the tighter, the better! I lost a lot of weight over the past few years. I was pregnant, lost the weight, got a personal trainer–got back into hot shape, got sick, dropped to a size 00, so some of my clothing purchases are warranted, but do I really need 40 pairs of shoes? (I really don’t know the exact count, but it has to be close to 40 or 50.) Sneakers, flats, peep-toe pumps, platform pumps, sandals and boots, boots, boots. Tall boots, stiletto boots, ankle boots, Doc Martens, THREE pairs of winter boots (you never know if it’s going to be a snowy New York winter, after all.)  And coats. I have four or five beautiful dress coats for the winter, plus my New York winter Puffer, vests, hats, scarves, gloves. It’s a sin, really. But it doesn’t exactly harm me. As long as I have a roof over my head and food in my belly, everything else is “lipstick money.”

Beauty Products

I love makeup. The original intention of this blog was meant for product reviews, fashion etc. That’s why my URL is “suzyonthestreet.”My plan was to go around checking out NYC style, write about the dos and don’ts and makeup reviews, “how to” tutorials, blah, blah, blah… But it turned into something completely different. I suppose it was because I started writing during an intensely insane period of my life. A divorce. Cancer. The Scandal. How could I write about eyeliner and maxi-dresses when I had all of this other shit swirling around my mind. My insanity never stopped me from putting on my face every single day and still purchasing and playing around with my makeup. I love it. I love it. I love it. My collection is amazing and I try to make a point of using all of my products periodically so none of them go to waste or feel left out. I do have a few staples and I’ll write a post about that another day. Today, I’m writing about my addictions.

Coffee

No big deal, but I can’t function without coffee. I need at least two cups a day and if I get a specialty drink, it needs to have two shots of espresso. If I don’t have my coffee, I suffer from physical and emotional afflictions. I get headaches. I’m a bitch. I’m tired as hell. Funny, for as much coffee as I drink, my teeth are still sparkling white. I’m blessed.

Cigarettes

Please don’t judge. I know it’s the pinnacle of stupidity to smoke after being diagnosed with cancer, but my affair with cigarettes stems back to my teenage years. I smoked a few cigs a day back then, smoked heavily in my 20s and then quit right before my 30th birthday. I started smoking here and there about 5 years later before I became a full fledged smoker again. I was smoking when I found out I had cancer and my Oncologist knows about it. I can’t smoke in my apartment or around my daughter, so that curbs my habit a bit,  and I plan to quit once the weather starts to get cold and it’s just not worth it to crawl out on to my fire escape for a stupid cigarette. But for now, they’re one of my many addictions. They calm me down. It’s like being reunited with an old friend who knows how to just be there without saying a word. But, I promise, I’m going to quit. I did it once before and I can do it again. And once again, I’ve been spared any yellowing of the teeth from this dirty habit. I’m a lucky chick in the teeth department. Never had a cavity either.

Flirting

I’m a flirt. I flirt with everybody worth flirting with. I have a quick wit and a thick skin and a lot of practice–so much practice, in fact, that sometime the person I’m flirting with doesn’t even realize it. I use my teeth and my laugh a lot. I’ve been told I have a great laugh. I also use my hair. I have long brown hair with straight bangs. I can throw my head back and laugh and have somebody mesmerized and they’re not even sure why. I even flirt with girls. I’m not into girls sexually, but if I tone down the flirting a little, I can make a girl feel good about herself or get something that I want. This is a rarity. I haven’t used my skills on a woman in a long time, but men, shit, I flirt with at least three men a day. It’s fun. I get off on it. Because I’m also addicted to…

Men & Sex

I’ve always been boy-crazy and admittedly, I married the wrong man. While I was married to him I thought all the time about having a lover on the side. I never did, though towards the end of my marriage, I was unfaithful. It was good, and the short affair plus my cancer got me out of a bad marriage, but I do feel badly for what I did to my husband. As a man, it must feel pretty shitty to be cuckolded. Maybe if he had fucked me more the affair wouldn’t have happened, but I doubt it. An affair was bound to happen. You can’t castrate a sexually charged woman who adores men. I’m not trying to justify my affair by any means, but I know he cheated on me during our marriage, he just never got caught red handed like I did. My sex life has cooled off tremendously since the trifecta of cancer, divorce and the scandal, but I do have someone who takes care of my needs on a fairly regular basis and right now, he’s all I need. I’m so tired all of the time anyway, it’s better off that it’s a once in a fortnight type of sexual relationship and the sex is so fucking good, I mean–so fucking good, I can almost make it till the next time before getting sexually frustrated.

You Already Know this About Me

Tattoos! I’m utterly addicted to tattoos. Not just the finished product, but the process of thinking it out, working with the artist and getting tattooed. The smell of the antiseptic, the sound of the buzzing needles, the different people getting adorned with different images. I love it all. Even the smell of A&D for the first three days after the tattoo is finished. Love! After my first large tattoo, I was hooked. I’m still hooked, though I had to take a break because of my illness. As soon as I heard the good news about my cancer going into remission, my first stop was my favorite tattoo parlor. I got my lady parts tattooed on a whim. I love it. I love all of my tattoos. No regrets.

 XXX

Image

A picture says a thousand words. I can’t write much about this. If my (ex)husband found it, it would be sent to the judge so fast, my head would spin. I will say this. I see a doctor regularly. He gives me prescriptions. I get them filled. I like them a lot.

I can not tell a lie.

I am an addict.

Stay. Away. From. My. Boyfriend. (!!)

So, you’re an average looking gal with an average looking man and you’re at a party or a bar or somewhere social and you ask your man to get you another drink from the bar because it’s three deep and you don’t feel like waiting. You’re at a table with your girls and their boyfriends too. You’re laughing and chatting and looking at your empty glass when you look over to the bar and see your man talking to a thin, dark haired beauty covered in colorful tattoos. She’s wearing skin tight jeans, a tank and boots up to her knees. She throws her head back and laughs at something your average man just said exposing teeth as straight and white as an all American picket fence. You abruptly get up from your chair, jostling your best friend and knocking over an empty beer bottle in the process. You make your way over to the bar and saunter up to your man. You give him a kiss on the cheek, place your arm around him and ask him what’s taking so long. Then you turn to me and say “Hi- I’m so and so, this man’s girlfriend.” He tells her it’s a long wait and he didn’t catch my name. I already got my beer five minutes ago, so I leave them to talk it over at the bar. As I leave, I make sure to look back and give her a smirk. And that when she says it with her eyes. “Stay. Away. From. My. Boyfriend.”

I can’t tell you how many times this has happened to me and I don’t understand why so many women are insanely insecure and possessive when it comes to their boyfriends at parties or in bars. I mean, it’s not like i would go for your average boyfriend and you’re dumb if you think anything of substance could happen while you sit at a table with your friends while you send your man up to the bar to get you a drink. I mean, it’s not like he’s going to leave you for me. Why can’t we all just get along, ladies?

I don’t want to give the impression that I am conceited, because I’m not. But I do know what I look like, how men react to me and how attractive I can be to SOME (not all) men. I have very high self-esteem when it comes to my appearance and social skills. Isn’t that good? Shouldn’t other gals look at someone like me and say, “Wow, she’s confident, good for her!” Instead of the jealousy and anger that often comes with meeting a new girl in one of these, usually alcohol infused, environments.

It’s not only happened to me when I was and am again single. It happened when I was married too. I would be out with the girls proudly wearing my engagement and wedding rings and it would still happen.  And I can only imagine it happens in the reverse too. What I mean is, after I walk away from the average couple, she may say to him (and I am just insinuating here) “Stay. Away. From. That. Slut.” Because of course, I’m a slut. Because you feel intimidated by me, that makes me a slut.

Yes!

Brilliant!

I’m the type of woman who wants to promote love, not hate among all women. I hate when gals attack each other because of their looks or their clothing or tattoos or red lipstick or pretty long hair, because it’s not an attack on THAT girl. It’s a reflection of how you feel about yourself.

Like Shit.

So trust me, I’m not going anywhere near your boyfriend or husband…

I. Don’t. Want. Him.

The End.

The Trouble With My Tattoos

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(This is not my arm.)

The trouble with my tattoos is that I never know if it’s ok to show them or not. What I mean is, I never know what to wear–especially in the summertime. I personally don’t give a shit about showing my tattoos to the world, but there are times when I have been “told” it’s better to wear something with sleeves, to cover them up for a couple of reasons. The first reason is usually not to “offend” anyone and this warning usually comes before a fancy event like a wedding or high end party or one of my daughter’s school event. The second reason I’ve been advised to cover my tattoos on certain occasions is to not draw any unwanted attention to myself. The third reason is, that my tattoos are colorful, beautiful and unique, which makes me quite recognizable. In other words, by covering my beautiful tattoos, I can “disguise” myself.

During the cooler seasons, (New York actually gets to experience the four seasons; I love New York!) it’s usually not a problem because long sleeve sweaters, jeans and even mini dresses with tights hide my tattoos–not that I care if they didn’t, but in the summertime, and New York summers can be brutally hot, I never know what to wear. Today, for instance, I’m going to meet someone for the first time. Someone I don’t want to meet, but I have to because of The Scandal. I don’t know if I should just throw on a sundress and say “fuck you, I have tattoos” through my attire, or play the masochist and wear something that covers them up. Just being outside at 10 AM, I can already tell it’s going to be one of those hot, humid, sticky, uncomfortable days here in Brooklyn and I’m really thinking “sundress”. This is who I am. If you are an incredibly ugly person whose face is offensive to some people, do you cover it with a paper bag? No, because in the tattoo judger’s eyes, God gave you that face and there’s nothing you can do about it. But tattoos, tattoos, you see, are a choice. I chose to do this to my body. And my tattoos aren’t ugly or perverted or offensive in any way. I get lots of compliments on them, actually, so I don’t get the whole judgement issue. It’s my body. I can do whatever I want to it. Right? I mean, it’s not like I’m going to walk into this place wearing a tube top and hot pants. Just a simple shirt dress or a pretty maxi dress with nice shoes, my hair and makeup done and looking otherwise lovely. Except for the tattoos.

I don’t judge people who don’t have tattoos, so why do I have to worry about people who judge me by mine?

War Wounds. August 15, 2013.

I look like a junkie. Tattoos and track marks aren’t exactly a pristine first impression. Fuck everyone. I have cancer.

I went to battle against my cancer yesterday. First, I was denied the right to eat or drink anything for 8 hours before the procedure. I had a plate of linguine with bolognese sauce at 10:30 PM the night before. The ultimate punishment was the denial of my morning coffee. I can’t remember the last time I went without a cup of morning coffee. It was probably the night I spent in jail.

The next morning. Rise and shine. A quick visit to my daughter’s last day of school party and then the drive from Park Slope to Kew Gardens. Navigation systems are dumb. They send you around in circles. I arrived at the imaging center. Short wait to be called, five hours of procedure. An IV filled with radioactive fluid injected into my left arm for an hour. Waiting. Freezing. Then one hour in a contraption with an uncanny resemblance to a rocket ship. They strapped me down so I couldn’t move while pictures were taken of my entire insides. If the cancer has spread or if there is any cancer at all, it will light up like a Christmas tree on the disc they’re sending my doctor.

It was already 3:00 PM. I had an appointment with my Oncologist to discuss this Cytoxan he wants to start me on. I went armed with a list of questions and another list of the information I needed to get a second opinion at Sloan Kettering. I AM NOT LOSING MY HAIR. More needles. Short wait. Then a discussion with my doctor. I told him I didn’t understand why he was suddenly going to put me on this additional treatment when just last month he told me the cancer was practically undetectable from my blood work. He told me it was because I was still experiencing the “B” symptoms of my cancer (night sweats, fatigue, loss of appetite, fevers.) I told him that they come and go and reminded him that he also told me that they would fluctuate. Our conversation ended with this compromise: I will keep the appointment for the Cytoxan for September 12 for now. He will review the PET scan results when he receives the results, he will advise me of his treatment plan. I slipped the list of information I needed for the second opinion at Sloan Kettering back into my bag.

I just wanted to go home.

This cancer is a war. Me against the cells.

I’m going to win.

And the next time I get stuck with a needle, I want it filled with ink and leave a permanent image.

I miss getting tattooed.