I never really processed the radiation tattoos.

Six little dots. Freckles, they called them.

I was happy they weren't my first ink. I had two real tattoos before those six dots. I assume there are plenty of straight-laced ladies who were horrified to get their first ink in this way.

My breast cancer still doesn't feel real. I see people with pink ribbons and I don't resonate with them. Mine was so early, so unexpected, so ... in some ways, harmless, compared to what other people face. 

My broken ankle feels more real than cancer did. Isn't that odd? Broken bones are so innocuous. 

But .... the tattoos remain. When I go to put on a bra. When I go to think about a swimsuit. What is that mark? Oh, yeah. I had cancer. Really? You? Yeah, actually, just a few years ago. 2017. 

It's 2019. That was like, yesterday. 

It would be easier to forget all that happened. If there weren't tattoos. They aren't freckles. They never were.