My Last Tattoo
At 66 Catherine Gigante-Brown reveals the stories behind her ink, and why the latest design will likely be her final one. PLUS: An open thread where you can share about what prompted you to get inked.
Readers,
Today we have a moving essay by
about her assorted tattoos, what prompted her to get each one, and why the tattoo she recently got for her 66th birthday will, sadly, most likely be her final one. It’s below this section. ⬇️It’s a poignant story that gets at something I very much relate to: how powerful it can be to mark an occasion by literally marking yourself. It’s a very particular way of declaring something about yourself, or your intentions—to both yourself, and the world.
I thought it might be a good Friday Open Thread topic to prompt all of you with. In the comments please tell us:
How old are you? Do you have tattoos? How many? At what ages did you get them? Describe them. What was the emotional impact of getting them? Did they shift something for you, internally? Did you catch any flack for getting them? Are there any you regret? Have you ever had a regrettable tattoo covered up, or lasered off? Answer as many or as few of these questions as you’d like! (If you’re commenting, please also do me the favor of hitting the heart button ❤️ for algorithmic purposes. Thank you!)
Me, I’m 60, and got the first of four tattoos (so far) on the eve of my 47th birthday. It’s a text tattoo in a font called American Typewriter, which reads: And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than it took to blossom.
When I got inked with it, I mistakenly thought I was quoting Anaïs Nin. Turns out it was a stanza of a poem called “Risk,” written by a woman who went by Lacey Bennett in the 70s (and who now goes by Elizabeth Appell), who had been a publicist for an adult-ed college in California then. (When I learned about this, I interviewed Appell, and wrote about it in my memoir. LitHub reprinted that excerpt.)
I got the first three of my tattoos to remind myself that I’m a writer, and to embolden myself in my work. My third tattoo is a little weird in that it appears in two different places on my body, my right shoulder and my left wrist. It’s a little flock of birds I got one winter when I was depressed, and wanted to have the feeling of birds flying across me, and lifting me on their wings.
I love my tattoos. I sometimes find myself staring at them, appreciating them. It’s hard to explain, but they help me stay true to who I am, as a writer and as a person. I have no regrets—but I do become self-conscious about them when I’m in the company of people who don’t like tattoos, or understand the impetus for getting them.
And now, for Cathy Gigante-Brown’s story… -
Here’s Catherine Gigante-Brown’s Essay ⬇️
My Last Tattoo
At 66, Catherine Gigante-Brown reveals the stories behind her ink, and why the latest will likely be her final design.
by
People often get tattoos to mark milestones in their lives. I’m no exception. By age 54 I had three. When I was diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer in December 2024, I realized that I wanted one more. But, approaching 66, was I too old? Too ill? And what would that tattoo be? Whatever it was, it had to be something significant, something that defined me.
My previous tattoos were easy decisions. No brainers. Here’s a rundown:
Tattoo # 1: To commemorate my divorce at age 32 in 1992. On my left bicep, a red rose bursts through a heart, thorns and all. Adam Kaplan of Big Joe and Sons in Mount Vernon, New York popped my skin-ink cherry. I picked the design from a thick book in Adam’s studio but had him nix the drops of blood in the original stencil. (Too dramatic.) To me, the tattoo is a symbol that beauty can come after hurt. My ex, a bitter singing drummer hellbent on “making it,” was willing to kick everything to the curb in his quest for success, including me. He almost broke my spirit, almost broke me. Yet I still harbored the hope that I would find love again. As evidenced by…
When I was diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer in December 2024, I realized that I wanted one more tattoo. But, approaching 66, was I too old? Too ill? And what would that tattoo be? Whatever it was, it had to be something significant, something that defined me.
Tattoo # 2: To commemorate a newish love with a hunky firefighter named Peter roughly two years after my divorce. At the base of my spine is a Girl Scout-esque/Catechism tongue of fire. Circa 1994, before the moniker “tramp stamp” became popular, it was a spur-of-the-moment, slightly-tipsy decision made in a Miami Beach bar. Peter drew the design on a scallop-edged cocktail napkin; I approved. We scuttled across Washington Avenue and the tattoo artist on call recreated the design. It turned out to be a dual-purpose tat: a nod to Peter’s career and to our future son’s middle name: Blaze.
Tattoo # 3: To commemorate one-year of being breast cancer free. I turned to Gen Pistol of Guts ‘N Glory in Rosendale, NY to transform my mastectomy scar. Gen, who studied at the School of Visual Arts, designed a custom piece that traced the lines of my incision: an Asian-style cherry blossom branch. Diagnosed in the spring of 2013, I’d stood beneath a canopy of cherry blossom trees in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden and wondered if it would be my last cherry blossom-season. Spoiler: it wasn’t. Twelve years and counting, I’m still here. Still fighting. A testament to Gen’s skill, the piece is exquisite. Instead of a negative when I look in the mirror (i.e. no breast), there’s a positive.
***
My last tattoo is another custom piece by Gen Pistol. Since my metastatic breast cancer (MBC) diagnosis at the end of 2024, the clock is ticking. Literally. My breast cancer returned in all its aggressive splendor. This time, in my bones. My treatment regimen (monthly injections and chemotherapy pills) keeps the cancer at bay but there’s no cure for MBC. It will eventually kill me when my cocktail of meds, and subsequent cocktails of meds, no longer work their magic. I’ve seen it happen many times. But I’m not going down without a fight. Or one last tattoo, my 66th birthday present to myself.
Finding the optimum time in my treatment cycle to get inked was like planning a covert military operation. I take the pills that help me stay alive on a three-weeks-on, one-week-off schedule. To complicate matters, one medication I take, Ibrance, typically makes the taker’s white blood cell count tank. And this makes me highly susceptible to infection. As per my oncologist, Gen and I needed to find a sweet spot: the first week in my pill cycle, when my white blood cell count would be highest.
Between travel, treatment and my occasional pill hiatuses which kept shifting when Week One fell, my ink date kept shifting. This made me incredibly anxious. “If I can’t do it,” Gen suggested, “one of the girls in my shop will do a great job.”
Although I was confident they would, I wanted to go full circle with Gen. I told her, “You did my first post-mastectomy tattoo and I want you to do my last.” She understood.
Metastatic breast cancer will eventually kill me when my cocktail of meds, and subsequent cocktails of meds, no longer work their magic. I’ve seen it happen many times. But I’m not going down without a fight. Or one last tattoo, my 66th birthday present to myself.
Exasperated with the cancellations, the planning, and my infection risk, my husband wondered, “Why do you need another tattoo?”
I explained to Peter that so many things had been done to my body which I had no control over…biopsies, invasive tests, radioactive scans, surgeries, etc. I wanted to do something to my body that was totally in my control. Something beautiful. Something meaningful.
The piece? A tribute to our pale, blue cabin upstate.
When Peter and I bought the property 23 years earlier, our son David was just a toddler. He dubbed our home “Special Blue House.” SBH, for short. It stemmed from us telling our then-two-year-old that we were going to “that special blue house” whenever we had a water inspection or met with the realtor. The name Special Blue House stuck.
Over the past two decades, SBH became my happy place, my refuge. I wanted to take it with me wherever I went. To my treatments, on trips, even to my final resting place.
Gen created a stylized masterpiece from the photos I’d emailed her, finessing the design on her iPad. The end result was better than I ever imagined, the details stunning. For instance, Gen placed three stars above SBH. Representing us…me, Peter and David? How could she have known that growing up, David often convinced us to hike into the field to look at the night sky?
As Gen prepped her workstation, she confirmed that I’d made the right choice: a rendering of SBH over a peony, my favorite flower. I asked why. “Because your face lights up whenever you talk about that place,” Gen smiled.
Exasperated with the cancellations, the planning, and my infection risk, my husband wondered, “Why do you need another tattoo?” I explained to Peter that so many things had been done to my body which I had no control over…biopsies, invasive tests, radioactive scans, surgeries, etc. I wanted to do something to my body that was totally in my control. Something beautiful. Something meaningful.
As she wielded the tattoo gun, we talked. About everything. At some point, the conversation comfortably shifted to death. I contemplated Gen’s suggestion of having her design a memorial tattoo in case someone wanted to get inked in my memory when I was gone. What would that image be? A pen? A book? A cat?
Three hours later, from prep to stencil to finish, I was transformed. On my upper right arm was a little blue cabin surrounded by tall evergreens, crowned by stars. It was perfect. I felt girded by the place that gave me such joy. Permanently marked by it.
I thanked Gen for all the love and care she put into the piece; I could feel it. We both tried not to cry when we said goodbye. My arm bandaged, Gen and I hugged for what seemed like a long time, but it also seemed right.
Strangely enough, this tattoo wasn’t as painful as my others. Physically, anyhow. But maybe the pain was buried in another place. In the realization that this would be my last tattoo. And why.
Catherine Gigante-Brown’s novels, Immigrant Hearts, Cry of Silence, Paul and Carol Go to Guatemala, Different Drummer, Better than Sisters and The El Trilogy (The El, The Bells of Brooklyn, Brooklyn Roses) are published by Volossal. She divides her time between New York and Florida. Previously she wrote “She is Me,” “Lessons in Poetry, and Life,” and “Do It For the Love” for Oldster.
Okay, your turn:
How old are you? Do you have tattoos? How many? At what ages did you get them? Describe them. What was the emotional impact of getting them? Did they shift something for you, internally? Did you catch any flack for getting them? Are there any you regret? Have you ever had a regrettable tattoo covered up, or lasered off? Answer as many or as few of these questions as you’d like! (If you’re commenting, please also do me the favor of hitting the heart button ❤️ for algorithmic purposes. Thank you!)
Big thanks to
for her poignant essay. And thanks to all of you for reading, and for all your support for Oldster Magazine. I’m grateful, especially to paid subscribers who help me keep going. 🙏💝 | A guest post by
|
This is great. I love your tattoos too!
I love the reasoning behind your tattoo.