Blog #7

You Can't Put a Price on Some Things

     I pulled my scarf up to cover my mouth and tied my coat tighter. The air was frigid as we walked along the street. Ice had formed on the gutter pipes that hung from the building. We walked up to an alley and I hesitated. “Its this way I promise,” my brother explained. I felt that the lack of lighting didn’t help the situation but I followed my brother into the alley. It was dark and I could hear my footsteps echo off of the two buildings on either side of us. We reached a red wooden door and he opened it. Light burst through the doorframe and I was greeted by a young man behind a counter. He asked what he could do for me. I looked around at the art on the walls and the catalogs on the countertop. I looked up at him and said “I am here for a tattoo.”

     This wasn’t my first, but it would be the most meaningful one to date. My brother had told me about this place. He had already gotten two tattoos from here and loved their work. I trusted him as I followed the young man into the well-lit room. We talked about the script I wanted and the area that would be inked and he told me to lay down on the table. I used my folded coat as a pillow and began to talk to my brother about the art that covered the walls. The artist came back in and handed me a piece of paper. I looked at the beautiful script that looped and curled with each letter. The attention to detail on the one capitalized letter and the perfect spacing of all of the words. He asked me to check the spelling but I had stared at this quote long enough to know that he wrote it out perfectly. I told him that I loved it and he explained that it was his personal handwriting. Just knowing that this wasn’t a printed font from Microsoft word made it all that more special.

     He followed the procedure of cleaning the area and putting on gloves. He then removed a small plastic package with a blue backing. As he ripped it open I saw the lone needle that would cut into my flesh. The ink was pulled out of a drawer and he was now ready to begin. I lay my head back and stared up at the ceiling. My brother took my hand because he knew my low tolerance to pain. As the needle touched my skin and I heard the gun turn on I braced myself for the slow burning that would crawl on my skin. The sensation was overwhelming and I cringed from the pain. I measure my breathing by the low buzzing of the gun. Trying to keep my breaths slow and steady while my heart was racing was not so easy. My brother laughed because he knew exactly how it felt. I relaxed my face and closed my eyes. Although the pain was unbearable I knew it would all be worth it.

     The artist took a break between each word. I believed that I needed the break more than he did. I think it was a silent compromise between us. He looked down at the body part that he was tattooing and squinted. He grabbed a tissue and as he wiped the blood from my foot he asked the question I knew he had been holding back behind his lips since he began. “Where did you get that scar?” I looked over at my brother and he nodded his approval. I turned back to the artist and said, “I was born with club foot. It’s a birth defect that I had to have surgery to correct. The scar is from my surgery.” He told me that it was my battle wound and that I should be proud of it. I nodded my agreement and he started on the second word. I went back to cringing and squeezing my brothers hand.

     I grew up a little differently than most children. I was born with a birth defect that affects 1 in every one thousand children. I was born with Club Foot. This is a disease that affects the way the bones are arranged in the foot. My dad noticed right away when I was born that my one foot didn’t look like the other. I was taken away and an hour later when I was brought back to my parents I had a small cast on my foot. This began my treatment. I later learned that I went through is called the Ponseti method. This is classified as having the ligaments, joint capsules, and tendons stretched under gentle manipulations. A plaster cast is applied after each manipulation to retain the degree of correction and soften the ligaments. The displaced bones are thus gradually brought into the correct alignment with their joint surfaces progressively remodeled yet maintaining congruency.

     This was done over the course of a year. Every two weeks my mother brought me to the doctor. They sawed off my cast, stretched my foot, and placed on a new cast. Once I was a year old they realized that the Ponseti method wasn’t working. I went through a 5-hour bone reconstructive surgery to correct the alignment of my foot and ankle. Another cast was placed on my foot for the recovery process. Once I was healed I could then learn how to walk. My father tells a funny story to people when I talk about it. He explains that he was never worried where I was in the house once I started to crawl. He says that because of the hardwood floors my cast would hit the floor and make a banging noise. Like a dog’s collar I always announced my presence.

     As I grew up I had yearly doctors appointments to track the progress of my foot. When I was 12 it was announced that both of my feet were probably done growing. I was going to be left with a size 6 and a size 4. An adult size and a child’s size, this I had to live with. At this time I was in Middle school. 7^th grade is hard enough on a preteen girl, my situation only made it worse. I never wore open toed shoes, at sleepovers I always kept on my socks, and I had certain restrictions when it came to sports. The large scar on my foot always reminded me that I was different and I felt ashamed. Most of my friends never seemed to notice and I made sure that if they did I would defend myself from any ridicule.

     After the second word was complete the artist took a long look at my foot. “The size, is that from the surgery too?” I then explained that my feet were two different sizes. I had a normal size 6 foot and the one he was working on was a size 4. I was used to being looked at with disgust on someone’s face. I was used to feeling like a science experiment and being asked multiple questions. I was also used to feeling different and feeling bad for being different. But his reaction was something I had never seen before. His eyes widened and he smiled. He actually seemed amused by my freakish defect. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “My sister has the same problem.”

     It was my turn to be shocked. I asked him how. “Her one foot just stopped growing at a certain age. She wasn’t born the way you were but she has two different sizes too, a size and a half difference. She finds it very hard to buy shoes.” At this I laughed because I knew that struggle all too well. He went back to his work to finish the last word. I closed my eyes but this time I smiled because I had never met or heard of anyone else like me. He finished up his work and cleaned me up. He looked down at the tattoo and asked if he could take a picture of it. I said yes. He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture. He told me that he was going to send it to his sister. “Take a look,” he said and I glanced down at my now throbbing foot. In perfect script just like on the piece of paper it said “Imperfection is beauty.” My eyes welled up, but stubborn I held back the tears. I held out my hand for him to shake and I sincerely thanked him. We walked over to the counter and he told me that I had made his night. This tattoo meant something to him as well. He gave me a twenty dollar discount. I was already going to tip him twenty dollars so I doubled it. I handed him one hundred dollars and he smiled. I turned towards my brother and we headed to the door

     I bundled up to fight the cold and my brother and I walked back out into the December night. My foot throbbed from the rubbing that was caused by my boot, but I didn’t care. I looked at my brother and a small smile grew on his face. We both knew that the artist gave me a beautiful tattoo that day but he also gave me a gift that I couldn’t put a price on.