Deciding on the Saint Jude Tattoo
Had this idea stuck in my head for months. Saw my buddy’s memorial tattoo last year – really raw, really powerful. Got me thinking about Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes. That hit home. Remembered Grandma always lighting candles for him when things got messy.
Picking the Design and Artist
Started scribbling garbage in my notebook during lunch breaks. Flame hearts, praying hands – all looked trash. Scrolled Pinterest till my eyes bled. Finally found this old-school drawing of Saint Jude holding a flame. Bingo.
Asked around at work. Dave from accounting said “my cousin Vinny does banger tattoos outta his garage”. Checked Vinny’s Insta – dude only did anime tits and dragons. Hard pass. Found Mia’s shop downtown after walking past her window display. Her saint portraits? Chills.
Sitting Through the Needle
Walked into Mia’s spot smelling like antiseptic and old coffee. She wiped my arm with this cold goo that made me twitch. When that needle buzzed to life, my stomach dropped. First lines on my inner forearm felt like cat scratches. Okay, not so bad.
Then she hit the bony part near the wrist. Holy hell! Felt like she was carving my bones with a rusty nail. Sweat pooled in my armpits. Kept gripping the chair till my knuckles turned white. Mia just chuckled and said “breathe, tough guy”. Clock ticked for two hours straight – longest Netflix episode ever.
Aftercare Nightmares
Walked out wrapped in cling film like a deli sandwich. Mia gave me this list:
- Wash it 3 times daily with unscented soap
- Slather on ointment thinner than my hairline
- No sun, no pools, no scratching even if it itches like fire ants
First shower? Water hit that raw skin and I yelled like a stepped-on puppy. Week later, scabs formed like crusty chocolate flakes. Almost tore one off reaching for coffee – caught myself last second. Three weeks of looking like I had diseased skin, but finally healed.
Why It Stuck With Me
Got this permanent reminder now when life kicks my ass. Look down at Jude holding that flame – remember Grandma’s stubborn hope. Vinny texted later asking why I didn’t choose him. Sent him a close-up of Mia’s work. Left him on read. Still rub the raised ink when I’m stressed. Worth every second of that godawful wrist pain.
