Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: cancer

Medicine Calls With Instruction

CELL PHONE NOISE

Yello?

“Hello, is this Mr. on the Dead or his official caregiver or maybe the neighbor across the hall who answers the phone sometimes?”

This is Mr. on the Dead.

“Greetings! This is Medicine speaking! I have intricately terrible news and directions to give you. We are going to have a conversation you have been dreading since your teen years!”

Didn’t you used to work for my gastroenterologist?

“I go where the action is!”

Sure.

“Mr. on the Dead, your chemical therapeutics are about to begin! It is like a marathon, but instead of running, you sit in a mostly-comfortable recliner while we shoot drain cleaner into your veins.”

That’s nothing like a marathon.

“My similes are not to be dissected, sir!”

Gotcha.

“Your first session will be the longest. We want to show the cancer what we’re capable of. Leave no question in the enemy’s mind that in order to save the nation, we will destroy the village.”

Am I the nation or the village in that metaphor?

“My metaphors are also not to be dissected!”

Sure.

“My word, we will be befouling your river! Some of these chemicals you will be ingesting cannot be handled by hand. You need to rig yourself up some sort of Doctor Octopus apparatus to move it from place to place.”

The treatment is aggressive, yes.

“This is beyond aggressive, Mr on the Dead. Translated to a human scale, what we are about to do to you equals a war crime. Do you know that you will be receiving half-a-liter of Siracha sauce?”

Why?

“Cruelty, and cruelty alone. Cancer hates spicy foods! It has the palate of a common Frenchman.”

If you say so. Do I need to prepare for the session at all?

“Perhaps some ab training. A strong core cures most ails.”

Anything else? Diet?

“You should, slobbo. And you’re gonna! Our cocktails will knock 30 pounds off of you in no time! If those anorexulimics ever heard about it, they’d be breaking down the door.”

Ma’am.

“I do not mean that literally. They would not have the energy or body mass to break down a door.”

Ma’am.

“They are small and tired. Stamina has abandoned them.”

“You should also bring a hoodie!”

Ah. Good advice. Finally.

“There will also be significant prep for your chemical adventures! You are going over Poison Falls in a barrel. You want the barrel to be well-prepared, don’t you?”

I never think it’s possible for your analogies to get worse, but yet you surprise me.

“I am a diagonal-type thinker. Thank you for noticing! I will now return to instructing you on your prep.”

Please.

“We ask that you take a bajillion pills. We called them into your pharmacy. Go pick them up, but make sure your trunk is empty. You will need the space!”

A bajillion?

“I am estimating, but the number is thereabouts. Also, you must take the pills on both a full and empty stomach.”

How?

“Timing.”

I’ll figure it out. Anything else?

“You must avoid banana bread.”

Why?

“So reads the Prophecy. Do not question the Prophecy, Mr. on the Dead. Your insurance is nowhere near good enough to allow that.”

Sorry.

“Shun the risen loaf of the banana, and that shall be the whole of the law.”

Okay, okay.

“Remember to bring cash to tip your nurse.”

We’re tipping nurses now?

“You are receiving your treatment at the intersection of ‘Florida’ and ‘Plague.’ Laws have become half-forgotten dreams, and all social mores have been molested. We have molested the mores, Mr. on the Dead! So, please, tip your nurse.”

Fine.

“Maybe some fairy dust gets sprinkled into your IV line if you tip heavy enough? Who knows?

I understand.

“You might even buy yourself a magic carpet ride. You can let the sound take you away!”

Something to consider.

“Are you a test subject for the new Trump China Virus Vaccine?”

What? No.

“Forget I asked.”

Fine.

“Failure to forget I asked will result in unarmed men yoinking you into an unmarked van, and whomping you all up and down with sticks.”

I’ll forget. I promise.

“We cannot rule out some stick-play, Mr. On the Dead. It is rapidly becoming a new world!”

Can we concentrate on my treatment, please?

“Indubitably! You may order food while reclining with us, or bring a pre-prepared meal. You may not cook in the Chemo Room!”

I won’t.

“I see another panini press, I’m handing out a slapping! I don’t know what it is with you people and those panini doohickeys. Do you see your own terminal slimness in the skinniness of the panini?”

I like that you can get the cheese melty all the way through.

“Irregardless and unrelevant! The devices are forbidden! Similarly, you must leave your George Foreman Grill at home.”

I will.

“And though I have not seen it in person, I would wager heavily that it needs a good cleaning. Do not bring your nasty-ass kitchen appliances into my clean Chemo Room, sir.”

I hadn’t even considered it until you brought it up.

“I would not mention were it not a distinct possibility! You sickies are clever, and allowed to wear the baggiest of clothes! It is easy for you to smuggle contraband into areas.”

I suppose.

“But you cannot hide the sound of the sizzle, nor its scent! You cannot deploy the power of the George Foreman Grill secretly! The surrounding gentry will be aware, Mr. on the Dead!”

No cooking. Got it. What should I expect after the treatment?

“Everyone responds to being poisoned in such an individual manner! For example, some people go ACK! and fall over. Others just lie there and cry. Some self-pooping is performed. Humanity is elastic!”

Nothing in general?

“Think of the time you were most efficiently and lovingly orally manipulated.”

Okay.

“The opposite of that! For a week! There is a reason I have been calling the substances we will be shoving into you ‘poison.’ It does not know the difference between you and the cancer! It will kill indiscriminately! But there are more of you than it, so we will prevail. It is a war of attrition, but fought in your bloodstream!”

Those are the worst kind of wars, and that’s the worst place to have one.

“And yet we will see you tomorrow morning. Bring your hoodie!”

See ya.

Thoughts On Cancer

You’re all dying, too. You just don’t have a plan.

……………………..

Things my oncologist said quietly while reviewing my chart:

  • Interesting.
  • Huh.
  • That’s, uh…hmm.
  • Oh, wow, really?

I chose to take his utterances as compliments, and continue to hold that belief.

……………………..

I’m no Hercules
And this is Herculean
Tomorrow I will just be feeling the pain

………………………..

Get stupidly addictive opiates from your doctor without any pushback by using this one simple trick!

………………………..

A cancer haiku?
You fucking kidding me here?
Fuck off with that shit.

……………………….

Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoma. Y’know those cancers that stay in one place, and the doctor looks at it every six months? This isn’t one of those. This is one of those lebensraum deals.

………………………..

SOMETHING MY ONCOLOGIST ACTUALLY SAID TO ME:

Should I take vitamins?

“Nah, you’re way past vitamins.”

………………………..

………………………..

Monday was the PET scan, which involved no puppies or kittens whatsoever; fucking liars. Lit that fucker up like a Buddhist monk at a protest. The rot is in my bones, apparently. Up and down my femurs, all across the pelvis.

Tuesday was the echocardiogram, to see if my heart is healthy enough for them to poison it. It is.

Today was the bone marrow biopsy. The doc plunged a titanium needle into my posterior iliac crest and sucked out some of the juice. Give that back, I wanted to say. It’s mine. I need it. I did not say that.

…………………………

It only hurts when I exist.

………………………..

My countrymen are stooges, vicious and thick, and so there are few outpatient centers available to put in what is called a port. The poison must be squoze in smooth, and over the course of four days; a regular IV line is not up to the extended abuse. The wear and tear of normal life would lead to yeeting. Hospitalization may be required, the doc said.

I asked why I could not come into the office every day, and receive the poison there.

“We could, but I’d…uh…like to start strong. You wanna be aggressive here.”

And then I asked him how long I’d have if, after leaving his office, I just stayed home and did nothing.

“Couple months? Maybe a couple months. Maybe.”

……………………………

I shuffle now, bowlegged and tenderfooted. The standing is passable, and I can still sit with the best of ’em, but if you saw me get out of a chair, you’d know.

……………………………..

Gonna get me a cancer bandana, and call it my candana. Gonna lose 40 pounds and wear all black and tie my candana ’round my boney skull, and then I’ll just hang around in public pointing at randos and hooting. I have transcended beyond taking my dick out at the food court, Enthusiasts. Gonna haunt that motherfucker.

It happened so goddamned fast. I’m setting the point on Fentanyl lollipops for September 1st, and I’d take the Under if I were you.

……………………………….

Some of you have sent along your thoughts, prayers, vibes, best-wishes; I thank each of you. One of you sent, like, 20 pounds of ice cream; this was an exceptionally kind gesture.

I will not be starting a GoFundMe, or turning the site into a tiered-access Patreon nightmare, or begin streaming on Twitch.  There shall be no begging, this I promise you. If you wanna send me some dope, I would like that very much. The Donation Button has not moved. But if you don’t wanna, you don’t haveta.

………………………………

And now a reading from The Book of Fin, Iteration #18:

Everything changes; nothing lasts.
Nothing changes; everything lasts.

That book hasn’t steered me wrong so far.

I Don’t Need No Doctor

Boncologist Humping not up to snuff? Might need to make an appointment with the boncologist.

Noncologist This is a French doctor, and when you ask him for a prescription, he says, “Non!” And then you’re like, “Well, are you even gonna listen to my chest?” And, once again, he says “Non!” Not really the best use of your time seeing this dude, to be honest.

Goncologist Gonk. Gonk gonk. Gonk. (Yeah, it’s a Star Wars joke. Don’t you fucking judge me; I have cancer.)

Groncologist It’s Gronk. He’s wearing a doctor’s coat with no shirt underneath. You tell him that your leg hurts, and he makes you chug three Monster energy drinks. His enormous brothers keep wandering in and out of the exam room. There are a lot of HIPAA violations.

Davevanroncologist His office is on MacDougall Street. Not a lot of patients.

Concologist If you are a black person from the 1940’s who fucks up your head straightening your hair, then you need to go to the concologist.

Honcologist Clowns who want nose jobs see the honcologist.

Stop this. There’s no idea here, nor any actual jokes.

That’s never stopped me before.

True, but now it’s depressing. You’re the diseased one. Why does everyone else have to suffer? 

Please don’t call me “diseased.”

That was probably over the line. I’m gonna take that back.

Appreciate it.

Let’s just call this one, huh?

Seems like the right thing to do.