Sticking it to Cancer
By Alexander Jürgen Klemm
Published by Der Klemm at Shakespir
Copyright 2017 Alexander J. Klemm
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I hate cancer support groups. As a matter of fact, I despise them; just hearing them gives you cancer. Those meetings are just one, big, group circle jerk where everyone just sits down and feels sorry for themselves. Personally, that’s not my cup of tea, although I could see how it might be helpful to some people. It’s a good thing I have amnesia, because I don’t remember a lot of my treatment; its flashes of memories that you try to push away. Not gonna lie though, some stuff sticks to you; like that time where they overdosed me on this chemotherapy drug called methotrexate and I ended up in ICU with half my brain turned off.
I lost control of my body and the ability to speak, although I could still make noises with my mouth shut. Being trapped in my own body was perhaps the freakiest experience I’ve had in my life thus far. Alright, well maybe not; there was this one crazy roller-coaster I went on once upon a time in a kids theme park: nuts, that I tell you. I like to live it wild. Methotrexate is one of these drugs that pisses you off the most; ironically, the drug itself looks like that referred yellow substance mentioned above. To give you an idea of what this drug does to you, let me tell you the side effects: dry cough, shortness of breath, diarrhea, vomiting, white patches or sores inside your mouth or on your lips, blood in your urine or stools, swelling, rapid weight gain, little or no urinating, seizure, fever, chills, body aches, pale skin, easy bruising, unusual bleeding, weakness, feeling light-headed or short of breath, liver problems, nausea, upper stomach pain, itching, tired feeling, loss of appetite, dark urine, clay-colored stools, jaundice, fever, sore throat, swelling in your face or tongue, burning in your eyes, skin pain, followed by a red or purple skin rash that spreads, blistering and peeling, and fainting, conveniently placed right above DEATH.
Perhaps I should write more about my time in the ICU, it may help some people that, God forbid, have to go through that. Before I even landed in the unit, I was in a room at Miami Children Hospital (now called Nicklaus Children Hospital, but we all agree that name is terrible) hooked to a bunch of fluids to decontaminate my body of huge doses of methotrexate. Nevertheless, I started complaining to my parents, and later to a nurse, that I could not feel my arm; additionally, my eyes stopped moving. Very slowly I got up from my bed, only to have my legs go the way of the Greek, Irish, Spanish or Italian economy, leaving me crashing to the ground. Luckily, there was a beautiful nurse holding me up, which prevented my even more beautiful face from hitting the floor. It’s at time like these were you have to thank mother nature for giving women mammary glands. Her chest pillows were the airbags to my car crash. In any case, everyone in that hospital room figured out that something was not right with me (well, more than usual). This led to a wild goose chase for a rolling chair across the hospital when it seemed that all of them took a vacation to Mexico, who are raping us at the border; meanwhile, my body was becoming a vegetable. (And by the way, not only are they killing us at the border, but they are killing us on trade; the country of Mexico is making billions of dollars in unfair trade deals. The United States has a $53 billion-dollar trade deficit with that country. We need to build a wall, folks.) In due course, we made it to ICU where a team of about 4 or more doctors were waiting for us. These doctors acted a lot like Japanese businessmen. I have great respect for the Japanese and what they have done with their economy, but they are very difficult to do business with. They come in to see you in groups of at least 5 to 6 people (sometimes that number can reach up to 12), and so, all of them have to be convinced to reach a deal. You may succeed with a few, but it’s far harder to convince all of them. In addition, they rarely smile and are so serious it makes doing business anything but fun. By the way, Japan has been screwing the United States with a self-serving trade policy that the political establishment have never been able to fully understand or counteract. See where I’m going with this? This little group of doctors, most of them probably straight fresh off med school and residence, where arguing with themselves like this was some sort of equation with one answer. After what seemed like an eternity, the Rīdā of the group concluded that I have had a stroke and needed an immediate open heart surgery. The whoreson was ready to have me sedated right then and there on the spot. Naturally, this was not going to fly with my father, even the nurse was protesting! You should have seen the look on my da’s face, he was about to bash the junior doctor’s bloody head in, or perhaps tear him a new asshole. Priceless. After rethinking the whole affair, the doctors decided instead to confine me to a room where I would be given anti-inflammation antibiotics and be connected to some strange looking, almost alien like head gear. All that was missing was the probe, and we would be living a UFO-hunter’s wet dream. So, there I was, getting liquids pumped into me while my brain de-swelled and I regained my bodily functions. Naturally, this process took a few days, and since I was unable to take care of myself, nurses had to do it instead; even bathroom situation. Since I could not do it myself, the nurses had to do that themselves. Still the closest thing I ever got to a hand-job. Luckily, I did not have to go #2 during my time there. Would have been paradise really, you know, if I was not there for medical purposes: literally had my own harem composed of sexy cute and young female nurses. The point of this story kids, is, always ask questions to the doctors. If my parents were not there, I could have been subjected to an open-heart surgery which was, a) not needed, and b) probably would have left me in a worse state than I was in originally.
But I’m getting ahead of myself; I assume you’re asking how this all started. I’d love to give you a detailed answer with the exact date and time something in me mutated and resulted in cancerous cells forming. Unfortunately, the science is not at the point where we can have access to that data. In my opinion, the reason we still have no major advancement in a cure and are being shoved chemotherapy down our throats (or should I say veins), is simply because its more profitable this way. Regardless, we have no idea what causes cancer in the first place; just theories. Bad nutrition? Poor exercise? Genetics? Just bad luck? Maybe. Its Chinese to me. For your information, the Chinese are notorious currency manipulators! Xi Jinping is a whore, and so is his country. Keep in mind that all cancers are different, from the diagnosis to the treatment. What I can tell you for sure is that I was drinking a lot of milk (we’re talking more than a gallon a day), had energy levels lower than Jeb Bush, and dripped clotted blood from my nose as well as easy bruising. 2014 was the year of my diagnoses. In the summer of that year I was in Germany watching the World Cup (Brazil get r3kt, son. 7-1 never forget, chupa-mos!) as well as in a 4-day course with the Bundeswehr in the Bavarian forest (which was great by the way, I rode a tank and sang war songs, I even had my own room because of a counting error). Since it was a military camp we had to do a lot of boot camp exercise, very hard; I thought I was merely weak, but looking back now, I think the cancer started while I was in Europe. When I came back from the camp, all I did was lay in bed, totally low energy. Sad! I figured it was all the working out from the camp. Then I started to bleed. Then I started to bruise. By the time I realized something was wrong, I was already sitting on a 10 hour Lufthansa flight back to Miami. During the plane ride, I was thrilled to be given the opportunity to inspect the cabin bathrooms as I was vomiting and bleeding all over them (still better than an American Airlines flight). When I arrived in Miami, I never bothered to go to the hospital, hoping I would feel better. Eventually, my step mother dragged me to my pediatrician in Mount Sinai, Miami Beach, for an appointment. Everyone there was really alarmed once my blood results came back, apparently, my platelets were 0. Zero. Judging by the doctor’s face, he was surprised I was still conscious. Everyone was freaking out; I did not really grasp what 0 platelets meant. I was more preoccupied thinking about what life would be like if Germany won the Great War. Needless to say, I was rushed to the ER. The head nurse there (or at least the one that caught the attention the most) was this beautiful blonde Russian looking 25-something year old girl who wanted to stick an IV in me. She was actually Ukrainian, but then again, we both shared a silent understanding that Crimea is rightful Russian clay. Needles and I don’t get along. When I was still a child living in Strassburg/Kehl, I broke my vaccines before they could stick them in me (autism, many such cases!), in vain. When I moved here, in order to complete my medical papers, I needed blood taken from me; God bless those fat black ladies and that gay muscular dude that had to hold me down while the doctor stole my blood. Needles and I dont get along. This time, they only needed 2 guys to hold me down because the cute Russ-‘scuse me-Ukrainian (same thing anyway, who cares? So cute, pretending they are an autonomous country) nurse was chatting me up while inserting the IV. After that fiasco, they called up an ambulance and I was on my way to Miami Children’s Hospital. The ambulance ride was cool, I discussed chicken pot pie with an overweight EMT, however they almost had to call another ambulance when they explained how much the ride cost. No refunds, it’s ridiculous; what a bunch of Jews. Ironically, I did my volunteer hours in Mount Sinai.
If you ever have to use an ambulance, don’t. Do you know how much they charge you for a 20-minute ride? Might as well have rented a limo with hookers, stripper poles and martinis. Seriously, just take a taxi; with a bit of luck you can get a free ride if he feels bad for you. EMT’s do wonderful work, they should get a pay raise. In the ambulance, I was laying in the weird pull out ironing board thing that they have in there and this nice Southern lady was entertaining me. Or was it the other way around? I can do great accents, no-one does better accent than me. (Actually, my absolute favorite high school home school teacher Ms. Puleo, bless her soul, does the best Southern accent in the world. She forced me to write that in.) The entire ambulance ride I was talking with her about how Elsass-Lothringen and East Prussia are rightfully German territories in a suave redneck accent. She was talking about her mom’s chicken pot pie. It was a mutually enriching and beneficial conversation.
We arrived at MCH and I was deposited in a small room at their ER. By the time the doctor stepped in, my father had just arrived from Germany (he visited his mother who broke her hip) and came to the hospital. Must have been a hard day for him. The doctor was a sympathetic French guy who opened up to us when my dad spoke to him in French. Usually I dislike the French, but this guy was very nice and comical, totally not a pretentious faggot like a lot of Frenchmen I’ve dealt with. I do not remember much from there on; yet I do remember that I was watching the Dark Knight on my phone. Great movie by the way. In the meantime, I had been transferred to my own room in the 3 North wing of the hospital. Fantastic nurses; huge tits and shapely arses. Around the late morning, early afternoon, a team of doctors, nurses, some in-laws, my parents and what would become my main oncologist (and I think friend?) Dr. Hannin Abdella, a Christian from Lebanon (who still has not approved my request for medicinal strippers), circulated my big, uncomfortable, sleazy hospital bed, to announce that I had won a million dollars and a trip to Siberia! Kidding, I was told I had cancer. This was also 2 weeks before my birthday. I guess you could say that this was my most memorable birthday present thus far. I was not crying, but there was the air conditioning moistening my eyes.
Hospital food sucks. They probably make it suck on purpose so that you are forced to buy edible food from the shops in the cafeteria. A hidden rule for survival in a hospital is to bring your own food, preferably one that you don’t need to heat up. Boost is your friend. Nestle should pay me for advertising their product. God bless the free market economy. Boost is a nutritional drink which can be used as a meal replacer. It contains enough proteins and vitamins so that your insides don’t look like a corpse eater during your hospital stay. Every 8 fl oz serving of this delicious nutritional drink has 240 Calories,10 grams of high-quality protein, 3 grams of fiber, and 2 vitamins and minerals, including calcium and vitamin D to support bone health. During WWII, cigarettes were used as currency in the black market; well, think of Boost as those cigs in WWII. Available in Very Vanilla, Rich Chocolate and Creamy Strawberry flavors. Drink a lot so you stay hydrated and pee enough. We are talking about peeing, so do not pee in the little containers they ask you to pee in. It’s disgraceful to human dignity, smells weird, and should be added to the Geneva convention’s list of psychological torture.
Cancer patients usually have a port, as I am writing this, mine is vibrating deep in my chest. In medicine, a port (or portacath) is a small medical appliance that is installed beneath the skin. A catheter connects the port to a vein. Under the skin, the port has a septum through which drugs can be injected and blood samples can be drawn many times, usually with less discomfort for the patient than a more typical “needle stick”. I hope you enjoyed this definition brought to you by your friendly neighbor Wikipedia. A port is hardly visible. The only people that will notice it are bored TSA agents, you, your mother, and your girlfriend (if you have one, loser). Be ready to never feel good sleeping on your chest ever again. Accessing a port is very similar to accessing a vein, except that it pierces your chest as well as the device inside it; oh, and it hurts like hell which is why they give you a special cream for it. It hurts even more if a non-experienced person does it and misses, meaning they have to take it out and pierce your poor chest all over again. I call that process raping. You should have seen the facial expressions of the people in the oncology office when I announce that the nurse has finished raping me. I always scream a little for theatrics. By now everyone is in on the joke and it’s become a trend. The nurses love raping me, and I love being raped. They found a loophole though; in 3 North there is this male, gay nurse, who sometimes has to access me. For some reason, I can’t bring myself to say I’ve been raped by him. Surprisingly though, he rapes the best. No pain whatsoever when he does it. I must give credit to my female nurse though, she got better at it and almost has his level. As you can probably assume, I prefer getting raped by the female nurse.
I don’t like to talk about getting chemo; mostly because I don’t remember it. I really don’t. It’s all the same process anyway. You know who remembers absolutely everything about everything in great detail? Synths. What sucks is when the little kids and toddlers/babies have to get chemotherapy. Because they are so young, they are always the first to get it, so people like me have to wait. This especially blows if you have to get a spinal tap (where they stick chemo in your spinal fluid with help of a yuuuuuuuuge needle) and are not allowed to eat until the procedure is over. You usually end up waiting 12-15 hours before you can eat. On the bright side, you get practice for starvation in case of a nuclear holocaust. Kids having cancer is terrible; makes you question what they did to deserve this, or why a loving God would allow this, or if there is one in the first place. Nurses are truly saints. They work 8-12 hours shifts for meager pay, have to spend time and resources for a nursing degree, take a lot of shit from ungrateful/frustrated patients, relatives, and fellow employees as well as put up with my constant flirting. Yet they willingly do it. Remarkable. They are like prostitutes; where the clientele are the patients, and the abusive pimp the hospital. Probably not the best comparison. The only other experience I remember is being hooked on constant morphine for 8 days.
Was it methotrexate or prednisone? That’s another funny drug by the way. Increased appetite, abnormal fat deposits, acne, swelling, vomiting, painful urination, sweating, vision changes, back pain, muscle pain, diarrhea, fainting, aggression, and how could I forget, death. I don’t remember what happened, but I was there because a drug that was administered screwed me more than usual. The discomfort was moderately severe, I could not sleep and was complaining harder than a rich guy at the dollar store. They offered me morphine when I first got the pains, but hospitals are notorious for overdosing you, hence my decline. Be that as it may, I threw my pride away for a few seconds and accepted after a few hours of never ending pain. I was exited in a way. “Yay, I get to do drugs and have funny visions like in all those 80’s movies.” Remember kids, if you ever feel like doing drugs, just go to the hospital. You get them free AND legally! They even have prescription beer, swear on me mum! I was disappointed. No funny visions. All it did was make you feel nothing; and then go to sleep. I had a nice dream a few days in with the stuff. I believe it was after 5 days of nonstop morphine I had this great dream. I was in a snowy mountain where there was a small, warm looking wooden hut. There was a small village a few mikes higher up the mountain. I go inside the wooden house/cabin where there is an old man and his daughter or granddaughter, probably his daughter, who is building a fire. The old man invites me in, and we all eat goulash. I was looking at the goulash and the daughter, she was wearing something red. I was cold and warmed myself by the fire. The man sends his daughter to get more logs for the fire, and I volunteer to help but he says I am still too weak. The daughter goes outside to fetch the wood; I follow anyway. Now I’m outside while it snows and the daughter is a few feet ahead from me and looks back. Nice eyes. Suddenly I’m shaken awake by a nurse who is checking my pupils because apparently, I was saying that I was in Poland in the snow or something. Most definitely forgot to keep my mouth shut when plotting another Polish partition. A day or two later (I was still on morphine) I also had this nightmare that the Muslims took over Europe. That was a dream, right? Right? I should add that during my super fun time with the 24h/7 to 9 days morphine, I was eating and drinking nothing at all. I was kept hydrated thanks the IV’s in me, but in regards to food, there was nothing. Several hospital staff members where threatening to put a feeding tube in me, but each time they approached me with that idea I gathered enough strength to tell them where they could stick that tube. When the chapter with the morphine closed (with no feeding tube by the way) my father remarked that I looked like a skeleton. I admit, most possibly lost a bit of weight there, but I still looked handsomer than your average Auschwitz inmate. Then again, I have a notorious reputation for having a pretty crappy memory.
Overall, if you take out all the bad stuff, cancer is pretty cool. First off, you automatically get put on the same bragging list that veterans are on. That includes all the benefits, such as support groups, attention, money, freebies and getting away with things that a normie would not have been able to, such as making terrible cruel jokes about people with disabilities (according to the U.S and most western nations, cancer counts as a disability). Second, you learn a lot. For example, if you wanted to die, and find yourself with a cancer that may or may not be deadly, you either find the meaning of your life, or give it one. You gain a ton of confidence. If you ever looked into the abyss, and it looked back, asking for that promotion or date does not seem that hard in comparison. I'm glad I got the cancer. No way in hell I'm gonna do that more than I already did. Pro-tip my niggers: if you want the best hair- a subtle combination of chemotherapy and olive oil. Currently, I am in maintenance. Maintenance is what they call the phase where you still get chemo, but at lower dosses and less frequently in order to avoid a relapse. Maintenance is the longest part of treatment. You feel like it is over, but it’s not. You pretend to live a normal life, in my case going to college at MDC studying International Relations, while reminded every few months that nope, it’s not yet done. The process of chemotherapy is a lot like a train: the same wheels spinning, but at different speeds, until you reach your desired destination; hopefully without getting crushed under those wheels. I have plenty more stories which are not written here, but for that, you'll have to buy my overpriced Tell-All 28 years from now. By then the world will already be acquainted with Alexander Jürgen Klemm-Villar.
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Favorite me at Shakespir:
"I hate cancer support groups. As a matter of fact, I despise them; just hearing them gives you cancer. Those meetings are just one, big, group circle jerk where everyone just sits down and feels sorry for themselves. Personally, that's not my cup of tea, although I could see how it might be helpful to some people. Itâ€™s a good thing I have amnesia, because I don't remember a lot of my treatment; its flashes of memories that you try to push away. Not gonna lie though, some stuff sticks to you." Discover, laugh and cry with me where I recall some of my most vivid experiences undergoing chemotherapy. Don't take this too seriously, because I sure don't. ðŸ˜