Continental Drift

I want to taste the
history on your skin.
Reveal the
entrails that form the parts
of an antique heart.
Childhood shoulder freckles
dot the i's of
everything I've ever sought to
understand.
I would follow the
trace as if Columbus sailed
with the intent of
discovering something
others
had conquered before.
I am unafraid
of untamed lands,
the rockiest of shores
that
mark the exterior of a
continent I have
only dreamed of calling
home.

Survey of the Universe

Although I fulfilled my natural sciences sector in a different astronomy, I feel as if I've graduated Penn with a "survey of the universe". Only with a focus on the vastness and varieties of human kindness.

Survival is a funny thing. So is natural selection. (It pleases the cancer patient to inform you that an 'Intro to Anthro' course said Darwin was a bit off.) But to me, the most compelling aspect of evolution is altruism. Some scholars say it is unnatural and unrealistic. I cannot think of a better environment for such an notion to thrive than in this hyper-competitive, pre-professional bubble we call home.

Though I'm afraid I must disappoint the Hobbesians and homo economicus* aficionados among you, for it simply does not hold. My proof? Commencement.
Or rather, my presence at it.
(I don't know if you saw, but there is a good 20 seconds of me butchering "The Red and the Blue" on the live stream.)

You see, without altruism there is simply no conceivable way (in hell?) I would have been able to physically don the robe, complete with multicolored hood representing an almost-not-terrible GPA in 36 courses required by my major to graduate. In that robe (amidst the itchy fabric), therein lies about a thousand reminders that I am capable and that help was out there if I asked for it...Plus or minus a few (thousand) extensions, emotional breakdowns in office hours, late night orange-mango juice runs, some serious Penn Nursing skills, dates at the HUP ER, straws for when solid foods were difficult, and hugs for when a life and this present seemed just out of reach.
If you looked hard enough, you would probably find things like "motivational text messages" and "reminders that you don't suck at things". Themes include: the defeat of self-doubt, genuine understanding, a triumph over internal and external bullshittery, "How are you?", you-don't-look-awkward-in-

your-wig-I-swear, I-still-like-you-even-though-you-can't-do-shots-at-Smokes. Distinct memories include: A walk home from class when I couldn't make it myself. The check-in phone call. Cleaning my central venous catheter every 4th day.

We are all incredibly busy people -- our Google calendars can speak to the vast multicolor spreads we subject ourselves to every week. The utility maximizer would simply not waste the time in-between prepping for "Consulting Interview X" and studying for "fuck-this-midterm Y" editing the essay of the girl-whose-chemo-brain-forgot-how-to-spell-deontological. It would be...irrational. (Pardon the misuse of every theory we ever learned, PPE.) That is, unless Penn kids had something else driving them beyond the ambition that sets them apart from (most) other graduates. This is where altruism, or "without any foreseeable benefit to self, I will expend time and effort helping the sick kid" comes in.
Somehow, amidst the ever-present opportunities to strive for greatness, network, kick-everyone-to-the-bottom-of-the-curve, my classmates found themselves (sometimes literally) hand-holding the kid who was sometimes too weak to walk it down to Williams. They willingly took on the additional weight of a physical and emotional burden that would probably require a couple credits and a lab course to fully comprehend. My classmates became purveyors of empathy, deviating from whatever normative behavioral model ivy league kids are meant to exhibit.*** They saved my graduation date and they saved my life.

Our baccalaureate speaker said it best when he spoke of the forgotten gifts: compassion, insight, and attention. It is due to the beyond-equitable division of these invaluable assets that I succeeded at Penn. And it is you, the almost-little-dictators-that-could**, that made it happen.

*PPE203: Behavioral Economics
**Dictator Game, PPE204: Philosophy of Social Science
***General douchebaggery, IVY001

Clinical Trial Diaries

I arrive hours early to sign off my consent and re-learn what the protocol entails. My official cell guy is out, so I get a Brit with a deep, sexy voice paired with an anorexic-looking nurse. I have him repeat "cytotoxic t lymphocytes" a few times for good measure. The high-cheekboned nurse asks if I've ever gotten an IV before. I resist the urge to attack. She then fumbles around with the one thousand or so multicolored vampire tubes that will soon be filled with whatever blood they can squeeze out of me.

After that we play a little game called "let's find a vein". which involves heat packs, slapping, and just a touch of squirming.  After that there is a round of "vein wrestling", which is surely equivalent to alligator wrestling, but with sharper teeth and (slightly) less carnage. (I've been running a bit of a losing streak lately. It seems the 2 years of poking holes in my circulatory system have started to show.) The nurse looks up at me as if the failure is a lack of will. Pushing tears back into their sockets, I have to wonder how four years swimming alongside the best and the brightest failed to prepare me for these moments of inadequacy. I am then left to muse about the practicality of ski resort warning signs on cancer patients. I would gladly walk around with a triple black diamond around my neck if it meant nonexperts would stop swerving all over my scar-ridden terrain.

Then, we pre-med and hydrate. Benadryl in the drip makes me less hostile to the nurse and generally unable to form coherent sentences. My very patient friend Dara arrives and hangs out while I nap-talk. I get "THE CELLS!!" or CTL (see above) and they are fortunately pushed in (doctor talk for "slowly injected") by the sexy Brit and not the green circle skier/vein wrestler. These cells have apparently been frozen and contain preservatives. I wonder if high fructose corn syrup is at all involved, and if they make a lean cuisine version of EBV-targeted cytotoxic t lymphocytes, and if Dara has 4 or 5 of them in her freezer. Like any lean cuisine, the preservatives make me nauseous and I am at the mercy of the green circler to remedy me via the sauciest of Zofrans. I inhale from the remaining sips of my Lemon Tea Snapple, hoping to evade the staleness of the room and constant disinfectant.

After 4 hours of observation and obsessive temperature-taking, I am untethered. My wrist is bandaged sucide-watch style and the orange taint of the disinfectant gives off the impression of carrot jaundice.

Freedom! If only til Monday.

Mutants and Missiles

My brain is melting. I am operating in a permanent semi-fog. I am the perfect date because I will say just enough to maintain conversation. In my period of hyperenergy, untethered by the swampy stew of decaying cells currently swirling about my thinking bits, I had developed a tendency for saying too much, too often, too loudly. Praise be, the curse has been lifted! Now I may operate like the friendliest of robots.

I take comfort in knowing that although my creativity has run off with my youth and vigor, my sarcasm remains in these mushy-mind times.

This latest dose of chemotherapy is not the worst I’ve had, for sure. My hair has a few more weeks to see if it’s going to stay, the nausea meds are hanging on tight, and I can still swallow at will. I will pat myself on the back after a brief bout of narcolepsy.

(...)

I have managed to walk myself into (surely?) the most hastily thrown-together clinical trial at such a prestigious institution. Initially I was sold on the idea of applied immunotherapy. I was assured it was “great science” and would only require a semi-regular dose of some mutant tcells who would, like biological X-Men or the finest of heat-seeking missiles (whichever analogy you prefer), target the blasted spots unlike anything has before and then I would skip off into the sunset, tumor and worry-free. I lie, of course. This sunset I speak of is actually a bone marrow transplant, with its own set of commitments and considerations.

I digress. Surely you wonder, dear reader, why I’m speaking of chemotherapy when the clinical trial pitch only mentioned tcells. Ah! What an astute observation. The chemotherapy was not mentioned during their pitch, nor follow-up, nor follow-up to the follow-up. And when the topic was breached, the requirements shifted no less than 3 times. 24 hour chemo? few hours chemo? 7 hour chemo? Oh, we can speed up the hydration to…5 hours. Oh good. Let me sit in this chair, with a tingly feeling akin to ice surging through my wrist, as you deliberate on the best course of action. Now that I have graduated, I have all the time in the world for you to determine the best possible way to kill off my white cells to “make room” for your well-disciplined mutants.

So here I sit, foggy and embittered, willing my immune system to “make room” for tomorrow’s houseguests. Let us hope they are well-behaved.

I know this blast comes out of nowhere for those of you who have become used to my poetic plodding, but I’m afraid this may be the tune of the day (week, month, some other unit of time). Also, for those who seek updates and know I am terrible at giving them, consider this part one. I think it is safe to assume if you are reading this, you are vaguely interested in the goings-on of my life. Or are a spam bot, but I'm not picky.

On Strategic Interactions (and Pareto Optimal Love)

I don't want to instruct you
on what I want.
I don't want to play teacher to
you, student,
because that implies some sort of
power differential that I
am not entirely comfortable with.
see, I'd like to think we
are on even footing in this whole mess.
we begin, both with asymmetric information
we only win
by efficiently trading our thoughts,
opinions, caresses, and general outlook on
life until our division
is pareto optimal.
by that I mean,
we make each other better off.
We are
not in need of the other, but rather our
stakes are improved by playing the game.
so, we cooperate.
we compromise.
we meet halfway on this bridge across
this gap that seems to be widening by
the day,
by the hour,
by every second that
passes and we haven't spoken.
I may not know much about building but
I would assume such a thing
stretched so thin
could not possibly hold the weight of us.
I am not trying to sink you with the
iceberg of a well-worn heart. nor one
comprised of the dark thoughts that
linger in the nighttime.
nor one measured in the
revelations or affections you simply
were not prepared to receive but it
appears I have made of you
a Titanic.
No longer wishing to float with the
weight of a heavy word struck,
it submerges itself
with the hope of
being left alone
at the bottom of the ocean.
It is only recaptured by the efforts of
scuba diving memories
whose sole job is to selectively
choose which pieces are
most suitable to keep; to refurbish,
to rose-color glaze over, and ultimately
store in the quickly-filling unit my
brain has allotted to disaster prevention.
History is a way of learning from the past.
May you store well in amber like
the best of fossils so that I may be
student to you, case study.
I could use a lesson on
strategic interactions.

Please, Be More Average

There is a secret to living a full life:
avoid emotions if at all possible.
these parasitic bits floating about your
mind and heart feed off your sense and
weaken your logic. Their sole purpose
is to hinder your decision-making and
get you into trouble. They are the
appendix of the intangible organs:
serving no purpose and seeming to
cause no harm until they
erupt.
Run, run from emotions!
Particularly if exhibited by another.
There is nothing more dangerous than the
emotional display of another person. A close
friend is worse. But member of the
opposite sex? ...why not just put your
head in an alligator's mouth? It is just as
safe and
probably more thrill-worthy.
(Also makes for a fantastic profile picture.)
and if a connection cannot be
documented in such a way, why forge it?
I much rather communicate with animals,
they truly understand. They are
suitable companions because they limit
their communication to assent or dissent. I
only wish to know if this
pleases or displeases you, darling.
What more is needed?
All other expressions are unnecessary
distortions or amplifications.
I have no use for such hyperbole. I want
clouds with my sun, I want ice in my tea,
I seek only the lukewarm! Only the lukewarm
will serve me.

Love Poem

This is a love poem.
Yes, I can already see you fleeing
at the mere thought of my
outreached hand and I'm over here
spouting sonnets.
Some
call me the gangster of love
and others
say
"you are a fucking idiot"

I love like the velveteen rabbit.
I don't know if you remember it,
but essentially
the kid loves the shit out of that
thing until its eye pops out.
Smothered by the infectious and
looking rather pathetic, the rabbit has
a fate involving tears, fire, and
hallucinations.
Yes, I guess I am looking for something like that.

I know you don't understand how I feel,
because if you did
you'd have to have the kind of appreciation
for insanity that would've had you
institutionalized
long before we ever met.
you see
love, this crazy, out-of-control feeling I
want to lock in my basement so it stops
knocking over the plates and making me, living room,
look all kinds of out of place
is
but an expression
and
you, though libertarian,
have really about had it with this
whole "free speech" thing.

Pulse

It starts with a
Pulse.
An EKG on a bedside
Table,
Beats dripping down its
molded drawers, it catches
your breath before it escapes
you. Chases
your racing heart
before it can cross
some kind of finish line.
What is an end? But a
ribbon waiting to be broken through,
slashed through like the
blades that seek it, the deranged that
crave it. The bloodthirsty waiting
for the cut. We take flight with
the beating wings that
propel us, with the hope that the
pulse
is enough
to carry us across the sky.

Cosmo Guide to Getting Guys: The Cancer Issue!!

Discuss growth. And by growth, I mean tumors. Use phrases such as "dead tissue" and "eating me alive" for extra oomph. We <3 (literally) damaged chicks!!
Remind them of that time you were bald. Visuals are huge.
Discuss death, emotional disconnect with loved ones, and general notions of despair. This is particularly effectively if you manage to tie in your melancholy to everyday items, like what you had for dinner or vacation preferences.
Important theme: morbidity. you know what's hot? morbidity. 
If you can, provide a play-by-play of your reaction the last time you got chemo.
Casually mention that you've had to carry around a card for being radioactive.
Outwardly muse that you feel you may actually *be* radioactive and/or toxic. Guys are totally into danger.
Suggest a day trip to your chemo ward next time they're in NY. (points if you offer to introduce them to your oncologist, who you think is a total bro)
Go into detail about the various scars/radiation markings you have covering your body. you know what really gets a guy going? scar tissue, baby. all about .. scar tissue.
Show them the wig. Or better, have it sticking out of a drawer in clear view. If they ask, say "you don't want to know"
Mention that time you had trouble eating and/or swallowing and offer him a nutritional shake of your choosing. (Hospitality is key.)
Assert your superiority via your sobriety. you know what's cool? not. drinking.
Elaborate on the (dys)functioning of your internal organs! Particularly if it's at all connected to the digestive track. mhm, bowels.
Elicit opinion on future treatment plans, with particular focus on side effects such as kidney failure or DEATH! People like to express their opinions.
When he asks what you're up to this weekend, say a PET scan. (Blood tests are total overshare.)
Lament that no one understands you. Allow them to make empathetic comment. Then, sigh loudly.
Brag about your recent Hemoglobin level. Maybe even platelets. Mention your ANC though and you're just an asshole.

A Touch Off Base

In a game of hide-and-seek,
you
are my home base.
Even though I know everyone else in
this silly game is
running for you and
you are indiscriminate with your shade,
when I touch you
I am safe.

I guess the thought of another finding me in this
elementary school game of "Predator" still terrifies me.
I run to you, familiar and awaiting,
knowing your sole purpose is to signal to others that
I cannot be caught.
I acknowledge this is a poor strategy,
but I cannot help but feel that
even after all this time,
you
are what I am meant to find.

I know I have to leave you when my turn
is up, know this comfort has an expiration date
but I'm going to keep drinking this milk until it
sickens me, until it curdles and cannot be salvaged
by a simple shake.

There is a patent fear in letting go of
our bases
meant to protect us from those
out there,
intimidating and with
uncertain intent.
But we must learn to let go of the trees,
fences, and side-of-our-mom's-cars we clutch,
for they can and
will never requite our
desperate hold,
never seek us out
among the trees. They stand
stoically and wait to be found, and
they will always
succeed.

If you

If you let me
love you, I will
fashion my best words into
a lullaby and my worst
into daggers to fend off the
demons from your rest. I
understand you. I want to
watch over you as if my
presence could offer some
form of protection from the
things that plague us, the inner
ghouls that are impervious to the
walls we craft in defense.

Stars, making you drool, etc

Whenever someone asks about my writing process,
I say it begins with the moon.
The moon has served as both my inspiration
and downfall. (I'm looking at you, tidal wave.)
It weasels its way into my central cortex (or we could say brain,
or conscious mind, or perhaps the proper term for
whatever it is I am attempting to describe) and successfully
manages to steal me from all of the things I am
supposed to be doing. And nyan cat.

There are some who will see the moon and think, "what
the flippity-fuck am I doing with my life?" They will then
light up and feel slightly better about their uncertainty. Oo, tingles.
Others, self-assured by their grasp of destiny's best jams,
will wonder how they can bring it to IPO in under 5 years. Or if
the martian target market really does prefer convenience to
price. On a scale of 1 to 5...

Others will consider the magnitude and decide instead
to hide under their covers. A blanket can't save you now, bitches!
Also, there is definitely extraterrestrial life because the person I
love is not of this earth. At least, that is what my
shrink/mother told me. I will send out a ship
straightaway to survey the landscape, pick up
an earth girl or two. Chicks dig rockets.

Perhaps there are others who sit beneath the
gigantic orb of what is surely the greatest cheese this
universe has seen and contemplate love. Is that guy I
text at 2:30am every-other-half Thursday also looking
at this thing? I wonder if he's into gruyere...
They, hopeless wanderers, walk directly into the
park benches guarded by the local homeless with their
heads tilted upward. Then, the sprinkler system turns on and
they suddenly realize they left their keys at home, along
with their wives and stash of real estate porn. They have managed to
once again sleep-walk themselves out of the
comfort of their homes to look at a hunk of cheddar.

I envy the comforts of the suburban life: the patch of grass,
the motion-detector alarm. The coolness of a breeze caught off rt 46...
 Ah, things. I would accept them all if you were also there to
glare at the leaky faucet at 4am or laugh about the mouse we'd
name "Earl" who lives in the lower-left kitchen cabinet. Smart fellow,
he undid our traps and stole the cheese. We had to keep him.

Writer speaks to (anyone)

If you kiss me, I will lose it.
- Now why is that?
Because this is unacceptable. You can't just come here, make me think you're wonderful, then run off with someone else!
- Who says I'm running off with anyone?
You! you did! It's in your eyes, your jaw. Your skin radiates "I'm going to leave you for someone half your age when you're old and enfeebled."
- How does one project that, exactly?
Don't question it.
- Well, that's helpful. What if I wanted to turn that off?
You can't, it's subconscious. It's who you are. You are a narcissist.
- Are you in love with me as much as I'm in love with me?
Shut up.
- No but seriously... If I'm so obsessed with myself, why are you here?
Are you questioning my ability to tolerate your rampant self-absorption?
- Yes.
I know you are terrible for me. I am doing this to myself with full knowledge of the inevitable.
- You should probably know that telling someone about all the terrible things they have not yet done is not the recommended way to begin a relationship.
Oh, it's already over.
- Making comments like that is also not on the list of "things one says to inspire confidence".
Must I inspire you?
- It's part of the gig, yes.
It is a tiresome one.
- You say that as if we've been married 20 years and I have "stolen your best years".
I've already written this story. I'm just waiting for the page to turn.


(This is a snippet of the bits and pieces I have floating around.)