Rap of the Lovesick Sick Kid

Personality Test

Answer the following to the best of your ability:
When left alone in the hospital for several hours, how do you spend the time?
A. Sleeping
B. Watching Maury
C. Learning Klingon
D. Contemplating life and its mysteries
E. Beginning a journey to rap superstardom via Youtube

The title of the post impedes upon the integrity of this exam.

For some perspective, the video involves me in my hospital bed, wearing a hospital gown, and for added fun: with an IV jetting out of my left hand.
It is as terrifying as it sounds.
It required several takes; not for performance value per se, but due to the periodic intercom blaring that added just a tad too much authenticity. Not to mention, nurses get weirded out when they walk in on patients imitating Eminem to their laptops. Apparently such activities are unusual. 

The first few lines of this "rap" should erase any and all doubts of how absurd a person I am. (Or illustrate the dangers of mixing delirium with painkillers. The jury is out.)

Oh, damn
I feel woozy
is this a fever or
did you just kiss me?

Then there is a chorus of cliches and references to iron deficiency, Catholicism. I may very well be the next Lil' Wayne.
At the very least, my hair looks passable because the chemo-shedding had not yet kicked in.
(Hair Update: I have successfully managed to get traces of my DNA all over New York. Fingers crossed there isn't an unsolved murder any time soon.)

The periods of bedridden solitude that serve as fertile ground for the utter strangeness that lurks in my mind's corridors are interrupted by visitors: some announced, some checking for evidence of proper kidney function.

Every morning a flock of white coats in masks (There is a dress code to visit me. I am like the Pope.) arrive and stand clustered in silence at the foot of my bed while the most senior among them asks me questions, commands me to breathe. A med student would later inform me interaction with the attending (physician) inspires a certain kind of terror. I am merely annoyed. This white coat mafia is impervious to my usual escape tactic of inciting pity via demonstrations of wellness and boredom like the greatest of magicians. The attending shows his prowess at silencing bratty patients by announcing an order for massage therapy. (This is apparently a thing. And it is awesome.)

A woman comes by asking if I want communion, which I accept on the account that it is non-forced interaction with a human being who does want to talk about my bowel movements. (Standards. I have them.)

Soon after, a friend comes bearing a different kind of gift that in my heathen opinion is far more deserving of a "nectar of the gods" tagline: a Financier raspberry macaron.

A hopelessly bored medical student also finds his way into my room, probably because I am the only sentient being on the premises under 40 and unfamiliar with the hospital caste system. (As a sub-intern he is essentially an Untouchable.) He, of curly hair and Jewish descent, is a comfort amidst the unfamiliarity: it is as if I never left campus! My heart does not palpitate as it had with the male nurse (which is good, because it would have set off an alarm...) but our chat does prompt some of the usual getting-to-know-you anxiety: How would you describe yourself? What do you want to do with your life? How many children do you want? (I kid on the last one but given five more minutes I swear we would have picked out a white-picket fence for our future dog Baxter.) I should mention this conversation involved a mask and fuzzy yellow clothing cover and not at all in the sexual way!
I like my men like my hospital rooms: sterile.

Amidst all these demonstrations of friendship, I was being pumped with fluids via a technique I will unabashedly refer to as "double bagging". Meant to bump up frighteningly low numbers on the blood pressure monitor, it leaves one feeling like an overinflated balloon in a room of needles. (Sausage fingers: it's what's for dinner...dun dun dun) Sausages trying to escape their casings are terrible for typing, which is how I find myself weeks after the fact recalling all of these treasured moments for your amusement.

Until next time.