{"id":23344,"date":"2025-03-12T12:40:00","date_gmt":"2025-03-12T11:40:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/de\/?post_type=stsp_text&p=23344"},"modified":"2025-03-15T17:43:47","modified_gmt":"2025-03-15T16:43:47","slug":"chemo-songs","status":"publish","type":"stsp_text","link":"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/de\/text\/chemo-songs\/","title":{"rendered":"chemo songs"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

songs of old<\/strong>


sing a song of sixpence

a womb full of rye

four and twenty tumours

baked in my pelvis pie


When I was cut open

the lumps began to bloom

wasn’t that a dainty dish

from my ruined womb?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n


I feel nothing<\/strong>


I didn’t feel the cancer in my uterus

I didn’t feel

cccccccc<\/mark>the ovaries

cccccccc<\/mark>the cervix

cccccccc<\/mark>the lymph nodes the abdomen wall

they cut out

I felt the wounds


I felt the poisons of chemotherapy

cccccccc<\/mark>the pain

cccccccc<\/mark>the nausea

cccccccc<\/mark>the eradication of my digestion

cccccccc<\/mark>the pain


cccccccc<\/mark>the brain fog

cccccccc<\/mark>the fear

cccccccc<\/mark>the sleeping dungeon

cccccccc<\/mark>the pain


but i never felt the cancer<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n


the crying corridors<\/strong>

the corridors are full

of crying women


some try to cry discreetly

but the corridors are lit

not well lit but never dim

you can always be seen


some collapse on the waiting chairs

they have no bones in their bodies left

just tears<\/p>\n\n\n\n

some walk up and down, crying

keeping an eye on the queue


must hustle

always

in the hospital corridors

must stop crying when it’s your turn

to pass through the gates of the chemo room<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

layers of suffering<\/strong>

cancer treatment is a true millefeuille


sitting at the low table the women told me

about their lighter side effects first


then, as we ate the cake we had made in the workshop

(it was a beautiful, compassionate place)

slowly, most of us just crumbling a few pieces

for show

(how can you not appreciate charity like that! for us!

although our guts are not up to it sadly)


and as the winter night fell into the stylish windows


they sank into darker memories

(when I say memories it was like a few months ago)


the relentless pain, an electric fence inside a nerve

the never-ending diarrhoea, explosions and trickles


herbal tea

which some said they couldn’t take because of interactions

others sipped cautiously, listening deep into their bodies to

get a sense of what it would do

then basing the next sip on preliminary data


then the talk turned to what went wrong

in our treatments

the surprising heap of debris

we carried in our wounded bodies<\/p>\n\n\n\n

relentless respectlessness in the institutions

that were supposed to help us


little insults like wrong appointments,

lacking skills,

technical errors,

the deadly indifference of bureaucracy


accumulating on our waning energy


the indignities of managing broken body parts alone at home

and then the deep deep well of surgery

our bodies mangled, ripped open,


someone showed me their scar

all the way down the abdomen

a smaller version of mine

I have to say scar beautification is the least of my concerns


but this is how intimate we get


people do exchange names but we instantly forget them


this is not the foundation of a friendship

it belongs to the room and stays in that room


I come out thinking about what they all carry

inside their frail, sick, wounded bodies

inside their still stunned and disassembled minds


And I<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the little yellow card<\/strong>


for my chemo I was given a yellow card

‚you must bring it with you every time!‘


’show your card!‘


‚where is your yellow card!!‘


it is a thick paper card, folded twice over

thick printed little letters

lines

in which you must fit your name and number


immediately I think of Jean Valjean

the ex-convict in Les Miserables

who had to carry a yellow card

that marked him out forever


the look on people’s faces

when they saw it


no wonder he changed his name


I have to show my yellow card ‚unasked‘

said in a sharp, raised voice and with a smirk

(‚you know what you are!‘)


I am a convict here


like Jean Valjean’s billet jaune

it is mostly in handwriting

no technology of the 20th century (let alone the 21st)

was used in the making of this billet jaune


‚where is your yellow card!‘


Who am I? Who am I?

I’m Jean Valjean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n


my life depends on you<\/strong>

doctor

my life depends on you


how can I speak to you


even if


you manage to catch a glimpse

just for the blink of one of your eyes


looking down

from the puffed-up pyramid

of your hierarchy


looking through

the mesh lines

of your institution


looking square eyed

through the patterns

of your protocols


looking inward,

mostly,

towards your own concerns


looking around,

mostly,

for the dynamics of your work place



so even if


you get a glimpse of me

even for the blink of one of your eyes


even if,

which is very rare but possible,

you tried to look at me as another person

a fellow traveller to the grave

(in that respect, you are just like me)

(although your journey would be very different from mine, obviously)


so even if
which is a big big IF (can’t write so many ifs here I’d have to continue on the back of the paper)


you were able to see me

for even the blink of even one of your high-browed eyes


how would I speak to you?


my life depends on you<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n



cancer squid<\/strong>


if cancer was a squid

it could easily

slip through the many gaps in the very wide mesh

of the nets

that are supposed to catch


it even if it was very big


even if it was the giant squid from the bottom of the ocean

where there is no light


if it was gigantic (maybe)

then maybe one of its tentacles would lightly touch

maybe one string of one of the sides

of one wide mesh


maybe why is the net so wide?

it’s almost

as if

the fishermen know

there will be many squids


it’s enough for them

to catch the occasional one


not yours<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n



don’t take it personally<\/strong>

did I say I did? I wouldn’t dare.


I’m not taking it personally

not in the sense that I think

someone\/something is singling me out


I am clearly not the only one

If only I was! it could be fixed

much more easily


I can see that nothing here

is personal to me

it’s the system, I know


although the system

is made out of people or

persons, as we also call them


but it is personal

to me

in the sense that


because of what happens to me here

I’m much more likely to die.


can’t think what could be more personal

really
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the lead lined pipes of Rome<\/strong>


at the chemo centre everyone talks politely about diarrhoea

as if we’d just accidentally swallowed a harmless titbit


the puny little symptoms on the websites

yes, all of them,

describe an ailment that bears no resemblance to mine


the soft tunnels inside my body

have seized up into metallic pipes


there is no digestion


the lead lined water pipes of old Rome

run through every second of my existence


there is no digestion


nurses at the chemo centre talk dismissively

no, you can’t see a doctor for THAT



terrible accidents happen at home


just eat this or that


I could put it in

my mouth works


but nothing will happen to the food

there is no movement

there is no digestion


i carry the sewers of a ruined empire

inside
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

snow this morning<\/strong>


I look out and remember last year’s snow

will there be another year?


on a good day like this, it’s hard to imagine that there won’t be
but not every day is a good day


I would love to just breathe and watch the snow fall

but the tree in front of my window was cut down

so all I have is the windows on the other side of the courtyard

and a few dying plants I nurture on the sill


still, it is nice to be able to sit up

to breathe without pain

to not be afraid so much of my own digestion<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the good patient<\/strong>

I didn’t want to ‚fight‘

I don’t think cancer is the battlefield where I must show my valour


I didn’t want to bravely smile

As women do on cancer sites

Aggressively positive messages on the walls of the waiting room

we can do this

the right attitude will win<\/em>


I know it won’t.

It’s a tumour not an attitude.



Don’t lecture me

Don’t press me into a shape that is not mine.


Isn’t that what the cancer is doing?


I’m not a good patient.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

songs of old sing a song of sixpence a womb full of rye four and twenty tumours baked in my pelvis pie When I was cut open the lumps began to bloom wasn’t that a dainty dish from my ruined womb? I feel nothing I didn’t feel the cancer in my uterus I didn’t feel […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":23113,"template":"","categories":[62,11],"class_list":["post-23344","stsp_text","type-stsp_text","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-issue-31","category-lyrik"],"yoast_head":"\nchemo songs - stadtsprachen<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/de\/text\/chemo-songs\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"de_DE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale:alternate\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"chemo songs - stadtsprachen\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"songs of old sing a song of sixpence a womb full of rye four and twenty tumours baked in my pelvis pie When I was cut open the lumps began to bloom wasn’t that a dainty dish from my ruined womb? 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