twitterive music from sellar_door on 8tracks.
"I Put the Can in Cancer"
One working title was "I Put the Emo in Chemo"
Music was my escape. When I felt great through the first few rounds of chemo, so I always took a guitar to in-patient treatment with me. Stuck inside for a week, it was something to do to pass the time, something I loved.
During radiation and the final three chemo rounds, I lost the drive to get up out of bed and pluck a few chords, save for when some of the other patients pleaded with me to play them something. By that point, I was physically, mentally, and emotionally drained and strumming the guitar felt like more work than enjoyment. But music never left: I simply switched from playing to it to listening to it. Never before did I consume so much new music. My cousins couldn't keep up with my demands for new artists, new CDs, new everything. Whatever the genre, I wanted it. It took my mind off everything.
My cousin Christian was diagnosed with a different type of cancer a year or so after I was in remision. Chris is an artist, and he teaches at the Art Institute of Philadelphia; the book to the left is what got him through treatment. His chemo was quicker than mine, but he had to go through almost the same number of radiation treatments. Instead of coming home (or being shuttled back and forth between Hahnemann Hospital and St. Chris, like I was) and sleeping radiation sickness off, he would draw and draw and draw. He's got a full-colored sketch for each day up until the last few days, when finally the treatment caught up to him. With the sketches, he published a book that's being handed out out at Jefferson Hospital, CHOP, and a number of other Oncology Clinics in the greater Philadelphia area.
For my cousin, it was one piece of good that came out of the Big C. His drawings show that life goes on through treatment and after treatment, and that no matter the hardship, it becomes easier to persevere when you stay true to yourself. A lot of survivors give back, and Christian's sketches were his way of giving back. When you look hard enough, the opportunity to make some good come from something awful is always there.
During radiation and the final three chemo rounds, I lost the drive to get up out of bed and pluck a few chords, save for when some of the other patients pleaded with me to play them something. By that point, I was physically, mentally, and emotionally drained and strumming the guitar felt like more work than enjoyment. But music never left: I simply switched from playing to it to listening to it. Never before did I consume so much new music. My cousins couldn't keep up with my demands for new artists, new CDs, new everything. Whatever the genre, I wanted it. It took my mind off everything.
My cousin Christian was diagnosed with a different type of cancer a year or so after I was in remision. Chris is an artist, and he teaches at the Art Institute of Philadelphia; the book to the left is what got him through treatment. His chemo was quicker than mine, but he had to go through almost the same number of radiation treatments. Instead of coming home (or being shuttled back and forth between Hahnemann Hospital and St. Chris, like I was) and sleeping radiation sickness off, he would draw and draw and draw. He's got a full-colored sketch for each day up until the last few days, when finally the treatment caught up to him. With the sketches, he published a book that's being handed out out at Jefferson Hospital, CHOP, and a number of other Oncology Clinics in the greater Philadelphia area.
For my cousin, it was one piece of good that came out of the Big C. His drawings show that life goes on through treatment and after treatment, and that no matter the hardship, it becomes easier to persevere when you stay true to yourself. A lot of survivors give back, and Christian's sketches were his way of giving back. When you look hard enough, the opportunity to make some good come from something awful is always there.