By Lara Haynes Freed
Each drug on the drip stand has a unique, percussive voice. Every variation combines chughitch, chuggashoosh, and whooshclick-chuck in its own order, at its own speed. Beatbox patterns of Morse-ish code may be interpreted by those unlucky initiated, by those inexplicably interested, and solely by those who have the time.
I have it: I sit chemo-port-tethered in an infusion chair so strangely tall that my feet can’t touch the floor. Like a carefree kid, I swing my legs in the air. I’m told that I respond surprisingly well—told that I’ve been lucky. Bevacizumab to the beat. Lento leucovorin. Extrametrical oxaliplatin. Isochronous irinotecan. My tingling toes tap the empty space before me.
Earlier, questionnaire fields fulfilled their destinies, checkmarked by my own sparkle-fingered hand. Vitamins and herbal supplements. Exercise routines, support networks, bad habits. Today, weeks ago, years ago—captive moments. A record for the future. It led me to wonder what I’ve done wrong in the past.
Warmed up leftovers in a microwave? Check. Assessed burnt toast, in a morning rush, as palatable enough? Check. Go back—the entire decade of my twenties, uncertain and unstable, punctuated by smoked cigarettes and emptied liquor bottles. Even further—I’m an immature forty-eight with a history of ’80s-high-school-goth, correlative with a perverse enthusiasm for deathly trappings. Perhaps I, in my morbid fangirlism, offended a grudge-holding god.
Such anamnesis suggests a risk factor for experimental-industrial nostalgia. Like a teenager, I mouth obscure lyrics in time with chemo’s promising pummeling. Innovative predecessors provide inspiration: Einstürzende Neubauten, Skinny Puppy, Nitzer Ebb, early Swans. Captive serendipitous noise, wild drums and heavy hitters, found beats in the field. For each infusion, I hold my phone up to the pump and record, resecting musical increments from their grave context.
Later, I’ll relish a kleptomaniacal rush during playback, rejoicing in these stolen measures of time.