Let’s dig into chemo, the notorious villain in every cancer journey. Not everyone with cancer has to go through it, but I wasn’t that lucky. That said, I’m grateful it worked. It shrank my tumor and gave me the three words every cancer patient longs to hear: No Evidence of Disease. So yes, while chemo knocked me down, it didn’t knock me out.
When I started, I was handed a folder not the kind that comes with job offers or vacation plans, but one with unpronounceable medication names, alarming side effects, and consent forms that made me question all my life choices. Reading it felt like prepping for a thesis defense… except the thesis was “How Not to Die.”
Chemo was just the beginning, I got a side of meds that could rival a pharmacy shelf. There were anti-nausea pills, steroids, immune boosters, and enough IV cocktails to qualify as a medical mojito. My go-to lineup? Olanzapine (yes, the antipsychotic but it helps with nausea), Ondansetron, Akynzeo, Dexamethasone, and Benadryl. I loved Benadryl days. I’d pass out mid-conversation and wake up wondering what decade it was.
Despite all the prep, I still had my share of plot twists. My blood sugar spiked thanks to the steroids, I developed neutropenia, and my chemo dose had to be adjusted. Lapelga injections helped boost my white blood cells but let’s just say the back and joint pain that came with it made me feel like I was auditioning for a zombie role. Multiple ER visits later, I could probably give the triage nurse a break and check myself in.
Twice, I needed blood transfusions, and once, an iron infusion because my iron levels tanked. That day, I told the nurse my pain level was “definitely more than 10,” which for me, meant I was silently contemplating my life while curled up on the ER chair like a sad burrito. But somehow, I always left feeling better a testament to meds, nurses, and perhaps a sprinkle of divine intervention.
Now, let’s talk about what chemo actually felt like. Day one, I was okay-ish. Day two, the chemo kicked in like an uninvited guest tired, achy, foggy. I moved as much as I could (stairs became my Everest), did some deep breathing, tried to learn French (failed), crocheted (kind of), journaled (a lot), and cried (even more). The tears would come out of nowhere mid-Netflix, mid-toast, mid-toothbrushing. I’d forget why I started crying, but hey, at least I was hydrated?
And then there was the hair saga. I didn’t shave my head right away like many do. I cut it short and waited and waited. Until one day, it started falling out in clumps in the shower, on the pillow, on my shirt and in my food. Four months in, I finally shaved it. Not because someone told me to but because I was ready. (Pro tip: Don’t shave it until you are.)
What I didn’t expect? To rock a bald head. I found birthmarks I didn’t even know I had little constellations that had been hiding beneath the hair I always took pride in. It was bizarre, surreal, and oddly beautiful.
But losing all body hair? That’s a whole other conversation. Eyelashes? Gone. It turns out, they’re quite important. Without them, I needed eye drops just to open my eyes in the morning. Eyebrows? I never had a lot to begin with, so that was fine. But nose hair? Who knew they were gatekeepers of respiratory sanity? With them gone, every breath felt like an overexposed photoshoot no filter and no fluff.
Honestly, it felt like I got a full-body wax that lasted for six months. (Silver lining: No razors, no salon bills. Cancer’s weird gift economy.)
By the time I began to feel remotely like myself again, it was time for the next round. And so the cycle repeated: infusion, side effects, emotional chaos, brief recovery, repeat.
But here’s what I learned in between naps, needles, and nausea:
- Health is your real wealth. Once that’s compromised, nothing else matters ; not titles, not money, not your perfectly curated social media aesthetic.
- People show their true colors when things get dark. Some will hold your hand. Others will ghost. Let them go.
- Stop clinging to your life plan. Spoiler alert: Life does not care. It’ll flip your table and then ask if you’d like dessert.
You can’t control the storm, but you can learn to dance in the chemo fog. If you’re lucky, you’ll even find a reason to laugh even if it’s through gritted teeth and hairless brows.
So no, I didn’t ask for this journey. But here I am not just surviving, but spilling the tea, one med at a time.
Disclaimer : This is my experience and yours may differ, and that’s okay
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