Chemotherapy is Exhausting
Chemotherapy employs cytotoxic medications to combat cancer, meaning they target and destroy living cells. Unfortunately, these medications do not discriminate and can wreak havoc on essential bodily functions. My treatment involved a rigorous schedule of four cycles, each consisting of a week of drug infusion through a port in my chest, followed by a two-week recovery period. I desperately needed every moment of that recovery time. After my initial infusion, I felt so weak that I fainted at home, injuring my chin on the floor. An ambulance rushed me to the ER, where they closed my wound with surgical glue. Following that incident, my family insisted I wear a medical alert pendant for the duration of my treatments. Each infusion left me feeling progressively worse, ultimately reducing me to a fetal position, where I struggled to muster the energy for basic tasks like showering, brushing my teeth, or eating. By the end of my treatment, I required two blood transfusions due to extreme weakness.
Chemotherapy is Unpredictable
Alongside physical fatigue, I also faced unexpected sensory aversions. After my first infusion, the smell of coffee became unbearable—a tragic turn for someone who loved it. I gagged at the sight of the refreshment cart in the chemo ward, particularly loathing the turkey sandwiches they offered. With every cycle, these aversions multiplied. During my final infusion, I spent a couple of days in the hospital, and the odors there were overwhelming. Paradoxically, there were also cravings; I found myself longing for roasted potatoes with ketchup, pickled beets, and most notably, eggs. I spent countless hours watching cooking shows, reveling in the joy of food even when I couldn’t eat much of it.
Chemotherapy is Humbling
After my first infusion and subsequent fall, I relinquished my independence and dignity. My energy levels plummeted, making it necessary for someone to be by my side at all times—even during a shower, which I could only manage while seated. Simple tasks like getting dressed required significant assistance. I won’t delve into the details of bathroom experiences, but suffice it to say, they were far from pleasant for both me and my caregivers.
Chemotherapy is Depilatory
Most chemotherapy regimens lead to hair loss, and I experienced that firsthand. While losing my hair on my head on my 39th birthday was difficult, the loss of my eyelashes and nose hairs affected me even more. The constant watering of my eyes and runny nose became a nuisance. I also missed my sideburns; without them, I felt like a bald person even while wearing a hat. Unlike some patients, I did not opt for a wig, preferring hats instead. After my treatment ended, it took about a month for my hair to start growing back, and I was particularly eager to see my sideburns return so I could look less sickly.
Chemotherapy is Absurd
Once I lost my hair, appetite, energy, and independence, I had a choice: to embrace the absurdity of my situation. My sister stayed with me throughout my treatment, and when my hair fell out, she gifted me fake “hillbilly teeth.” The sight of my bald head, pale skin, hollow eyes, and crooked teeth had us both in fits of laughter. We also indulged in a plethora of true crime shows, which revealed just how absurd and foolish some criminals can be. Watching ridiculous people attempt to commit crimes while under the influence of painkillers turned into a source of dark humor for late-night viewing.
Chemotherapy is Empowering
This may sound clichéd, but enduring such a harrowing experience makes everything else seem trivial. You discover an inner strength and clarify what truly matters in life. Being bedridden forced me to focus on myself—a rarity before my diagnosis. It also provided time for writing when I felt up to it. Prior to my diagnosis, I always prioritized others and neglected my writing career. However, with no distractions and a functioning mind, I began to write as if my life depended on it—and in many ways, it did. During the better days after each infusion cycle, I would write for hours, driven by a newfound urgency.
Chemotherapy is Temporary
My final treatment day was October 4, 2010, a date etched in my memory. The moment I was wheeled out of the hospital and breathed in fresh air was liberating. While the drugs eventually left my system, some side effects lingered. I returned to a semblance of normalcy, but not everything was as it once was. My hair grew back, save for the hair in my right nostril, which remains perpetually runny. I still struggle with the sight and smell of turkey sandwiches, yet I cannot get enough of eggs. Most importantly, I have learned to prioritize my well-being and writing. As I approach my five-year mark of being cancer-free, I hold a deep-seated resentment for chemotherapy for various reasons, yet I acknowledge its role in saving my life and pushing me to re-evaluate my priorities.
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In summary, my experience with cancer and chemotherapy taught me profound lessons about strength, humor, and the importance of prioritizing my needs. It was a journey marked by hardship but also one of rediscovery and empowerment.