Halfway Through Hell
The last week has been honestly quite busy. But as of Wednesday last week, I hit a significant milestone of being halfway through chemo. So even though I’ve been busy trying to sneak in all of the things before I start the next cycle, with this milestone I feel an update is necessary.
To celebrate being halfway through chemo, my mom treated me to a spa package at Woodhouse Spa (my favorite). I enjoyed a relaxing massage, my first-ever facial (even if it had to be adjusted because of my wrecked chemo skin), and a pedicure. And let me tell you, a scalp massage feels infinitely more incredible without all that hair in the way!
As we close out this round of chemo I’m excited to announce that I have not faced any issues with neuropathy (this is less of a concern with the next round), the nose bleeds have ceased, and I still have all of my finger and toenails. However, I’m still juggling gastrointestinal issues, the fatigue is ever-present, and my skin reminds me of my teenage years—not in a good way. And then there’s the menopause, with hot flashes that could rival the sun. My eyelashes are all starting to fall out and my eyebrows have started to bald as well, but I must say I’m getting pretty crafty at recreating them without looking like a ’90s porn star.
Looking ahead, my next chemo cocktail is daunting. Known affectionately as "The Red Devil," Adriamycin, along with Cytoxan, will be my companions, alongside my immunotherapy that will continue for a year. These drugs are harsh enough to decimate my white blood cells, necessitating a follow-up shot called Neulasta to boost production.
I’m told that this round will come with some more significant symptoms. It’s specifically known to cause noticeable nausea. So much so that one of my pre-meds is an anti-nausea that stays in my system for 5 days and then I have to take an oral anti-nausea every night for the first 4 nights after treatment. They also said the fatigue level will be much higher this round. If that’s not enough, it’s actually the Neulasta, my WBC recovery med, that I was cautioned could be the worst of it. Imagine a deep, aching bone pain, reminiscent of relentless growing pains.
While it’s not exactly something to look forward to, I’m telling myself that it’s only 4 treatments. Just twelve weeks out of a lifetime I plan to keep long and full. This perspective keeps me grounded and grateful—if this is the toughest battle I face, I count myself lucky indeed. I can handle this.
Another profound piece of this journey has been the connections formed with fellow travelers on this cancer path. There’s an unspoken bond that links us, a mutual understanding that transcends words. We understand each other in a way even the people that love us most, can’t. While coming to the Cancer & Hematology Center can feel depressing for someone who doesn’t have cancer, for me it’s the only room I walk into every week where I don’t feel like I owe anyone an explanation. I don’t need to tell them what I’m going through, how I’m feeling, why I don’t have any hair, or why I’m expeditiously removing layers of clothing.
Reflecting on these encounters, it strikes me that life, in many ways, mirrors the therapies we endure. Just as the potent medications are designed to eradicate the disease but bring with them painful side effects, so too do our most challenging experiences sculpt us, painfully yet profoundly. They strip us down to our essence, revealing not weakness, but a profound resilience and an unspoken bond with others who share our struggles. In this shared vulnerability, there is strength—an enduring testament to the human spirit’s capacity to adapt and thrive, even in adversity. As we continue on our paths, let us remember that the most arduous battles often lead to the deepest connections and the most significant growth.