Here's What It's Like To Get Chemo-Part Four

4 days, 17 hours, 45 minutes

My countdown timer doesn’t reflect when the real fun begins. It is merely marking the start of the day. If you read my account of Chemo Camp, you know it’s a long day that kicks off with a port blood draw and ends with another countdown timer, complete with the blinking light on the Neulasta injector. It will automatically infuse in 27 hours.

When will the side effects roll in?

Overall, I feel fine for the first two days. This is because there is still one more day of steroids. Well, maybe “fine” is an overstatement. How do explain “fine” when there are powerful drugs pumping through your system and then MORE powerful drugs to help mitigate the side effects.

I feel like a sloshing bag of poison. (Also reinforced by my commitment to drink at least ½ gallon of water per day.)

The second day after chemo is when the steroid kid gloves come off. It starts with tummy gurgles. That sounds so cute, doesn’t it? Aw, widdle Theresa’s tummy is gurgling.

It is a precursor to epic diarrhea. The Imodium helps, but for the first couple of days; I don’t wander far from the bathroom. A word to the wise: Never, and I mean NEVER, trust a fart.

I keep a notebook right next to my “side effects” medications so I can record the time I am popping pills. I have learned the hard way to take the anti-barf drugs on schedule before there’s even a hint of “she’s gonna blow!” (“The Kitchen Sink Incident” taught me this important lesson).

I hate nausea, and I hate vomiting. I am a big fat wah-wah baby when it comes to reverse peristalsis. There are three different pills that help.

Ondansetron (Zofran) is the first line of anti-barfing defense. One tablet every eight hours as needed.

Still feeling barfy? I can take prochlorperazine (Compazine) an hour after the first one. One tablet every six hours.

Finally, I can pop a Lorazepam (Ativan) if all else cannot provide relief. 1 tablet, every eight hours, but I can take another one 30 minutes after the first dose. I prefer to take this at night since it also causes sleepiness.

I also take Claritin because of the bone pain side effects from the Neulasta. I am happy to report I have not experienced side effects, so the Claritin does its magic.

By day three, malaise has me parked on the couch. And let’s just say that more than once Netflix asks me, “are you still watching?” I prefer reruns of fluffy programs-Psych, Monk, Burn Notice (though the crash, bang, booms on Burn Notice sometimes get to be too much stimulation.)

How people work while in chemotherapy blows my mind. The fatigue and gut issues I have experienced keep me on the couch, never mind returning to work.

I am also very humbled and eternally grateful for the GoFundMe campaign that has allowed me to keep the lights on while not working. Even before the breast cancer, the economic reality of being a newly divorced woman has been harsh. (Especially since most of my adult life was spent as a homemaker and home educator for my three kids.)

Back to the side effects. I’ve saved the best for last. And you won’t find this listed in the lengthy list of side effects. But this has been my reality. Ready?

Mindfuckery.

This is the state of mind where I throttle back and forth between depression, anger, terror and OH MY GOD, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?

A glimpse into the dark musings:

I feel like shit because I am in treatment for cancer. No. I can’t have cancer. Wait. I don’t even want to use the “c” word because it only confirms what I’d rather deny. But I can’t deny because this is a serious disease and I must face it head on.

What if I just stop all this nonsense and go live on a beach somewhere? La la la, I can’t HEAR you breast cancer. Let’s pretend this was just a nasty nightmare. But what the hell? The oncologist said this is serious stuff. WTF. WTF.

And I see the scars. I feel the port under my clavicle. Hair falls from my head every time I idly pass a hand through my thinning locks. I am far from bald, thanks to cold capping, but my hair has thinned considerably and I must be diligent to wear a cap outside so I don’t burn my pate.

I scrutinize my nails. Will they turn black? Loosen and fall off? What about my teeth? Thankfully, these have not been an issue for me.

But that’s part of the mindfuckery. You are on high alert for every twinge, burp, and sensation.

I had a sore throat the other day, complete with a swollen lymph node in my neck. Even though I knew in my head, it was a harmless virus (especially after two negative Covid tests) it still scared the hell out of me. It resolved within a few days, btw.

Neuropathy can be a real issue too. And yes, I feel tingles in my feet and hands here and there.

Doctor says any side effects will end with chemo. But yet, I also know that having had chemo increases risk for leukemia several YEARS down the road. Chemo induced neuropathy can take years to resolve for some people too.

So, more mindfuckery: What is this shit going to do to me long term?

Is there now a new clock ticking in my post-chemo body?

Which reminds me:

4 days, 13 hours, 55 minutes

This is what can simmer in mind while I am drooling on the couch, barf bucket at my side, and Michael Weston is delivering karate chops to the bad guy.

And this is what life is going to look like for me from about day three to day six or seven. The last round took longer to recover, so I expect that this final one may take longer yet.

The second week post chemo is when fatigue rolls in more. And hello, more mindfuckery because when I am fatigued, I can go dark. I know also that it is during this time my immune system is getting face punched, so I must be careful about being around crowds.

The third week for me has been good and I begin to feel more like myself. Though I will admit, fatigue has been hitting more. I went to the gym for the lightest of workouts the other day and came home exhausted.

I am not as afraid of getting chemo as I was at the beginning. I know what to expect. But it doesn’t diminish the dread of the upcoming and final session.

4 days, 13 hours, 37 minutes

A special note to you dear breast cancer sisters who may read this while awaiting the start of their chemo. I see you. This is really hard shit, but I want you to know you WILL get through it. Reach out for help. You are not alone!

Theresa Winn is a certified life coach and spiritual director. Find her at theresawinn.com. Wanna buy her a new car or a trip to the Bahamas? Okay, that might be a bit much. How about a cup of coffee? You can do so here. Every nickel is greatly appreciated!