Chemotherapy is a formidable adversary. It employs cytotoxic drugs designed to obliterate cancer cells, but often, these drugs don’t discriminate, affecting healthy cells too. My treatment involved an arduous regimen—four cycles, each comprising a week of drug infusion through a port in my chest, followed by two weeks of recovery. I needed every second of that recovery, and then some. After my first infusion, I felt so feeble that I fainted at home, injuring my chin in the process. A swift trip to the ER led to my family insisting I wear a Life-Alert pendant (yes, the classic “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” kind) throughout my treatment. With each infusion, my condition worsened, and I often found myself curled up in a fetal position, struggling to muster enough energy for basic tasks like showering or eating. By the end of my last treatment, I required two blood transfusions to regain some strength.
The deceptive nature of chemotherapy also surprised me. After that initial infusion, I developed an aversion to the smell of coffee—a tragedy for a coffee lover like me. Just the sight of the refreshment cart in the chemo ward made me gag at the thought of their turkey sandwiches. With every cycle, my list of aversions grew. By my final infusion, I spent a few days in the hospital, and the overwhelming smells there were nearly unbearable. Yet, amidst these challenges, cravings emerged. I couldn’t resist roasted potatoes with ketchup, pickled beets, and especially eggs. I found solace in cooking shows, enjoying the sight of others enjoying food I couldn’t eat due to my aversions and restrictions.
Chemotherapy also stripped me of my dignity. Following my first infusion and that unfortunate fall, I relinquished my autonomy, relying on others for basic tasks. Showering became a seated endeavor, dressing required assistance, and bathroom trips were far from pleasant. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say it was a humbling experience for both me and my caregivers.
And then, of course, there’s the hair loss. Most chemotherapy patients lose their hair, and I was no exception. The hardest part wasn’t losing the hair on my head (which fell out on my 39th birthday) but rather my eyelashes and nose hair. With my eyes watering constantly and a perpetually runny nose, I felt particularly unglamorous. Losing my sideburns added to my distress, making me look even more like a cancer patient, despite my best efforts to wear hats instead of wigs.
When faced with the absurdity of my situation, laughter became my coping mechanism. My sister stayed with me during my treatments and, after I lost my hair, she gifted me with fake “hillbilly teeth.” The combination of my bald head, pale skin, and crooked teeth was enough to send us into fits of laughter. We also indulged in countless true crime shows and discovered that watching foolish criminals could be downright hilarious, especially during those late-night hours filled with painkillers.
Chemotherapy, while challenging, also proved empowering. Surviving such a devastating ordeal put life’s trivialities into perspective. It forced me to confront my own strength and reassess what truly matters. Being bedridden allowed me to focus inward, a rarity in my previously chaotic life. I found time to write, pouring my thoughts onto the page when I could. Before my diagnosis, I often prioritized others over my own aspirations, but the stillness of my situation compelled me to finally embrace my writing. During the good days following each infusion, I would write for hours, as if my life depended on it—because in many ways, it did.
The last day of my treatment was a moment I will always remember. October 4, 2010, marked my liberation from the hospital and the oppressive smells that lingered there. It took time for the drugs to fully leave my system and for the side effects to fade. I eventually returned to a semblance of normalcy, although not everything reverted to its original state. All my hair grew back, except for my right nostril, which remains perpetually runny. My aversion to turkey sandwiches persists, but my love for eggs remains unabated. Above all, I have learned the importance of prioritizing myself and my writing journey. In a few months, I will celebrate five years cancer-free. While I have my grievances with chemotherapy, I recognize that it saved my life and forced me to prioritize what truly matters.
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In summary, my journey through cancer and chemotherapy taught me resilience, the importance of laughter, and the value of putting myself first. While the experience was fraught with challenges, it ultimately reinforced my belief in my own strength and the significance of pursuing my passions.
Keyphrase: Lessons Learned from Chemotherapy
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