I have a tendency to bury the lead in a lot of my posts, but I’ll spare you that this time.
It’s Tuesday evening. I disconnected my chemo pump Sunday afternoon, and—miraculously—I’ve been almost completely symptom-free ever since. I don’t know if that means the chemo is working well or not, honestly. But I do know I’m not sick, and for now, that feels like a win.
There are probably a few reasons for this. For one, the chemo drug cocktail changed this round. I also had a ton of people praying for me, and I really do believe there’s power in that. And, maybe most critically, I didn’t eat complete garbage this time right after chemo started. It turns out that shoveling in a massive pile of bacon may not be the best post-infusion recovery strategy. Who knew?
This round also came with some medication to help with nausea, but the side effects have been wild. I’m pretty sure I now know what acute narcolepsy feels like—because within minutes of taking it, I am completely and totally out. I also don’t normally dream—or at least I never remember my dreams—but on this stuff? Oh, I dream. And they’re vivid. And they’re weird.
One of the most recurring themes? Fighting.
I’ve always resisted the idea that cancer is a fight. I’ve preferred to see it as something you endure, something you move through—more process than battle. But apparently, my subconscious disagrees.
I grew up playing Street Fighter II—a fighting video game that basically consumed a few solid summers of my childhood. (If you don’t know it, just Google it. Explaining would take forever.) So when I’m knocked out by this dream-inducing drug, I find myself in the middle of Street Fighter matches—but instead of facing Ryu or Chun-Li, I’m throwing down with a bag of chemo, a stomach that wants to vomit on me, or some fever-dream version of a colon tumor.
It’s ridiculous. But it also makes me laugh. I wake up smiling, partly because the nostalgia takes me back to simpler, carefree days, and partly because in every dream—I win. I kick the crap out of chemo. I beat nausea. I send the tumor flying offscreen in that glorious slow-motion KO.
And hey, if attitude really does play a role in recovery, then I’m going to count these strange, triumphant dreams as a pretty decent sign of progress.
Another reason I’m feeling hopeful lately? I’ve been able to work out.
This is not a CrossFit pitch, don’t worry Ed. I’m doing way less than I used to, but I’m still moving—and that counts. Two days ago I squatted. Today I rowed until I was nearly out of breath and soaked in sweat. And I was so happy.
There’s a study my older brother shared with me that shows patients who exercise purposefully after adjuvant therapy have significantly better survival rates. So I’ve set a new goal: in addition to trying to finish my master’s in Information Security (I have a test this week), I’m going to train. Every day. Hard. As hard as my body will let me.
I know this post kind of rambled. I’m tired, sore, a little hungry, and pretty happy. Also, the drowsy nausea drug I mentioned? I took it about fifteen minutes ago, and I’m about two minutes away from passing out.
So if this made little to no sense—blame the drugs. (Honestly, it’s the first time in my life I’ve been able to blame something on drugs with a straight face. I’ll take it.)
Thanks for reading.