I don’t really know what I expected to happen in the first 36 hours of chemotherapy. I guess I envisioned myself draped over the rim of a toilet, vomiting constantly—like a 20-something after a long night of drinking on 6th Street.
So far, that couldn’t be further from reality. My nausea has been mild at its worst and nonexistent most of the day. I am worried it’ll get worse once I disconnect the pump in about 18 hours, but the truth is, I don’t really know what comes next. Everyone reacts different according to my medical team.
I carry the pump in a fanny pack, with a plastic tube that runs from it, up under my shirt to the chemo port above my right pectoral, just under the skin. A doctor put the port in on Wednesday, and it’s still tender to the touch. When I think about all of this in its entirety, it disgusts me as much as it amazes me. Medicine is kind of wild. The idea that I’m pumping poison into my body—through a self-contained pump—in the hopes that it kills the cancer before it kills me… that’s sobering. Sadly, not the kind of sobering that helps with nausea, but sobering nonetheless.
The pump makes a churning sound as it pushes the drugs into my system, and every time I hear it, my stomach turns. I think it’s psychosomatic—everyone tells me I can’t actually feel the drugs going in—but when I hear that sound, I feel something. And it’s unpleasant.
Last night, that churning made it hard to sleep. It was the only thing with me in the dark of my bedroom, until I found a white noise YouTube channel that plays rainstorms. That drowned it out enough to let me sleep well. Tugboat would’ve hated that sound—he’s terrified of thunder—so part of me was glad he stayed with neighbors while I rested, even if I did miss having him at the end of the bed.
It’s been strange, waking up a few times in the night and not finding him there, snoring like a fat little loaf of bread. That sound—his snoring, like the storm white noise—is comforting. I missed it in those brief moments between waking and falling back asleep.
But I’m thankful he’s able to stay with friends. Honestly, I find myself feeling grateful for a lot right now. For my people. My older brother—the stoic one who always shows up to do the things that don’t come easy to me—has been a godsend. My mom, even in all her anxious worrying (the kind moms do no matter how old or capable you may be), has been praying constantly and mothering even more vigorously than usual. That’s always welcome, even when I don’t show it.
And the friends—checking in, offering to help with the little things that I know I’ll start to need help with as this drags on and maybe starts to take more of a toll—that’s deeply moving. I can’t thank them enough. Every text, every offer, every little note of concern has meant the world. Even if I’m slow to respond, even if I don’t always express it in the moment—I am grateful.
Because of all of this, I’m able to sleep well tonight. Lights off, in my own bed, with thunderstorm white noise, mild symptoms, and some real optimism about tomorrow. When this pump comes off, I’ll get a small break from this chemo crap and a brief return to something that looks like normal—for a little while, at least, until I do it all over again in two weeks.
But until then… tomorrow is going to be a good day.