Round four of chemo is officially in the books—at least the hospital portion. I still have 46 hours tethered to the chemo pump before I’ll know how sick this round might make me. But today marked a first for me in this whole cancer crap—yes, pun very much intended: fear. Real, sinking, gnawing fear.
Normally, I don’t struggle with anxiety. It’s just not how I’m wired. But this morning, I had a three-hour drive to the hospital, which gave my brain the perfect runway to start spiraling. And then, as if my internal stress machine needed a boost, someone at the infusion center passed away during treatment. The energy in the room shifted instantly—nurses moving quickly but quietly, conversations turning into whispers. I don’t know the full story, but it rocked me. Suddenly the beeping machines and IV drips weren’t just background noise—they felt ominous. Between the long drive, the mental buildup, and witnessing that moment, my anxiety hit a level I didn’t even know I had.
I’m scared this round will snowball into the same misery that hit me during round three—nausea, burning acid reflux, and the sense that my body had turned on me. I’ll survive it if I have to. I know that. But right now, the fear feels like it’s camped out just around the corner, waiting.
My medical team did adjust my chemo cocktail this time, hoping to dodge the worst of the side effects. One of the new meds is meant to crush the nausea—side effect: surprise narcolepsy. It’s working a little too well. I’m five minutes from full-blown faceplant.
I didn’t have much in me to write tonight. But a few people pointed out that if I don’t post after chemo, they start assuming I’ve either died or become patient zero in a zombie outbreak. (To be fair, if I were a zombie, there’s only one person I’d bite, and they live way too far away for it to be logistically feasible.)
So here I am—alive, semi-coherent, and slightly drugged—but still standing (well, reclining). More soon, assuming I don’t fall asleep mid-sentence or sprout a taste for brains.