Another post, another round of chemo behind me. The effects of round #2 left only after striking me down with the worst cold of my life. A cold post-chemo is meaner than Covid, almost like the flu, and slowly drawn out. What took my tiny humans two days to get through took me nearly a week. My immune system isn’t just cooked; it’s fucking fried. So if you think you see me in public, you’ll only know if you can find my eyeballs in the slat between my mask and my beanie. It seems I’m harder to find these days, especially myself.
Round #3 was much more forgiving than previously, as I’ve so far muddled through without contracting any significant cold-like symptoms. Save for the aching throat that creeps through my “soft tissues.” My tongue and my mouth also feel like they are constantly consuming acid.
Round #3 also concluded symptoms I only guessed at after Round #1 and #2. Therefore, after a chemo session or an “infusion treatment,” as it is officially called, I can expect the following schedule to take place:
- I receive chemotherapy every 3rd Wednesday.
- The following Thursday, I receive my bone injection (Neulasta).
- Friday, I expect a sharp, searing hell-induced pain to shatter the insides of my bones.
- That will carry on until Sunday. The agony is only tolerable if I’ve slept for 12 whole hours.
- Monday, I feel okay! We’re getting through! Chemo’s not so bad!
- Until Tuesday. Holy Christ, it’s like blacking out. I am so exhausted that my body just falls from beneath me. After locating the nearest plush surface, I will crash intermittently throughout the day. Like a charming grandmother, I will grin at my children with a blanket over my lap from a seated position. The idea of me as an aged matriarch is much less terrifying than looking like freaking Gollum.
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And these are the parts of cancer I did not foresee. The realization is that it coexists with every aspect of my life now. The way my port lives under my skin but is still visible to the naked eye.
This damn thing won’t let me wear any of my favorite shirts and dresses with their feminine square necklines. I stare at my favorite autumnal blouses and frocks, knowing full well that they’ll go back into hiding until next year. That I can’t put on a dress and feel like myself without seeing that protruding reminder. It’s racerback shirts and high-neck t-shirts for the foreseeable future. That extra space to hide beneath and retain the image of myself without it.
Did you know that chemotherapy causes acne? In every fucking pore? Because I didn’t! After Round #1, I thought it might just be my body reacting, and in Round #2, I hoped it was the cold. But here in Round #3, it’s real. The million little dots swell and blister every surface of my face. A red scene beneath my pale white bald head, with clusters of alopecia-like strands sticking out here and there. Like some monster that emerged from nuclear waste.
A house down the road had a lemonade sale, and I was too afraid to stop for fear that I would scare the kids. How fitting that my havocked features are on display for the Halloween season.
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I used to see women undergoing treatment without their hair and wonder how bad it really was. In my genuinely stupid naivety, I figured that cancer patients would get used to it in time. But no. Time doesn’t erase how you see yourself; it only stands still long enough to miss it. Long enough to measure every moment that you can’t change it entirely.
Before cancer, I had no concept of the weight of being stripped of my identity without choice. And how that would truly feel for any other walk of life.
How maddening it is to wear cancer around every minute of the day.
I wake up, and I don’t have hair.
I speak, darting my tongue around the sores in my mouth and throat.
I shower, and no cleanser can treat the chemo acne.
I swallow, and feel numbness to the medicine to treat the sores.
I dress, and clothes tug at my port-a-cath.
When my nose bleeds,
When my skin cracks,
When the scalp itches,
When I taste metal,
When the hot flashes explode,
When my body bruises like an old peach,
When it all happens at once,
I clench my fists to keep from breaking something.
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The thing nobody tells you about getting cancer is the rage. The sporadic moments dappled throughout the struggles make you want to take a baseball bat to a windshield. Because you just want life to go back to normal. Because you’re fucking exhausted that it’s been months into treatment, and you’re still crawling your way from morning to night. Because you’re always lagging multiple parts of your life, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it, no matter how hard you try.
How exhausting it is to fight this thing. all. the. time.
I know there are valuable lessons here, and I’m inching through the thick of it. But, here, beneath the deep darkness, I can hardly remember how the light looked inside of me.
Romanticizing life before and anxious for life after. Always running from now. It will be a while before I find myself again.
Kathlyn Ramsey Moore 