17th November — My First Round of Chemo

 

The 17th of November.

 

My first round of chemo.

 

We walked to J96 and booked in. I’d had my port put in the day before — Sunday — and it still felt strange knowing there was something foreign under my skin now, something permanent, something that marked me as ill even when I didn’t look it.

 

The ward smelled like antiseptic and warm plastic. That hospital smell that sticks to your clothes and your memory.

 

The nurses greeted me like I mattered. Smiles. Soft voices. They said my name properly. Asked how I was feeling. Not rushed. Not clipped. Just… kind.

 

I hadn’t realised how much I needed that.

 

They checked my details, my obs, my bloods. Explained everything slowly, like I was allowed not to understand it all at once. One of them joked about the port — told me it would make life easier once I got used to it. I nodded, pretending I was braver than I felt.

 

When they accessed the port for the first time, I held my breath. It wasn’t pain exactly — more pressure, more awareness. Another reminder that my body wasn’t just mine anymore.

 

This was happening.

 

Chemo wasn’t an idea or a future plan now. It was a drip. A line. A bag slowly emptying into me.

Before they hooked me up, i joked, Can i have my Chemo cocktail with a slice of lime and an umbrella. Cos this was me. I Joke when im scared, 

 

I watched the fluid travel down the tube and disappear into my chest and thought, This is poison. Poison meant to save me. Poison meant to kill something inside me before it killed me.

 

I sat there trying to act normal. Trying to be calm. Trying not to think about what this would take from me — my energy, my appetite, my hair, my sex drive, my sense of self.

 

Mum sat with me. Quiet. Steady. Being exactly what I needed without asking.

 

The nurses checked in constantly. Asked if I felt sick. Cold. Dizzy. They tucked blankets around me. Adjusted chairs. Told me to ring the bell if I needed anything at all.

 

I felt looked after in a way that made my chest ache.

 

At some point, it hit me — this is how my life looks now. Hospital appointments. Oncology wards. Dates measured in cycles and blood counts instead of weekends and plans.

 

I didn’t cry. Not then.

 

I just sat there, letting it drip into me, thinking about how strange it was that the same body that had wanted closeness and touch and sex days earlier was now being pumped full of drugs to keep it alive.

 

Both things were true.

 

I was still me.

And I was a cancer patient.

 

By the time it was done, I felt tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix. A deep, cellular exhaustion. The nurses told me what to expect. What to watch for. When to call. When not to be brave.

 

They told me I’d done well.

 

I walked out of J96 changed — not dramatically, not visibly — but permanently.

 

My first round of chemo was done.

 

And there was no going back to before.

 

That Night

The First Night — When My Body Answered Back

 

The first night after chemo was nothing like I expected.

 

I thought I’d feel sick straight away. Or weak. Or dramatic.

Instead, it crept in quietly.

 

At first, I just felt off. Not ill — just wrong. Like my body and I weren’t quite in sync anymore. I was cold in a way that went past blankets and jumpers. The kind of cold that feels like it’s coming from the inside.

 

I went to bed early, exhausted but wired. My limbs felt heavy, but my mind wouldn’t settle. Every time I closed my eyes, I became hyper-aware of my body — the port in my chest, the ache where it sat, the strange awareness that something toxic had been pumped into me on purpose.

 

I kept thinking: This is in me now.

 

Sleep came in broken pieces. I’d drift off and wake again, over and over, sweating and then shivering. My mouth tasted metallic, like I’d been sucking coins. Water didn’t help. Nothing really did.

 

My stomach churned, not enough to be sick, but enough to make me wary of moving too fast. Food felt like a bad idea. The thought of eating made my throat tighten.

 

At some point, the aches started. Not sharp pain — more like a deep, spreading heaviness in my bones and joints. As if my body was bruised from the inside out. Even my skin felt tender, like it had been overused.

 

I tried to lie still, but every position felt wrong. Too much pressure on the port. Too much awareness of my chest. Too much of everything.

 

And then there was the fear.

 

Not panic — not yet — but a low hum of dread.

If this is the first night, how bad will it get?

What will this do to me?

How much will I lose before it’s done?

 

I kept checking myself. My temperature. My breathing. My thoughts. Watching for signs I’d been told to watch for, terrified I’d miss something important.

 

At some point in the early hours, I got up and stood in the kitchen, wrapped in a hoodie, staring at nothing. My legs felt weak, like they didn’t fully belong to me. I felt hollowed out and overfull at the same time.

 

Eventually, exhaustion won. I slept again — not deeply, but enough.

 

By morning, the side effects were clearer.

 

I felt flattened. Drained. Like someone had turned the volume down on my body and my emotions at the same time. My appetite was gone. My mouth was dry and sore. My head felt thick, like I was moving through fog.

 

And still — I was upright. I was alive.

 

The strangest part was how ordinary it all looked from the outside. No drama. No visible markers. Just me, moving slowly, feeling unfamiliar in my own skin.

 

This was chemo.

 

Not a single moment.

Not a dramatic collapse.

But a quiet, relentless negotiation between my body and the drugs meant to save it.

 

And this was only the beginning

THE DAYS AFTER

Days 2–3 — When It Settled In

 

Day two was worse than the first night.

 

The shock had worn off, and what was left was the reality of it sitting in my body. Everything felt heavier. My limbs. My head. Even my thoughts.

 

I moved slowly, like my body was underwater. Standing up took effort. Sitting down took planning. My legs ached in a dull, persistent way that never quite tipped into pain but never left either.

 

Food still felt wrong. Not nauseous,  just unappealing. Like my body had quietly decided eating wasn’t a priority anymore. I forced small things down because I knew I had to.

 

By day three, the fatigue was deep. Not tiredness — something heavier. A bone-deep exhaustion that sleep didn’t touch. I could lie down for hours and still wake up feeling like I’d run a marathon.

 

My mouth was sore. Dry. Everything tasted faintly metallic. Water helped, but only briefly.

 

And emotionally… I started to crack.

 

The Emotional Crash — After the Body Gives Up

 

No one warned me about this part.

 

The physical side effects were uncomfortable, but manageable.

The emotional drop was brutal.

 

It came suddenly — like a floor falling away.

 

I felt flat. Empty. Detached from myself. Not sad exactly , worse. Numb in a way that scared me. Like my feelings had been packed away somewhere I couldn’t reach.

 

Then the tears came.

 

Not dramatic sobbing — just silent crying that arrived out of nowhere. Standing in the kitchen. Sitting on the sofa. Staring at my phone without knowing why.

 

I felt fragile. Exposed. Like everything that had been holding me together before chemo had dissolved.

 

I thought about all the things cancer had already taken — my certainty, my future plans, my sense of safety in my own body — and I panicked about what was next.

 

This was the part no one could see.

 

What People Don’t See When You Say “I’m Okay”

 

People ask, “How are you?”

 

And I say, “I’m okay.”

 

What they don’t see is:

 

how long it takes me to stand up

 

how much effort it takes to shower

 

how carefully I move so I don’t feel dizzy

 

how often I’m checking myself for signs something’s wrong

They don’t see the fear humming in the background.

They don’t see the calculations — Can I do this today? Do I have enough energy for that? What can wait?

 

They don’t see the grief for the version of me who didn’t have to think like this.

 

“I’m okay” doesn’t mean I’m fine.

It means I’m coping.

It means I’m still here.

And doing it for my kids