8 IV chemo treatments, 2 weeks apart

January 2022

I started going for IV treatments at the end of January. Every other Wednesday. They told me to plan to be there about 3, 3 and a half hours. Covid was peaking again. I didn't want my parents, family, or friends putting themselves at risk to come in and sit with me, so I went each time alone.

I brought books, my laptop, magazines... Yet most of the time I slept as the chemicals dripped into my body, a gray and yellow, dandelion privacy curtain drawn in a semi-circle around my chair backed up against the windows.

When the drips finished, Meg came over with another box of chemicals. She'd pull on a paper johnny, and double up on gloves before preparing the portable pump I'd be wearing for the next couple of days. Once the pump was attached, a new, steady flow of drugs began. These chemo drugs burned my hands, peeling my skin painfully over time.

On Fridays, I'd return to the cancer center so they could disconnect the pump. It felt great to not be tethered to it anymore. Then the fatigue set in. Nausea. Inability to tolerate anything cold. Food and drinks didn't taste right--metallic or like nothing at all.

By the time I got to my 8th chemo treatment, I looked like ass. Beat up. Exhausted.

I hear people say I'm brave. Strong. What choice did I have? Stage 3 rectal cancer. I suppose I could've chosen not to do chemo.?. Personally, I think that would've been a dumbass choice. I'm not done here. I chose to fight through.

But I'm not through yet.