The First Chemo

Significant moments in my life seem to happen on Tuesdays. The Tuesday I started Chemotherapy for Stage 4 breast cancer was one I had not foreseen in my crystal ball. 

I tried to feel normal – in reality, I spent hours pacing my kitchen the night before, double-checking what I had packed to take to the cancer center. I reviewed the extensive list of medications and when they were supposed to be taken, then pulled all the bottles back out of the cabinet to reorganize, as if they had decided to get up and run away from when I went through this process just minutes earlier. There was no surprise when everything was still present and accounted for in the order they were meant to be ingested. But just to be sure, I added phone alarms and sticky notes to ensure I didn’t forget in the morning. 

I re-Googled and re-read message boards about what to expect. Even though cancer is truly not selective, at this moment, it felt like I was the only person ever to experience this level of anxiety and worry about a medical issue. I heard all the positive thoughts and said the positive things, but I was in so much pain that I could not quite shake the pervasive question my brain kept asking, but I was not yet enlightened enough to answer. I kept thinking, “But what if this doesn’t work, and you die?”  

Friends checked in on me, and I did my best to offer a positive spin on the journey I was about to embark upon, all while the looming question about death hung on like a new best friend I didn’t mean to make. I was diagnosed and started treatment right as COVID protocols were at their highest, which meant no one could go to any appointments with me, even my husband. It was such a slap in the face to every way I felt that cancer and treatments had been presented in a pre-COVID world. 

My impression was that as a patient, you get to sit in a comfy chair with blankets and chat with a friend or loved one while the poison drips into your veins. Numerous people told me about how they could go with their relatives or friends to get them snacks and hang out and keep them company in the weird, weird environment that is an infusion room. When I pictured this fantasy version of my life, having someone there kept me from having a complete and utter meltdown about where my life had quickly gotten. Instead, that was only up to me.  

One of my closest friends picked me up the morning of my treatment and tried to keep it light and happy. She brought me my favorite smoothie and got me Cameos of various celebrities wishing me well as I “headed into battle.” I had awkwardly announced my diagnosis on social media, so many people texted me to wish me well and sent things to make me laugh. While I know that I was there and received and appreciated those messages, the fear pulsating through my body overtook my ability to be present that morning. It still felt like I was in a bad dream and I desperately wanted to wake up. 

The cancer center I visited when I lived in Austin was small and easy to navigate. I had the first appointment of the day, so the waiting room was evident when I arrived. I was so desperate to will myself through this experience with positive thinking that I wore a shirt I got at Miraval on my most recent mini solo babymoon that said, “Be mindful. Be centered. Be grateful.” I did my hair and makeup. I walked up to the desk with my bravest brave face and told her my name and what I was there for. At this point in the journey, I still didn’t realize that walking into a cancer center is a fairly regular occurrence for some people. It felt like I was in a movie, and everything around me stopped for this exact moment. 

Thanks to my lifelong partnership with anxiety, I had packed enough things to move into the cancer center instead of staying there for a few hours. I had many snacks, entertainment, a blanket, socks, a notebook, and lord only knows what else crammed into an overnight bag. It was apparent that I had read every “what your loved one needs for chemo” list I could find online.  

For the record, those lists are tricky, and I learned the hard way that you don’t need everything on them. I’m sure you’re thinking, “Duh,” but when anxiety is your co-pilot, you think buying everything on a list will make everything okay. We will ignore that I should have known this, given I had just had my second son two months earlier and did the same thing with the “everything your baby needs” and “what you and your baby need at the hospital” lists. But anxiety is a fickle friend and knows no rationality. 

After they called my name and I hauled my giant bag onto my broken back, I was ushered over to a chemo chair by truly one of the friendliest, angelic nurses in the infusion room. She patiently talked me through everything that would happen that day, how long it would take, and what to expect. I tried my hardest to be brave and listen to everything, but not only was the fact that I even had cancer, much less that it’s stage 4, very new information, I was still incredibly post-partum, in a pandemic and processing being laid off while I was on maternity leave from my corporate job. At some point during my in-service, a rush of emotions broke through my carefully constructed wall of anti-anxiety medication, disassociation, and sheer will to keep my shit together, and the thoughts and emotions I had been pushing away made it through as tears.  

As I sat alone, waiting for the infusion to begin, I couldn’t help but wonder- “How the fuck is this my life?”