Let me start by saying this: I went into chemotherapy knowing… basically nothing.

I met with the nurse, nodded along as she flipped through very thick booklets about chemo side effects, what to eat during cancer treatment, how to manage nausea, fatigue, all of it. Did my brain absorb any of that information? Absolutely not. Those booklets are still sitting there, untouched.

I probably should actually read them.

Like most people, my idea of chemotherapy came from movies, TV shows, and horror stories. Hair loss, dramatic weight changes, constant vomiting, and that very specific “on the brink of death” look Hollywood loves. The theatrical cancer patient.

Unfortunately, that is true for some people going through cancer treatment—but it’s not the full picture for most of us.

I made a conscious decision not to memorize every possible chemotherapy side effect. Because if you hand your brain a checklist of everything that could go wrong, it has a funny way of trying to experience all of it.

So instead, I took it one day at a time. No overplanning, no pressure—just surviving each day after chemo with realistic expectations.

I do, however, keep checking my hair for hair loss. As of the date this post went live, it is still holding strong!

Day One of Chemotherapy

Infusion day showed up, and I had questions. A lot of them.

Do I get my own private room? Am I sitting in a big open chemo infusion center? How often do nurses check on you during chemotherapy? What happens if I have a reaction mid-infusion? And most importantly… what if I have to pee?

Final question though, why didn’t I ask these questions to the nurse?! Dang cancer brain!

I got a little bag ready

My chemo bag was a mix of practical and emotional survival items. I brought my favorite blanket, snacks; crackers, sugar-free hard candies, anti-nausea candies “just in case,” a book, that quickly turned on me and I had to put it on my DNR list, an activity book I also had every intention of ignoring, pens, a protein drink, my charger, a heating pad, and—of course, my emotional support chicken named Karen and her baby, who still doesn’t have a name.

Knowing this was going to be a long day, I dressed in leggings, and this snazzy thin long sleeve shirt that had zippers to access ports and other IV access points.. So I did not have to roll my sleeve up and was able to just stay cozy the whole time. And, of course, my fabulous goose, slippers and even more fabulouser, my GOOSE SOCKS!

Check-in was quick. Labs, vitals—standard procedure to make sure my body was “stable enough” for chemotherapy. My iron levels were still low (even after my iron infusion the week prior) but not low enough to delay treatment.

So off I went, holding Brandht’s hand, to get my first dose of poison. I mean… chemotherapy.

Inside a Chemo Infusion Center

The infusion room was pretty much what I expected—a large, open chemotherapy infusion center set up in pods (don’t ask me how many) with semi-private stations. Each station had enough space for me, up to two guests, and a nurse moving in and out to manage medications.

I was told to pick a seat in Pod B. I chose the closest one without thinking, which turned out to be a mistake. The way the openings were set up meant I had direct eye contact with someone diagonally across from me. I’m pretty sure he tried to communicate with me through blinking at one point. Unfortunately, I am not fluent in eye language, so I stuck to my book and avoided accidentally agreeing to something with my eyes.

Chemotherapy Medications

Before the actual chemotherapy drugs even start, they load you up with pre-medications to help your body tolerate everything that’s about to happen.

I was given a mix of medications designed to prevent nausea, allergic reactions, and inflammation. Mine were the following: Pepcid (famotidine) helps reduce stomach acid and plays a role in preventing infusion reactions. Akynzeo (fosnetupitant and palonosetron). Never heard of it before but was told it is a heavy-hitter when it comes to preventing chemotherapy-induced nausea and vomiting, both immediately and in the days after, and they were right! Decadron (dexamethasone), a steroid, helps reduce inflammation and boosts the effectiveness of the anti-nausea meds, while Benadryl (diphenhydramine) is there to prevent allergic reactions to the chemo drugs.

Then came the actual chemotherapy treatment: docetaxel and cyclophosphamide.

Each medication was administered through an IV infusion, running for about an hour each. My oncologist refers to this regimen as “chemo light.” Let me just say this is not light, it’s not easy, it’s just not the most aggressive option available.

And I am for thankful for that.

The Unexpected Good Parts of Chemotherapy

Something I didn’t expect during my first chemotherapy session? Kindness. A lot of it.

Places like this, I imagine, make it easy for staff to feel robotic while doing the same thing for hundreds of patients, day in and day out. But the nurses here act like they genuinely love their jobs and truly care about their patients.

And those volunteers!!

Volunteers came by throughout the day—many of them former cancer patients themselves. They offered snacks, drinks, conversation, and even books to borrow. One of them was a retired massage therapist, and heck yeah, I absolutely accepted a foot massage while getting chemo. I said, “Yes, ma’am!” without hesitation. No shame. Brandht was super jelly.

The entire infusion process took about six hours, start to finish.

The First 48 Hours After Chemo

I went home feeling surprisingly okay. The steroids and Benadryl were fighting for control of my body, but somehow Benadryl won, and I actually got a decent night of sleep.

The next day, I returned for an injection to boost my white blood cells—because chemotherapy lowers your immune system, and we’re trying to avoid adding “serious infection” to the list of problems.

Here’s something I learned right before treatment, maybe some of you are just learning this for the first time too: chemotherapy can stay in your system for 48–72 hours, and you can pass small amounts through bodily fluids. That means being cautious around kids, pets, and even shared spaces.

So, we made adjustments. The kids could only use their own bathroom, we avoided sharing drinks (which, honestly, was kind of a perk), and we stuck to “air kisses” for a couple of days. Bleach wipes became a bathroom essential, and the pets were officially banned from toilet visitations.

Of all the animals, I thought it would be hardest on Oscar, our cat, not being able to be near me those first couple of days. I am his human, and he must kiss me awkwardly whenever he chooses. But the first night, Oscar came near me and sniffed all around. He got close—but not close enough to touch me. Then he slowly walked away and sat on the other side of the couch, slow-blinking at me. It was like he sensed the difference in me and knew I needed distance… or he just didn’t care and was being weird—because he’s a cat, and that’s what cats do.

I had so. much. rest. Also, see how awkward this cat is?! Don’t worry, this was well after the 72-hour time frame!

Days 2–5 After Chemotherapy

The first couple of days after chemo were mostly about fatigue. Not normal tired—deep, full-body exhaustion. The kind where, once it hits, my day is done and I need to lie down instantly.

I had mild nausea, but nothing a ginger candy couldn’t handle at first. So I slept. A lot. My body made it very clear that rest was not optional—it was required.

By days three through five, things escalated a bit more. The fatigue got heavier, mornings were the hardest, and I started feeling like I was coming down with the flu. Body aches, mouth sores, and a sore throat all showed up at once.

Ginger candy was no longer effective. Tylenol and Zofran stepped in as my new best friends, and the “magic mouthwash” (yes, that’s the actual prescription name) truly is magical. It helped with the mouth sores, the throat pain, and anything remotely uncomfortable happening in my mouth.

My bowels hated me.

The Hardest Day of Chemo (So Far)

Day six was, without question, the worst day.

The pain I experienced was on a completely different level. I’ve lived with chronic pain for years. I have a high tolerance. This was not normal pain.

My entire torso—from mid-thigh up to my neck—would go into intense, deep muscle spasms every time I tried to move. Not mild discomfort. Full-body, breath-stealing, paralyzing spasms.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stop it. I could only wait for it to pass.

It was exhausting and, honestly, a little terrifying.

Yes, I probably should have gone to the ER. But the last time I did, I was admitted for two days, and I really didn’t want a repeat of that experience. So, I made a calculated decision: as long as I didn’t move… I was fine.

It’s fine, I’m fine, everything is fine.

I was-ish, so, Brandht and I got mohawks.

Day 7 and Beyond: Trying to Make Sense of It

At my follow-up appointment, my oncologist was a bit baffled by the severity of the spasms and said, “It could be from the chemotherapy drugs, the white blood cell injection, your pre-existing conditions, or some combination of all three.” So, per usual, no clear explanation.

Since then, I’ve still had smaller spasms daily—just nowhere near the intensity of day six. We’re watching closely to see if it happens again with the next chemotherapy cycle.

I’m still easily exhausted, but I’ve gone back to ginger candies for nausea instead of Zofran and am slowly starting to feel almost human again.

Day 10: Feeling Like Myself Again (Mostly)

By day ten post-chemo, I started to feel more like myself again.

The fatigue is still there, but manageable. The nausea comes and goes. I get tired more easily, but I have enough energy to do normal things again—like walking around the block, spending time with my family, and even making it to my twins’ spring festival.

I sat in a camp chair under a shady tree happy just watching everyone else run around. But I was there.

Living Through Chemo, Not Just Surviving It

I have about ten days left of feeling normal before the next round of chemotherapy, and then it all starts again.

I’m going back to work before my next treatment. I know it’s going to be tiring, but I need to get back to some sense of normalcy.

Cancer may have taken up residency without permission, but I am actively working to evict it.

It’s not easy. It’s not predictable. And it’s definitely not like the movies.

But it’s real. And this was treatment one—three more to go.