In the last ten weeks, I've undergone three intense cycles of chemotherapy. I'm not even at the halfway point of my 6-month course of neoadjuvant treatment. It feels too early to be at the precipice of my breaking point, but it feels like I am. I suppose I will have several breaking points this coming year. I still have 13 more rounds of chemo, my double mastectomy surgery, surgical recovery, then 20 rounds of radiation, and onto 5-10 years of endocrine therapy. Somewhere between radiation and returning to work, chest reconstruction, and years down the line, I pray, for complete remission. I want to be an elderly cancer survivor! My eyes are filled with tears this morning, but I'm not going to cry. The weight of the many more steps I must take, knowing that the journey's toll will be hard on my body and spirit are all hitting me harder as I approach my next chemo day. I'm on my way to chemo #4 of 16. Its the last of the Adriamycin (red devil) and Cytoxan combo. I'll be in the infusion center for 3 hours, alone (COVID-19 protocols have kept me from having a companion with me.)
I'm scared. Not the normal jitters, just plain frightened.
I'm not afraid of the needle pokes for my blood draws. I'm not frightened about the 1/2 to 1-inch needle catheter that needs to be plunged into my chest port to infuse the chemotherapy drugs. I'm not scared of the mechanical injector that they will place in my arm to give me a timed subcutaneous injection of Neulasta 24 hours post-chemo (at least my husband escapes injection duties.). I don't fear these things because I know all of this is part of the treatments that are intended to help me. The chemotherapy, I pray is killing the micro chemo cells in my body. The Neulasta will boost my growth factors in my bone marrow to increase my white blood cells (WBC) that are currently in the (dangerously low) single digits (during a COVID-19 Pandemic mind you). Let me tell you, this breast cancer patient is not going to die of a minor infection. Boost my WBCS! Shoot-I can handle all that! Its the aftermath of the infusion that I dread. I'm scared because I know what's to come in the next seven days. The extreme fatigue, mind fog, weakness, night sweats, the random shivers, the incessant waves of nausea and belly pains, the exquisite bone-crushing pain is what I suffer every time. It has gotten worse with each infusion and with the addition of the Neulasta. Yes, it is all temporary but I still have so much dread for those days where I cannot find any comfort. No food satiates. I can't sleep because of the pain. I can't even get comfort from affection. Even a loving arm across my shoulders is painfully heavy.
Post chemo days are a "No joy zone."
The little energy I have will go to my thoughts, where there is cursing, complaining and crying out to God to "just take it all away!" I'm so afraid that this next round will break me. Will I lose my faith? My will? My sanity? I am coming to terms with the fact that enduring all of it, including my doubts is also part of my cancer treatment. I have to own it. I have to surrender to the process. If it does breaks me, I pray at least it heals me from my cancer and makes me a better person. Today, as I sit in chemo chair #6: I do not feel brave. I am no warrior. There is no way to physically, mentally, emotionally prepare for this journey. I will likely whine, groan and cry through it again, but I have to have faith that I will get to the other side of this treatment with more gratitude and thankfulness for each day that carries me to the next. Much love to you all for reading.
