Chemo Sucks

This may be painfully obvious, but chemo sucks.

I’ve been on chemo for about eight months now, and with that come a lot of lessons and experiences. It was a walk in the park early on. There was some fatigue, mild weight loss, light stomach issues, and blurred vision. I was able to travel, play games with my kids, stay awake and have energy for light work and projects, and even slept fairly decent.

As the months progressed, the symptoms escalated into constant trips to the toilet, severe stomach cramps, nausea, weakness, feeling out of breath, high blood pressure, high heart rate, painful acne, sun-sensitive skin, inability to sleep, and bleach white hair - something they don’t exactly inform you of ahead of time. That one was of particular shock as a white guy doesn’t look good with bleach white hair. It made me look like there weren’t any eyebrows on my head. I’ve since switched medications that have brought my brown hair back, but now I look like a less Asian Whang with his streaks of gray and long hair.

Something interesting that I feel most people should know: How you feel on chemo has absolutely no bearing on how your tumors are reacting. Your body will respond in ways that show your immune system is active, but none of that really matters. The goal is to get you taking a series of chemicals that may or may not have an effect on tumor growth while keeping your body tolerating all the awful stuff the doctors are putting into you. The only way they know if it’s working is the regular CT scans they’ll have you on. The quarterly visuals are the only way.

These scans are gnarly too. They give you a significant dose of ionized radiation to get a clear 3d image of your insides. Getting one or two in the course of your life for stuff like a broken toe is generally fine, but cancer patients are subjected to regular scans. Even after you’re clear of any tumor in your body, they’ll likely keep you on a five year plan with a scan every six months just to make sure nothing has come back. My current three month plan is generally long enough to know if this chemical combination is working, but also short enough to keep an eye on things.

My next scheduled CT is Monday the 27th (July 2026). This is where they’ll tell me my current meds aren’t working and the tumors have grown significantly. I know this because there’s now a wheezing in my chest when breathing in and my o2 concentration has decreased slightly in the past few weeks.

Although, we went swimming today with the kids, and in spite of reduced lung capacity, I did five laps underwater back and forth in the pool no problem. It was only when trying to dive down 8' deep to retrieve a torpedo toy did I struggle. I also should have put more sunscreen on though given the warnings about sensitive skin. Oh well.

What’s funny is that back when they took my kidney and put me on the five year / six-month plan, I joked that they robbed me of the opportunity to experience chemo. They took an organ and it all felt too simple. It’s difficult to explain, but it was pretty much pain and fear for months leading up to the inevitable surgery. When that day came, it was a few days recovery and off to the rest of my life we go. It felt anticlimactic. Like, that’s it? We’re done here? I’ll just be a cancer survivor with one kidney I guess. Clearly this is my dark humor coming across, but now I feel like a real cancer patient. It sucks and I’ve experienced what all other patients suffer through. My family and friends went through it, now it’s my turn.

Again, the worst part isn’t the symptoms. Those come and go and vary by the day. The most difficult part of all this is the mental trauma. I’m now much better both mentally and emotionally having worked through it for the better part of a year, but I still occasionally get scared thinking about my family. My family and close friends are still having a difficult time as it’s not top of mind for them all day. That doesn’t prevent me from talking about my situation freely and without realizing that such open dialog with dark humor isn’t what they want to hear. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism or maybe I like to see people respond to show they care. Take your pick.

Anyway. My work just approved three months of medical leave and I’ll likely chase another three after that. My oncologist will approve extensions given my condition. At this point, I feel they’d prescribe medical grade fentanyl if I asked for it. They’re like, “Yeah buddy. You don’t have much longer. Here, take whatever you want”. So I think this means I’m retired now. My work folder can be deleted, my account at that useless LinkedIn site can be removed, and I can watch stories on the television while complaining about how much better things were when we were kids.

Every tomorrow is harder than yesterday. There will be a lot of missed projects, goals, and things to teach my kids, but I’m fighting every day and won’t stop until this body takes its last breath.