April 14, 2026

When people ask me, "How are you doing?" I've learned to pause. Because the honest answer depends on what day it is, what hour it is, and whether the steroids from treatment day are still coursing through my veins or have completely worn off.

Today is Day 10 post-treatment #5. And I'm going to tell you exactly what that looks like.

The Steroid High (Day One is a Lie)

Treatment day itself? I feel fine. Better than fine. The steroids are like a temporary mask that makes me believe I'm invincible. I get home, I'm energized, almost euphoric. I tell myself, "This one was easier. You're getting stronger." I make plans. I think about cooking projects. I feel like myself.

I'm lying to myself, and I know it.

By Day 2, the mask starts to slip.

Days 2-7: The Body Rebellion

This is where the real story of chemotherapy lives—and it's not pretty.

The bone pain starts around hour 36 post-treatment. It's not just aching joints. It's a deep, cellular pain that feels like your skeleton is trying to escape your body. Every bone—spine, pelvis, ribs, femurs—screams. I've described it to my care team a dozen ways: "Like someone's drilling into my marrow." "Like my bones are made of broken glass." "Like I aged 20 years overnight."

The first time you experience this, you panic. You wonder if something went wrong with the treatment. Your mind spirals. (Spoiler: it's the chemo doing exactly what it's supposed to do—triggering your bone marrow to work overtime.)

By Day 5, I'm moving like I'm 87 years old. Stairs are a negotiation. Getting out of bed requires a strategic plan. I hold onto walls, counter tops, anything I can grip onto really. I shuffle. My husband and dog watch with concern in their eyes, and I hate that I'm putting that on them.

The Neuropathy is Getting Worse

My fingertips used to tingle. Now? My hands feel like they're encased in mittens made of static electricity. My wrists are weak and I can't trust them to hold up my morning coffee. My feet have this weird, burning numbness—it's hard to describe without sounding insane. "Numb but painful" isn't an oxymoron in chemo-speak; it's your new normal.

By treatment #5, the neuropathy is noticeably worse than previous rounds. My oncologist warned me it's cumulative. Each treatment adds another layer. I'm terrified of the day it stops being reversible. I'm terrified I'll finish chemo with hands that don't work right. As someone who designs, writes, cooks, and creates with my hands, this fear runs deep.

The Insomnia is Excruciating

I'm not just tired. I'm experiencing a kind of wakefulness that feels almost dissociative. I'll be exhausted—bone-tired, treatment-ravaged, desperate for sleep—but my brain simply will not turn off. It races. It spirals. It replays every conversation, every worst-case scenario, every "what if."

4 AM. Wide awake. 5 AM. Still awake. 6 AM. Watching the sun rise, knowing I have maybe 10 more hours before my body gives up and lets me doze, so no sleep again, just a foreboding dream of possibly a nap at 5pm.

The irony is vicious: the one thing my body desperately needs is the one thing chemo steals from me.

The Emotional Rollercoaster (All Four Feelings at Once)

I'm exhausted. I'm determined. I'm hopeful. And I'm struggling with doubts—sometimes all before breakfast.

The exhaustion isn't just physical. It's emotional. It's existential. It's the weight of knowing you have one more round (I hope, just) of this ahead of you. It's the accumulated toll of the last three months of uncertainty, needle pokes, blood draws, CT scans, waiting rooms, and statistics you wish you'd never Googled.

But I'm determined. Because giving up isn't an option. Because my grandchildren are growing up while I'm in treatment. Because I will see them graduate high school. I will be at their weddings. This is non-negotiable.

I'm hopeful because Treatment #5 means I'm 99.9% done. Because my blood work has consistently looked good. Because my oncologist keeps saying, "We're on track." Because every day I don't have to be in the infusion chair is a win.

And yet... some days I doubt everything. I wonder if the side effects are worth it. I wonder if I'm strong enough. I wonder if my body will ever feel like mine again. I wonder if I'm brave or just stubborn. Some mornings, I can't tell the difference.

Faith When Everything Hurts

Here's what keeps me tethered: my faith. Not in a performative, "everything happens for a reason" kind of way (because honestly, this happened because cancer cells are bastards, and sometimes life is unfair).

But faith in a bigger picture. Faith that there's purpose in this suffering. Faith that my story—all the ugly, raw, brutal parts of it—matters. That it might help someone else in an infusion chair feel less alone.

My husband, my kids and grandkids have been my spiritual anchors. Even my dog crawls into bed (or in my lap in the lazy boy) with me on the worst pain days and just Loves on me. She doesn't understand. My middle child researches neuropathy treatments and calls me to tell me what he has found out. My husband and eldest son make me laugh when I want to cry.

My faith is in them. In this moment. In the promise that on Day 10 or Day 11, the pain will start to ease. The bone aches will soften. My body will remember how to sleep. And I'll start counting down to the next treatment, bracing for impact, but also surviving.

ONE More Round

My final treatment is scheduled for April 28th—assuming my platelets cooperate and my body doesn't throw another curveball. That's two weeks away. Two weeks of preparation, side effects, recovery, and the grinding persistence of hope.  (and then, we get scans to see if further treatment is needed.. My Nightmare)

I used to think "hope" meant believing everything would be easy. Now I know better. Hope is choosing to show up to your chemo appointment even though you know what the next treatment holds. Hope is shuffling to the kitchen to make something nourishing for your body even when every nerve ending is screaming. Hope is telling your story—messy, painful, unglamorous—because maybe someone reading this is sitting in their own Day 2 bone pain and needs to know it gets better.

It does get better. Not fast. Not without cost. But it does.

To the Newly Diagnosed, the Caregivers, and the Survivors Reading This

If you're at the beginning of chemo, I won't lie to you: it's brutal. But it's also survivable. Your body is stronger than you think. Your family's love is more powerful than you know. And one more round for me? ?? for you ?? We're going to get through them the same way we got through the first five—one day at a time, one bone ache at a time, one small victory at a time.

For caregivers: if you're watching someone you love go through this, thank you for being their anchor. You matter more than you know.

For survivors on the other side: you are seen. Your pain was real. Your strength was real. And you made it.

Last treatment: April 28th, 2026.
Assuming my platelets say yes, my spirit stays strong, and my faith holds.

I'll be back to tell you we made it.