I received my chemotherapy in the mail a few weeks ago. I was supposed to start it as soon as possible. The delivery of meds coincided with my second COVID-19 vaccine, so I decided to delay chemo until last Monday. When last Monday came, the nurse at Mayo Clinic called me for “chemotherapy education.” She tells me I’m supposed to take pills to help me poop, help me not puke, and help me not get an infection. She says I’ll likely be on this chemo for at least six months. She says if for some reason I didn’t end up taking chemotherapy that night that I was supposed to send them a message to let them know so they can adjust bloodwork schedules.
On Monday night, I decided to delay my chemo another week. Like my friend Alanis Morissette says: “I’m brave but I’m chicken shit.”
Tonight I took my first chemotherapy treatment. I sent this letter to my doctor letting him know:
It’s been over an hour now since I took those jagged little chemo pills. I don’t know what I think is going to happen or why I’m so anxious about it, but I hope it starts eating away at these damn cancer cells. I take chemo every night this week, then off for about a month.
Isn’t it ironic that I spent years climbing mountains after having fought cancer only to find that I’m just as scared to climb the same mountain again? I guess we live and learn.