Heading into Chemo

Tomorrow I will start the IV chemo, Taxotere, along with the oral medication, Xeloda. This combination is designed to work together and gives my medical oncologist some flexibility. While I get the need to get ahead of the cancer cells that were not materially affected by my last line of treatment, the knowledge that I will once again endure IV chemo hasn’t been something to anticipate with anything close to positivity.

When I was initially diagnosed in March of 2017, we believed that I was Stage II and treatment would be something that would occupy some time that summer and would be quickly left behind, not unlike my mother’s experience. We believed it was a season to be endured and then put away. And so that’s the way I approached IV chemo the first time. I would grit my teeth, deal with the hair loss and other awful side effucks and then never look back.

Oh how perspectives have changed.

Now, I will walk into the infusion center tomorrow hoping that these first six sessions, occurring every three weeks, will be sufficient for now, expecting that I’ll be willingly signing up for as many other sessions as my medical oncologist suggests, while taking the oral medication as well and for as long as possible. This is a HUGE change from the perspective of just trying to get through a season; now this is my entire reality, staying in treatment as long as they work and praying for the treatment to work for as long as possible, even if it’s miserable.

Just as with the scans that I endure every three (3) months, walking into the infusion center tomorrow isn’t just about not knowing what to fully expect, it’s also about knowing a bit about what to expect.

Chemoxiety, I guess, just like Scanxiety.

I’ve watched so many of my dear friends start down this road, where treatments don’t work and chemo is started. It’s not that I don’t know what is coming, maybe not for a bit, but certainly sooner than I’d hoped. While every story is different, each story ends the same way, no matter how involved or engaged or stubborn or accepting the patient is during the treatment. All of us will be consumed and killed by this disease and the return to chemo is a bad sign, it is the wrong direction to go.

And so I will walk into that infusion room tomorrow. I will walk into that room and I will willingly allow them to pump poison into my veins, knowing the side effects that are coming and the toll it will take on my body and my family. I will do that tomorrow because that’s how I get more time with my family. Walking into that infusion center and taking what comes after is how I stay alive as long as possible.

Even if it sucks.

44 thoughts on “Heading into Chemo

  1. Lord, have mercy. Wrap up your precious Abigail in your loving arms and carry her through the anxiety, the procedure, the side effects and beyond.🙏🙏🙏
    Love you dear one 😘

    Like

  2. I want to tell you so many things, but the words may come out wrong. Love to you and your family!! Just know that I am thinking of you every moment and if you have any questions that I may be able to answer, I am here!! Love to you!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

    Like

  3. I swear I have PTSD over the chemo room at my first oncologist’s office. I pray that these two meds work for you, Abigail. I am off to a full body scan tomorrow! Scanxiety continues!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Love and light to you, dear Abigail. May the “side effucks” be less than anticipated, while the regimen devastates “those pesky mets.”

    I can’t begin to tell you how deeply moved I am that you’ve been continuing to visit my blog at this very difficult time.
    💕🙏🌷

    Liked by 1 person

  5. I admire your perspective. Whatever gets the job done to spend more time with your family is excellent motivation. My mom was a cancer survivor, but at first, she wasn’t going to fight. As a deeply religious person, her attitude was perhaps this is God’s plan for me. It took the encouragement from my dad and her four boys to say, “Screw that! We want you around.”

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Given what you and your family face, it is hard to click “like” when I read the post. I definitely don’t “like” that you have to endure what you do. I admire and am humbled by your reflections and ongoing tenacity and grit and resilience. Thank you for sharing.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Eu gostaria de poder fazer mais por você. Eu gostaria de poder tirar toda a dor e todo o sofrimento de dentro do seu peito e fazer você ficar saudável novamente. Eu gostaria de poder mandar o câncer para bem longe de nós. Infelizmente, isso não é possível. O que eu posso fazer é oferecer palavras de conforto nesse momento tão difícil da sua vida.

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s