What It’s Really Like to Have Cancer (And go through treatment)
Cancer sucks — but it’s also an incredibly interesting journey. So it’s no surprise that I often get asked “What’s it like to go through chemo? What does radiation feel like? What do you DO all day?” (which, please, ask away). In light of that, I thought I would highlight what a typical day is like when living with the Big-C and going through surgery, chemo and concurrent radiation. (Spoiler: I talk about poop a lot.)
7:30 AM: Wake up one hour before leaving for radiation to “prepare”. Preparation includes chugging coffee to “clear my bowels” and then chugging 30 ounces of water to fill my bladder. Pelvic radiation can’t happen without a full bladder and empty bowels. #TheMoreYouKnow
8:30 AM: Drive to the hospital. Sit in traffic. Cry for no reason. Navigate parking. Parking at the hospital is $13 (and I’m here everyday), followed by parking at chemo, which is $22.50. That’s $35.50 per day!!!! And they wonder why cancer patients are broke. I dream of M4A.
9:00 AM: Duck into the hospital as quickly as possible because I’m terrified of CoronaVirus (hello, immunocompromised). I take no elevators and run down two flights of stairs to Radiation Oncology. I touch nothing. No bannisters, no sign-in pens, no doorknobs. I arrive for radiation and I have to pee VERY badly.
9:10 AM: I’ve been scanned and told my bowels are too full. I am threatened with a enema the next day if I can’t “fix the problem.” I explain that chemo (and the anti-nausea meds, specifically Zofran) cause constipation so it’s difficult to poop on a schedule. *sigh* Enemas terrify me and now it’s all I can think about.
I get radiation, which is basically like sitting in a tanning bed (minus the heat) while Coldplay plays over loud speakers. It’s way better than chemo.
9:30 AM: Leave hospital to drive to a SECOND location to get infused with chemo drugs. Yay, more poison! (Oh and be exposed to more sick people.)
10:30 AM: Arrive 30 minutes early for chemo — I’m tired. I’m hungry. I’m nauseous.
11:20 AM: Chemo is busy today, I get called 20 minutes past my appointment and get put in Room 3, the worst room. Why the worst? Because Room 1 gets an ocean view and Room 3 stares at a beige and black office building. One time I got Room 1 and it was pretty cool. I’m not sure who controls room selection, but boy they love putting me in Room 3. :)
Vitals, weight, and height are all checked. My temp is 99 degrees. That’s strange. We don’t know why. Oh well.
I am asked if I’m eating because I’ve lost too much weight. (I’ve only lost about 15 pounds.) One doctor tells me they’ll make me drink protein shakes if I don’t gain weight. (It’s very important while having cancer to make your body do very specific things at all times that are really hard to control — but whatever.)
11:30 AM: Get more Zofran (great, more constipation). I am dizzy now. Here come the chemo drugs. My nurse shows up in her full hazmat suit, because you know she’s handling poison. My body is meant to just sit and take it.
Chemo rushes into my body via my port (a device in my chest). It feels like … nothing, except over time you start to feel queasy, tired and loopy.
I try walking to the bathroom with my “IV” attached. I feel high even though I’m not. It takes forever to pee and my urethra hurts. TMI?
I take a chemo nap as the drugs obliterate cancer cells. My husband plays on his laptop. #TheDream
1:30 PM: Short infusion day — after 2 hours I am done. Beats the 7 hours two days before. The nurse attaches a device to my arm that I’ll wear for 24 hours. The device — which costs me~$500 — will inject me with Neulasta so that my bone marrow can go crazy and replenish my white blood cells etc. It sucks, but I’m thankful it keeps my levels up. After the injection I feel the shittiest. Some people describe the feeling as “like being a 95-year-old lady”. All I know is I’d kill to make it to 95. I take Claritin to mitigate the side effects.
2 PM: Make it back to the AirBNB. So tired. So nauseous. Time to get high. I take a watermelon “edible” gummy so I can float away for five hours. The fact that weed is illegal anywhere infuriates me. WE NEED IT! LET PEOPLE BE HAPPY!
2 PM to 9 PM: A combination of eating, nausea, hydrating (but not too fast, you’ll get nauseous) and crying. I drink some SmoothMove tea, because ya know I DON’T WANT an enema at radiation. Watch “30 Rock”, hang with my cat, feel like shit. Bathe in epsom salts (helps with the nausea — did I mention I am nauseous?) while trying not to get the arm device wet. Cry some more. I’m so tired!
9:30 PM: Time to sleep. Praying to get through the night without peeing too much, getting a migraine, waking up short of breath or having my hands go numb. My husband reminds me one thousand times a day how strong I am and how much he loves me (d’awww he’s really the best). Oh, and he rubs my feet.
9:40 PM: Count my blessings because, honestly I am FUCKING BLESSED.
Despite all the shittiness, I go to bed thankful that I was able to take time off work (some people can’t), that my friends and family donated to my GoFundMe so we can afford to pay rent in LA while having to go to the hospital daily, that my husband has a job and fanbase that allow him to take time off to take care of me, that my mom is retired and also takes care of me, that I receive daily text messages, emails and DMs from people that keep my spirits high.
Cancer is a daily battle — and it’s a long one. I am five months into treatment and I am sick of being sick. I have 30 days left. I must power through. I could not do any of this without each and every person helping me. It takes an army. If you know anyone else with cancer reach out to them. Sometimes we feel isolated and alone and the battle feels too big. You never know when a loving text can pull someone through a shitty day. :)
7:30 AM: Time to do it all over again!
The End.
P.S. The tea worked! I did NOT have to get an enema :)
*****
For those who don’t know, I was diagnosed with Stage 3C Small Cell Neuroendocrine cancer in October 2019 at age 34. There are less than 200 cases per year. There is no research, funding or clinical trials for this cancer. If you would like to learn more please visit https://necervix.com/facts/.
I also have a GoFundMe here: https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-taryn-beat-cancer. (No pressure, anything and everything is appreciated.)