Time can’t be stopped, slowed down, or skipped ahead. I’ve tried all three before, so I know. One week passed, and suddenly it was time for my first chemotherapy session.

A big step into the unknown.

On the first morning of December, my dad drove me to the oncology department. We brought a large bag with us because my first chemotherapy cycle was split over two days, and we didn’t know whether I’d be staying overnight or going home. Somewhere along the drive, I started crying. I couldn’t quite believe we were already here.

First came blood tests. I got called in fairly quickly, but the results took about an hour and a half. Dad went off to work and told me to call whenever I needed him. So I did the sensible thing and went for a coffee and a pastry.

A little treat before everything started.

Most people in the waiting room were older. There was one younger woman sitting near the door. She wore a baseball cap and a face mask, so I couldn’t see much of her face. She still had her hair. Ever since finding out I had cancer, I’d started wearing my own hair down all the time. Before that, it spent most of its life in a ponytail because it was practical. For training. For everyday life. Suddenly I wanted to enjoy it while I still had it.

Eventually my number appeared on the screen.

Clinic 7.

The doctor and nurse first registered me, which basically meant I told my medical story all over again. This time they also asked about my family’s medical history. The doctor asked me twice whether I understood my situation, whether everything had been properly explained, and whether I knew what type of cancer I had and where it had spread. I summarized what I knew. Apparently I passed the test because we moved on to discussing treatment.

I know medicine has advanced enormously over the years, and science keeps moving forward at an incredible pace. But listening to the doctor, part of it still sounded a little like alchemy. We know these drugs usually work for this type of cancer, so we’ll try them. Three or four cycles.

“How do you decide whether it’s three or four?” I asked.

“We’ll see.”

That was the answer.

“Honestly, it isn’t such a big difference whether it’s three or four.”

They explained the side effects I should expect: severe fatigue, nausea (“We’ll prescribe medication for that, don’t worry”), vomiting, hair loss, tingling or numbness in the fingers, muscle and joint pain (“We’ve got medication for that too”), flu-like symptoms, diarrhoea, constipation, dry skin, brittle nails, changes in taste…

“What isn’t normal?” I asked. “When should I call?”

From the look on the doctor’s face, I got the impression that almost anything was considered normal.

“Call if you have bleeding, chills, a high fever, or if you completely lose sensation in your fingers.”

Along with a small pharmacy’s worth of prescriptions, they also gave me one for Pelgraz. The nurse showed me how to inject it into my thigh twenty-four hours after my final infusion. She even had a practice model so I could try it myself. The injection helps increase white blood cell production and lowers the risk of infection. In theory, it should help me survive treatment more safely, keep my blood results looking respectable, and hopefully prevent delays to future chemotherapy sessions.

Afterwards, the nurse showed me around the infusion centre where patients receive treatment and then go home the same day. I put my things in a locker, changed, and waited inside. Eventually my number appeared again and I was taken into a large open room filled with reclining chairs and hospital beds. People receiving shorter infusions sat in chairs. Mine was expected to take two and a half hours. Apparently I’d earned a bed.

I arranged my phone, laptop, book, snacks, and tea around me like I was moving into a small studio apartment. The nurse even brought me a warm blanket. Honestly, I felt surprisingly comfortable there. From my bed I could see a large Christmas tree standing in the middle of the room.

That made me a little sad.

My next chemotherapy session was scheduled for December 23rd. We started with pre-medication. These are the drugs given beforehand to help prevent allergic reactions, reduce nausea, and generally make the whole experience easier.

First came an injection of diazepam.

I thought I was reasonably calm already. In fact, I’d convinced myself I was handling the whole thing quite well. People often talk about chemotherapy as if it’s a monster waiting around the corner. I didn’t really see it that way. To me, chemotherapy was on my team. It was one of the good guys. The thing that was supposed to help me beat the monster already living inside me. At least, that’s what I thought.

Less than ten minutes later, I felt wonderfully relaxed.

The sort of relaxed I hadn’t felt in a very long time. Apparently my actual stress levels and my perceived stress levels were not quite the same thing. Next came the PICC line in my arm. The nurse connected the infusion through the port and started running the remaining medications. Then we had to wait for the chemotherapy itself to arrive from the pharmacy. After about half an hour she returned.

“Right. We’ve got it. Here we go.”

Thanks to the diazepam, I wasn’t particularly concerned about anything anymore. Over the next couple of hours, I finished all my work, answered messages, and read a few chapters of my book. The entire time I kept waiting for something to happen.

A strange taste in my mouth.

Nausea.

Fatigue.

Something.

But nothing came.

When they finally disconnected everything, I felt a little sleepy and slightly slower than usual.

That was all.

We’ll see what tomorrow brings.