Today I arrived at the oncology clinic as the third person in line. Many people travel here from nearby towns and some from much farther away. I have no idea what time they have to get up. My alarm goes off at 5:45, which is manageable since I only have a few tram stops to travel. An hour later, the blood draw room opens. For some reason, the needles hurt more now than they did at the beginning. I hope there aren’t too many of them left.

After the blood tests, we wait for the little café downstairs to open. They sell fresh pastries, and I’ve developed a habit of choosing a seat with a good view of the queue. Doctors, nurses, patients wearing every type of wig imaginable, others in hats and scarves. Most of the men simply embrace the bald look. I’m the only woman with a shaved head. The hot flashes have something to do with that. Even a baseball cap can feel too warm these days. I have no interest in wearing a wig.

Next to me, an older man rocks gently back and forth on a hanging bench. Beside his tea sits a small mountain of pills. He looks miserable. People don’t laugh much here. When they told me my chemotherapy was working and the cancer was shrinking, I didn’t laugh either. I cried. Apparently that’s what post-traumatic stress looks like.

When I went for my first chemotherapy session, my dad drove me there. After the blood tests, he went to work. Of course, I’d already read everything I could find about what was coming. While the drugs were dripping into my veins, I worked, answered emails, and wrote from nine in the morning until three in the afternoon. Then my dad came back to pick me up because neither of us knew how hard the treatment would hit me. I shuffled across the parking lot at the speed of a tired snail. I felt as if I’d been hit by a truck. Nothing hurt, but I was completely wiped out.

At home, I lay down and waited to see what would happen. The first two days weren’t too bad. On the third morning, I just barely made it to the bathroom before passing out. Other than that, it was fine.

Since about the third cycle, I’ve been going to chemotherapy on my own. Since the fifth, I’ve been making my own way home as well. The treatments themselves aren’t especially difficult for me. That said, I don’t get nearly as much done while I’m sitting in the chemo chair these days. I’m more tired, I sleep worse at night, and now I spend most of the infusion sleeping.

At first, I had my chemotherapy split over two days. Paclitaxel on Monday, which stops cancer cells from dividing, and Carboplatin on Tuesday, which damages their DNA. From cycle four onward, I started having both drugs on the same day. The thought of coming back to the hospital again the next morning—more premedication, more needles, more hours in the day ward—was enough to convince me. I’d rather feel a little worse for a few days than spend an extra day in the hospital. One visit every twenty-one days is quite enough. The less time I spend there, the calmer I feel.

The difficult part starts the following day when I inject the medication that stimulates my bone marrow. That thing completely wipes me out. If it happens to coincide with whatever bug my son has brought home from kindergarten, then I’m usually in trouble for weeks. This time we started with a stomach bug. Then I developed a cold and a cough. What would be a normal cold for most people can become a major challenge for me. Sleepless nights from coughing. Crushing fatigue. And twenty days later, I’m still coughing.

My GP ran every test necessary to rule out anything serious. The verdict? Just a regular cold. I’m no longer sure which symptoms belong to the cold and which belong to chemotherapy slowly accumulating in my body.

Now imagine living on the seventh floor when the elevator breaks down. By the fourth floor, I was seriously considering setting up camp on the staircase and waiting until it started working again. I kept going. By the fifth floor, I was holding onto the railing and struggling to breathe. But I made it home. I even had to take naps during the day, which is something I almost never do. I’ve always believed that every hour spent sleeping is an hour that could have been used for something else. Day or night. If I could get away with never sleeping, I probably would.

Sometimes I feel genuinely sad about how much time I’ve spent lying down these past months. That’s why, whenever I can, I’m outside. A little here, a little there. And my son is usually right there with me. I’m trying to raise a little adventurer—someone who isn’t afraid of people, likes trying new things, keeps moving, and wants to see the world.

A friend told me recently, “Let him be outside as much as possible. In a few years he’ll be sitting all day at school, and after that, at work.” He’s probably right. But it’s also because being outside helps me. For the bad days, we’ve recently finished his new room, where he finally has enough space to play properly. Wooden train tracks and trains are still the favourites, along with every type of toy car imaginable. We play kindergarten. We’ve started drawing more. We watch cartoons. Right now, Mowgli is the clear winner. If we can’t run around the forest ourselves, at least we can watch someone else do it on television.

Last Sunday I pushed myself a little. We grabbed a ball and headed to the playground. For the first time since my second surgery, I ran. That felt like a big milestone. Of course there are other ways to spend time together. Board games when he’s older. Walks. Plenty of things. But before treatment, our days looked very different. We went swimming. We chased each other around. We did somersaults. My son practised handstands. We wrestled.

On Sunday afternoon, a friend joined us for a game of mini golf. Watching the two of them and realizing I wasn’t lying in a hospital bed, I felt something close to peace. Maybe I won’t be able to be as active as I once was. Maybe I won’t get back everything I’ve lost. But if I can still spend time with family and friends, and if I can still be an active mum to my son, maybe that’s enough. I could have been lying in bed with a feeding tube in my nose.

That thought helped. At least for a few hours.

Then, later that evening, I changed my mind.

I want as much of my old life back as possible. Mini golf is nice, but I’m happiest when I’m running through the hills and choking people on the mats.

I’m finishing today’s update in the oncology waiting room. The first floor is being renovated, so everyone has been squeezed onto the second floor and things are moving painfully slowly. Fortunately, my appointment was quick.

“Your white blood cell count and platelets are still quite low,” my doctor said. “Are you feeling tired?”

That made me laugh.

No kidding.

My hands and feet are swollen. I drop things. I get out of breath easily. Most days I’d happily spend half the day lying down. Still, I only mentioned the swelling and the lingering cold. Those are probably the things they need to know about. The rest comes with the territory. And honestly, it could be much worse.

“If you develop a fever, have trouble breathing, or start feeling significantly worse, call us immediately,” she said. “I’d also recommend adding vitamin C and B vitamins. Otherwise, we’ll see you again next Monday. Hopefully those numbers will start climbing.”

So, another appointment next week. That will be cycle number six. After that, probably one or two more rounds of chemotherapy, a follow-up CT scan, and then we’ll see what comes next.

Because cancer isn’t like a cold that eventually goes away.

It’s an ongoing story, simply divided into different chapters.