PART 3
The chemotherapy was every other Thursday for six months.
Each treatment took hours. I would have blood work, see my doctor, then spend the day in the infusion room.
I was never alone. A family member or close friend always came with me, and my nurse, Leigh, did everything she could to keep my spirits up.
After chemotherapy, I’d go back to my parents’ house and sleep. Then the nausea and pain would hit.
And somehow, I kept going to work.
I worked through the entire six months of chemotherapy, taking off only on infusion days.
5
After my second treatment, most of my hair fell out.
My best friend, Ashley, buzzed off what was left.
That moment was devastating.
I felt hopeless.
I felt ugly.
I felt like I had lost the person I used to be.
But the worst wasn’t over.
During my third chemotherapy session, I told my doctor that my right lung hurt.
She ordered a CT scan.
The results showed a pulmonary embolism—a blood clot in my lung.
Doctors told me that if they hadn’t caught it, it could have killed me.
I spent another night in the hospital and then had to give myself blood-thinner injections twice a day for six months.
5
I experienced almost every terrible side effect imaginable.
At one point, I developed a fever of 103 degrees while my immune system was severely weakened by chemotherapy.
I had a sinus infection, hallucinations and unbearable pain.
That was one of the moments when I genuinely wondered whether I would survive.
But I did.
I kept going.
Treatment continued.
One infusion at a time.
One day at a time.
And finally, after six months, I finished chemotherapy.
My doctor told me I was in remission.
Everyone around me celebrated.
But strangely…
I didn’t feel happy.
