This post is part of my Cancer & Healing journal, an archive of the updates I wrote while going through treatment for Stage III rectal cancer. These entries reflect what I knew and felt at the time.

Round one of FOLFOX is officially done, and let me tell you… it was a whole vibe.

And by vibe, I mean the kind you would never wish on another living soul.

The first two days lulled me into a false sense of security. The premeds and steroids had me thinking I might actually breeze through this.

Then day three showed up and said, Sweetie, lay down.

And I did.

All day.

For two days straight.

My gut also decided to embrace the full chaotic experience.

Day one was slow and quiet.

Day two was a track meet.

Days three and four were a confused tumble of gas, cramping and absolutely no interest in food.

My appetite is still hiding somewhere in another dimension.

Chemo takes your normal and shakes it like a snow globe.

And then there is my port.

My rebellious little gymnast.

Turns out that after losing twenty pounds since radiation, the port pocket is now too roomy. So this thing flips and rolls every time I lean forward or reach across my body.

It’s giving circus performer energy.

Pretty sure it wants to run away and join Cirque du Soleil.

I’ll probably need a small revision so it stays put like it’s supposed to, but for now we’re calling it a character building plot twist.

But even with all this nonsense, I am okay.

I’m learning the rhythm.

Resting when my body demands it. Laughing at the ridiculous parts because, honestly, there are a lot of them. And being held by the love of my people, which makes a hard thing feel a little less heavy.

Thank you for every message, prayer and check in.

You all carry me more than you know.

Onward to round two, where my port will hopefully remember its job description.

Looking Back

This was my introduction to FOLFOX.

And one of the first things I learned was that chemotherapy didn’t necessarily hit when I expected it to.

Those first couple of days weren’t exactly pleasant, but the medications given with treatment helped enough that I remember thinking maybe this wouldn’t be quite as bad as I had imagined.

Then the steroids and premedications wore off.

Day three arrived.

That became part of learning the rhythm of chemotherapy for me. Treatment wasn’t simply infusion day followed by feeling progressively better. There were patterns. Certain days were harder than others. My digestive system developed opinions of its own. Food changed. Energy changed. And eventually I started learning what my body tended to do after each infusion.

There was also the port situation.

I’d lost about twenty pounds through chemoradiation, which meant the little pocket of tissue holding my port wasn’t quite the same pocket it had been when the port was placed. Mine became unusually mobile and could flip and roll with certain movements.

Because apparently regular cancer wasn’t providing enough extracurricular activities.

But when I read this now, the sentence that stands out isn’t about the fatigue, my stomach or even my Cirque du Soleil port.

It’s this:

I am learning the rhythm.

That became an important part of getting through chemotherapy.

The first round was completely unknown.

After that, it wasn’t.

I didn’t necessarily know exactly how each cycle would go, but I started recognizing the terrain.

And sometimes knowing where the potholes are makes the road a little easier to travel.

For someone starting FOLFOX

If you’ve found this because you’re about to start FOLFOX, this was my first cycle, not a roadmap for what yours will be.

People can experience the same chemotherapy very differently, and symptoms that are severe, unusual or concerning should always go to your oncology team.

But one thing I wish every person starting chemotherapy knew is that your first infusion doesn’t necessarily tell you how the entire cycle will feel.

For me, there was a rhythm to it.

I just hadn’t learned it yet.

Round one was where I started.

And then I showed up for round two.