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.

Infusion #6 ✔️

Two more to go.

Dose #7 on Monday, then #8… and I will officially be DONE with FOLFOX.

This round was pretty similar to #5.

The chemotherapy is cumulative, which is a polite medical way of saying it stacks up and your body keeps the receipts.

And mine is keeping excellent records.

The oxaliplatin and 5 FU combination has my gut, stomach and throat nerves a little… irritated.

Everything I eat or drink feels like I swallowed a bowling ball. There’s this constant knot feeling, like my digestive system is annoyed at me personally.

Drinking enough is still a struggle, even a week out from disconnect.

The brain fog and fatigue pretty much stick around full time now. They lighten up a bit about four days after disconnect, but they’re always kind of hovering.

Focus is optional.

Ambition has temporarily left the building.

I’ll Take Every Tiny Win

The good news?

Some of my bowel urgency issues are improving.

It isn’t dramatic, but it’s real.

And I will take every tiny win.

I’m positive.

I’m realistic.

I’m hopeful.

And I am very excited to be closing in on the end of this phase.

Ironically, toward the end of every off week, I start craving fermented foods, sushi and rare steak, which are exactly the foods my immune system currently does not have the capacity to negotiate with.

The body is funny like that.

My Great Rebuild Era

When chemotherapy is finished and I have some strength back, I’m entering what I’m calling my Great Rebuild Era.

Kitchen plastics? Gone.

Only natural fabrics touching my body.

Clean cleaning supplies.

Clean laundry detergent.

Ultra processed foods out.

Alcohol out.

Stress, overworking and unnecessary obligations?

Also out.

It may take time, but I’m serious about rebuilding from the inside out.

Not because I think I can somehow control every variable or guarantee what happens next.

I can’t.

But cancer has made me think differently about how I want to take care of myself and, honestly, how I want to live.

There Is Still a Life Waiting for Me

We had planned to be in England and Scotland this year, but apparently the universe had other plans.

So we’re rescheduling that adventure for next spring or fall.

It will be even sweeter.

In the meantime, we added a new family member in December.

A little Merle Yorkie named Hector Valentino.

He’s about ten months old now. Sweet, shy and fully convinced our bedroom is his kingdom since we’ve basically been living in there during treatment.

I cannot wait for “normal” again.

I have a home to do list waiting for me when my energy comes back.

Two more infusions.

Let’s go.

Looking Back

This post feels different to me now because I can see myself beginning to look beyond treatment.

For months, life had been measured in radiation appointments and chemotherapy cycles.

Then suddenly I could count what remained on two fingers.

Two.

And my mind started wandering toward everything I wanted to do when cancer treatment stopped consuming so much of my life.

Travel.

My house.

Work.

Food.

Hector.

Ordinary things.

I wanted normal back.

I also wanted to rebuild.

Some of what I called my Great Rebuild Era was about tangible things. Food, household products, fabrics, alcohol, stress.

But I think underneath all of that was something much bigger.

Cancer had taken control of my body and my calendar for months.

I wanted some agency back.

I wanted to decide what came into my home, what I put into my body, where I spent my time and what deserved my energy.

I wanted to believe I could close this chapter and build something healthier on the other side.

Reading it now, there’s tenderness in that certainty because I know something February Dawn didn’t.

The path ahead wouldn’t be quite as clean as finish chemotherapy, recover, get back to normal.

There would be scans.

Surgery.

Pathology.

More uncertainty.

And eventually I would learn that “normal” itself had become a moving target.

But I don’t want to correct the woman who wrote this.

She had two treatments left.

She was exhausted.

She had been through months of chemoradiation and chemotherapy.

And she was finally allowing herself to imagine England and Scotland, home projects and a life that wasn’t organized around cancer treatment.

She needed that horizon.

Two More

One thing cancer taught me during this stretch was how much smaller time could become.

At the beginning, I had an entire treatment plan looming in front of me.

By February 19, I wasn’t thinking about all of it anymore.

I was thinking about two infusions.

Then one.

Then none.

Sometimes looking too far ahead is overwhelming.

Sometimes all you need is the next marker.

Mine was simple.

Two more infusions.

Let’s go.