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.

Chemo update from the land of FOLFOX. 🧪✨

Round 4 really said plot twist.

Rounds 1 through 3 were tough but predictable.

Round 4 decided to humble me.

The fatigue hit harder and stayed longer. I was down for the count for a solid four days.

Zero stars. Do not recommend.

Drinking Became Weirdly Difficult

The biggest curveball this round has been liquids.

I normally drink close to a gallon of water a day. Right now, my body says absolutely not.

Two sips and I’m full.

Thanksgiving full.

Then there’s a weird knot in my gut and a lump in my throat just to keep things interesting.

It isn’t a taste thing. It’s more like my body forgot how swallowing works.

Oddly enough, broth, pho and room temperature V8 are my safe foods.

Thin liquids are canceled, but slightly thicker vibes are apparently allowed.

Peppermint tea, usually my ride or die, is currently dead to me.

Oxaliplatin and Cold Sensitivity

One of my chemotherapy drugs, oxaliplatin, is platinum based and comes with a special bonus feature called cold sensitivity.

Translation?

Nothing cold to eat or drink for several days after infusion.

Cold air also chooses violence.

If it’s below 50 degrees, I don’t go outside. It feels like being stabbed with thousands of tiny needles, and I am not built for that kind of character development.

To try to combat some of this, I use a cryotherapy cooler hooked up to socks and gloves during treatment.

Hands and feet on ice like a very unhinged spa day.

So far, it’s been doing its job for me and has kept the cold sensitivity out of my hands and feet.

Honestly, that feels like a small miracle.

Nausea, Constipation and My Still Angry Rectum

I skipped the anti nausea medication this round because my gut is sensitive and chemo constipation is already doing the most.

I had mild nausea but no vomiting.

Just vibes and questionable sensations.

Mouth icing or not, my lips and throat still act possessed.

Add in the ongoing radiation proctitis because my tumor is very, very low, and the days around infusion and disconnect are basically a bathroom based endurance sport.

That definitely contributes to the crash.

And We Ride Again

All that said, I’m still standing.

Only mildly dehydrated.

I’m asking for fluids next round.

Adjusting.

Learning.

One foot in front of the other.

My next infusion is Monday, and we ride again.

Chemo is weird.

Healing is not linear.

And I’m deeply grateful for everyone cheering me on, checking in and sending love. It matters more than you know. 🤍

Onward. Always onward.

Looking Back

Round 4 was when FOLFOX started feeling different.

The earlier rounds had taught me a rhythm. Infusion. Crash. Recover. Feel somewhat human. Repeat.

I had begun thinking I understood the terrain.

Then Round 4 moved the terrain.

The fatigue lasted longer. Eating and drinking became more complicated. My digestive system was still recovering from radiation while chemotherapy was creating problems of its own.

Looking back, this is also where I can see myself doing something I would continue doing throughout treatment:

adjusting.

If drinking was becoming difficult, I would ask for IV fluids.

If something made me feel worse, I tried something else.

If I could tolerate broth but not water, then broth it was.

Cancer treatment involved a surprising amount of improvisation.

There was the treatment plan written neatly in my medical chart.

And then there was the actual human body receiving it.

Those were not always the same experience.

I also wrote something here that I still believe:

Healing is not linear.

At the time I was talking largely about recovering from radiation while going through chemotherapy.

I understand that sentence differently now.

Healing doesn’t necessarily mean everything continually gets better. Sometimes you improve and then stumble backward. Sometimes one part of you is healing while another part is taking a beating. Sometimes the scan is good while something else isn’t. Sometimes your body is recovering faster than your mind.

Progress can be messy.

It’s still progress.

For someone going through FOLFOX

If you’re reading this because oxaliplatin has suddenly made your refrigerator feel like a hostile environment, you’re not alone in finding some of its sensations bizarre.

This was my experience, including my experience with cryotherapy. It isn’t a recommendation or a substitute for talking with your oncology team about cold sensitivity, neuropathy, swallowing problems, dehydration or other symptoms.

And looking back, I would emphasize something else.

Tell your team what is happening.

I had reached the point where drinking enough was becoming genuinely difficult. My response was to ask for IV hydration with the next cycle rather than trying to win some imaginary prize for getting through chemotherapy without help.

There are no bonus points for suffering quietly.

Round 4 humbled me a little.

Then I adjusted.

And on Monday, we rode again.