The Good Old Days Of Chemo

I almost miss the routine of chemotherapy.  You may find that hard to believe.  Hell, I find it hard to believe.  But it is true.  I almost miss it.  Almost.

Why?  Chemotherapy provided me with structure in a number of ways.  First, of course, it provided a steady schedule of things to do:  blood test, every week; doctor appointment, every three weeks; chemo itself, every three weeks.  The chemo routine also dictated my physical condition:  tired and miserable right after treatment, followed by improvement and finally feeling near-normal.

Most of all, chemotherapy functioned (as my minister put it) as a way to manage my anxiety.   My whole life revolved around chemo; thus, it gave me a focus for my emotional energy.  Chemotherapy and its side effects also were tangible signs that the cancer was being eradicated.  In a sense, I felt safe during chemo because I knew the cancer-fighting drugs were circulating in me.  As much as I disliked feeling bad, there was also a strange kind of comfort in it.

My life since the end of chemo has been far more difficult than I would have ever predicted.  I was looking forward to “getting my life back.”  Instead, I basically fell apart emotionally.  I’ve had a rough time the past few months, and am only now starting (barely) to approach where I was before.

Reliable sources tell me that my experience is not unusual.  Small comfort that is.  I wonder why no one ever told me about this reaction ahead of time.  They scared me with every physical side effect that could possibly happen to me.  Why not let me in on the mental side effects as well?  Not knowing certainly did not prevent it from happening.