0 Stars. Would Not Recommend.
- timandcloe
- Mar 27
- 4 min read
Cancer - 0 stars. Would not recommend. Would ask for a refund if that were an option. No receipt, no returns policy. Deeply disappointing.
This week was rougher than I’d anticipated - a shock I suspect most first-time chemo-goers also feel after going through their first round.
You read everything. You’re told everything. You mentally prepare for every possible side effect like you’re sitting an exam you didn’t sign up for, in a subject you barely understand - and no deferrals allowed (nod to my colleagues here).
But what no one can quite explain is the weight of it. How completely it takes over your body.
Until you go through it yourself.
My biggest beef: The Fatigue
Don’t get me wrong, I knew this wouldn’t be a walk in the park. I wasn’t expecting to glide through like those annoyingly resilient people who “barely felt a thing.”
You know the type - the ones everyone secretly hates a little, like those pregnant ladies who breeze through labour without so much as a grimace, and somehow three coughs later, there’s a baby. 👶
But I also didn’t expect to feel this profoundly unlike myself from the sheer exhaustion of it all.
Because here’s the thing - I am not new to being tired. In fact, I’ve built a personality around it.
Starting a sentence with confidence and finishing it… eventually… once my brain clocks back in? Tick.
Always out of breath when talking and climbing stairs at the same time and not just because I'm incredibly unfit? Tick.
Casual chats with my GP about potentially evicting my uterus this year just to hang on to a bit more iron, which I always seem to lack? Also tick.
Answering emails in small bursts between bouts of existential yawning? That’s me, all day, every day.
Sunlit afternoon naps on the couch like our cat Mookie on a daily basis? Frankly, a personality trait.
But this level of exhaustion? Elite.
This is like “eyelids need structural support” tired. This is like “even breathing feels like an optional extra I’m not entirely sold on” tired.
At one point, I actually genuinely considered whether blinking less might conserve energy.
It's like “gravity has taken a personal interest in my downfall” tired.
It’s also been strangely confronting because this doesn’t feel like just tiredness. It feels like failure.
Failure because I am struggling to do even the basics - help out around the house, respond to a message or phone call in a reasonable timeframe, look at my work emails, or finish the half-made cups of tea I’ve reboiled the kettle for seventeen times over for.
Even writing this blog, usually a pleasure, has taken more effort than my body was willing to spare today.
Now logically, I know that’s not true. I'm not a failure nor am I failing anyone and my support crew at home has been incredible in making me feel far from it. But it’s hard when your body just opts out and you can't do the things you want or need to do.
No warning, no negotiation, no appeals process.
And yes, I know I should just “accept this sloth era,” which sounds charming in theory.
But in practice, it’s less “slow-moving, adorable tree-dwelling creature” and more “falls asleep mid-conversation. Upright. Mouth open. Drool flowing. Slowly collapsing like a poorly built IKEA chair.”
Not quite the aesthetic I was aiming for, but here we are. Chemo tired. No reserves. No warning.
Just a wonky, worn-down, slightly damp chair slowly folding in on itself. 🫠
I am hopeful, however, that my fatigued body and I can reach some sort of mutual understanding over the next few months.
Not even a friendship - a loosely respectful co-existence would do.
A chaotic side-effect lucky dip
Then there are the other side effects, which feel like they were selected at random from a particularly unhinged lucky dip.
My tastebuds have packed up and left, replaced with a metallic tang - like I’ve been casually licking batteries for fun.
My mouth and tongue are covered in ulcers, making eating less a joy and more a strategic exercise.
I’ve got heartburn that feels like I’ve swallowed straight metho, and it’s staging a dramatic comeback tour.
My stomach can’t decide what it stands for, swinging between “absolutely nothing is happening” and “everything is happening immediately.”
My skin and lips are so dry they could legally be classified as a drought zone.
And my nose hairs have gone full kamikaze, launching themselves with every exhale. Never thought they would be the first to go, given my full body coverage.
…Odd. 🤔
One week in
So that’s where I’m at, one week post my first cycle.
I’m hoping that as I find my rhythm and continue treatment, I’ll be able to return, in some capacity, to things like working, socialising, and maintaining my title as dishwasher-stacking aficionado.
But I’m also trying, not always successfully, to give myself a bit of grace.
To let my body rest when it needs it and trust that all of this is doing exactly what it’s meant to do: focusing every bit of energy on getting rid of what shouldn’t be there.
Because chemo, whilst rough, is the best insurance I have to evict those invaders long term.
And when I stack it up like that - side effects, exhaustion, battery-flavoured mouth and all - it’s worth it.
Worth it, even if my current personality is just “tired,” with a supporting role played by nausea.
This blog is to allow me to write a little more about it along the way. Partly to keep friends and family updated, and partly because writing has always been how I make sense of things.
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