The Chemo Glow-Up Nobody Warned Me About
- timandcloe
- May 24
- 9 min read
Updated: May 24
So it turns out there are, in fact, some perks to pumping your body full of chemotherapy drugs.
There. I said it.
Do I sound like someone who's finally crossed the line from "coping reasonably well" into "needs to be supervised around craft scissors"?
Potentially. But stay with me.
Look, chemotherapy is objectively horrific. I'm not trying to become one of those aggressively positive people who refer to cancer as a "journey" while posting sunrise quotes in a handwritten font. This is not that.
Chemo is shit. Deeply shit. Like I've said before: fatigue, nausea, constipation, mouth ulcers, emotional instability, brain fog, peripheral neuropathy, bone pain, and discovering entirely new ways your body can malfunction - it's a whole shithouse wheelhouse of things to go through each cycle.
But after a very successful solo pity party a few weeks ago - complete with snacks I couldn't taste and an emotional support blanket now permanently fused to the couch - I realised I'd been so focused on what chemo has taken from me that I hadn't stopped to notice the bizarre little perks hiding in plain sight.
And honestly? Some of them are excellent.
So here they are.
But first, quick disclaimer: I have been awake since 3:30am writing this on Day 2 post Chemo Cycle #4, still riding the steroid high. It is therefore very likely that by tomorrow or Monday I will take back everything below and return to the same first week state I was in last cycle - where I probably won't even want to be rotated like a chicken to avoid bed sores. Maybe just have someone periodically check I'm still breathing and throw in a heat pack, cool flannel, or piece of lettuce.
But whilst I'm in this temporarily wired phase, and without hubby next to me for once (who I'd normally be trying not to wake), I may as well be honest about some of the things that have surprised me so far. (He's currently been enjoying a little holiday of his own in a hospital bed with a Crohn's-related bowel obstruction since before Cycle 4. Hopefully coming home today. Though honestly, I suspect he's just been enjoying several uninterrupted nights of sleep that he certainly doesn't get post-chemo.)
1. I Am Now Operating at Minimal Hair Capacity
Hair loss is devastating emotionally… but practically?
Inconveniently fabulous.
Everything has slowed right down. Leg hair. Armpit hair. Moustache. Toe hair. The occasional rogue nipple hair that appears overnight with the confidence of a man starting a pub fight.
Gone.
My body has essentially declared: "Resources are limited. We are no longer funding unnecessary projects."
Even my remaining head hair - what’s left of it now firmly in its “medieval scholar” era - has given up the fight. The last stragglers dry in under seven seconds, and my hairbrush has officially been retired in favour of a lint roller.
Winning.
And the freedom of not constantly maintaining yourself for the possibility of being perceived? Incredible.
No panic shaving. No waxing appointments. No shower negotiations about whether my legs are socially acceptable. No pretending my stubble was meant to exfoliate Tim during sexy times and not just evidence I'd once again ignored my razors for 11 consecutive months.
It's like my body has said, "Best I can offer is survival," and honestly?
Respect. 👊
2. Getting Ready Now Takes the Same Amount of Time as Microwaving Leftovers
Hair? As mentioned above - barely there.
Make-up? Optional at best. Why bother when half the cycle I resemble a Victorian orphan recovering from tuberculosis?
Wardrobe? Consisting almost entirely of elastic waistbands, baseball caps, Ugg boots, and face masks. Not even sure what aesthetic this falls under.
I used to spend so much time trying to look polished and put together. But now my daily beauty standard is simply: "Could pass as a functioning member of society from a safe distance."
And weirdly, it's freeing. There's something oddly liberating about reaching a point where vanity simply no longer has the energy budget it once did.
And even if people do notice my lack of polish - they can't really say anything, because I have cancer.
Ooh, love pulling that card sometimes... 🫣
3. My Skin Is Smoother Than My Emotional Regulation
As chemo targets rapidly dividing cells, somehow, amongst all the destruction, my skin has emerged suspiciously soft.
I used to have keratosis pilaris on my upper arms - you know, those little bumps that make your skin feel like uncooked chicken. But chemo appears to have wiped them out entirely.
And my face? Smoother than it's been since puberty decided to absolutely humble me in Year 8.
I'm basically moisturised dolphin-adjacent now.
Granted, the rest of my body is dry enough to start a bushfire through friction alone. And my scalp still breaks out in a pustule rash midway through each cycle, resembling something between a fungal infection and a failed biology experiment.
But wins are wins.
I'll also say that, to combat the dryness, I've fully leaned into requesting moisturiser rubs from Tim "for medicinal purposes" - which feels like a severely under-discussed perk of serious illness in itself.
4. My Periods Have Quietly Left the Chat
Now this is a perk.
Harry asked me the other night: "Is it nice not having periods?"
And honestly, it stopped me. Not just because that's quite a question for a 16-year-old boy - and one I couldn't be prouder that he's even thinking to ask - but because, whilst I've spent years being personally victimised by an endometriosis-riddled uterus attempting to recreate a crime scene every month, I hadn't fully appreciated that chemo has temporarily shut the whole operation down.
No pain.
No heat packs.
No painkillers like Tic Tacs.
No lying in bed wondering if my reproductive organs are trying to stage an escape.
Just peace. Pure, blissful, non-menstruating peace. My uterus has spent most of adulthood behaving like a haunted house attraction, so the silence has been… lovely.
Even if the monthly abdomen injections occasionally make me feel like a slightly overcooked kebab on a skewer - all in the name of reproductive ceasefire.
So still another win in my books.
5. My Tastebuds Have Accidentally Forced Me Into Wellness Culture
Chemo has absolutely obliterated my sweet tooth.
Not in a “I’ve found balance and inner peace” way.
Not in a “my body is a temple” way.
More in a “everything tastes vaguely like metal and disappointment” way. Most food now tastes oily, bitter, or just wrong.
And the saddest side effect is that all the things I used to inhale under cover of darkness - Maltesers, peanut butter cups, family blocks of chocolate I absolutely did not buy for “sharing” - now taste worse than everything else.
Devastating.
And because of this, I’ve had to become one of those accidentally healthy people surviving on fruit, beet juice, cucumbers, smoothies, and lemon water.
At one point I found myself genuinely craving lettuce.
Lettuce.
So now, not completely by choice but because it’s what my body is tolerating (and apparently approving of), I’ve had to accept that I may temporarily become a slightly more wholesome version of myself.
And I won’t lie - I do feel like a slightly better human because of it. 😇
Lol jk.
Like I could ever become one of those Instagram hippy prats who think eating raw foods makes them spiritually superior to everyone else.
This is not personal growth. This is chemotherapy.
Because trust me when I say that the second my tastebuds recover, I fully intend to bathe in a vat of melted chocolate like Augustus Gloop.
Nude.
6. I No Longer Fear Embarrassment or Stranger Small Talk
Because once you've discussed bowel movements, pubic hair loss, nipple sensitivity, and constipation schedules with complete strangers, shame doesn't really stand a chance.
You see, dignity exits early in treatment. Medical teams have seen my body from angles I didn't know were anatomically possible, and people now ask about bowel habits with the same casual energy as ordering coffee.
Oddly though, I've also found that I've started replying in kind - which feels like a personal development arc I did not consent to.
That energy has also spilled into normal life, where I now casually summarise my entire medical situation to near-strangers. Details and all.
Which is particularly concerning because those who know me know I'm actually an introvert with a proven track record of saying the most awkward thing possible in conversation and then mentally replaying it for the next three business days.
I'd either overshare, undershare, or leave an interaction convinced I should probably fake my own death and relocate interstate. Sometimes all three.
Like the time a male colleague kindly opened a large corridor door for me and I responded by telling him walking through it felt like "being a sausage in a hallway."
Why?
Honestly, how the hell do I know? 🫣
There was absolutely no relevance to the situation whatsoever. He just quietly stared at me before slowly closing the door again. Meanwhile my other colleague was bent double laughing beside me and informed me I should never speak to men in a professional setting again. Possibly not even men in general, outside the ones I currently live with.
I'm just grateful he resigned shortly afterwards and HR was never forced to intervene.
So for that reason, and many more, I became highly skilled at filtering everything before it came out of my mouth and avoiding most opportunities for small talk altogether.
Mastered it.
Until now. Pfft. That filter has completely gone.
You ask, I tell. Didn't ask for that level of detail? Still telling you.
Oh, you have a weak stomach? Anyway, here's my Week 2 skull rash that looks like my scalp has contracted a medieval plague. Enjoy your lunch.
Somewhere between "how did we get onto this?" and "why am I describing my body's questionable behaviour again?", the whole "think before you speak" system quietly packed up and left.
And reading back over this, I’m also realising I’ve probably been a bit too honest on here as well - which absolutely would not have been me previously. Nor would actually writing a blog and publicly sharing all of this, if I’m being truthful.
But here we are - even if you now feel like you know my body intimately.
Which really leaves me with only two possible responses: I’m either sorry… or you’re welcome. 😉
Because writing this blog honestly has been really cathartic.
Putting the diagnosis, the cycles, the emotions, and all the physical changes into words has genuinely helped me make sense of it all.
And not even in some deep, meaningful way all the time either. Sometimes it's just felt good to write out the bizarre little thoughts that pop into my head mid colloidal oatmeal shower, during steroid-fuelled 4am cleaning sprees, or while lying in my own self-created sweat puddle wondering whether I'm technically still a mammal or slowly transforming into some kind of overheated molerat.
Which really means nothing other than the fact I'm currently a weirdly unhinged little creature trying to survive chemotherapy with access to Wi-Fi.
And that’s been a strangely good thing for me.
Now obviously none of this cancels out the hard parts of chemotherapy. I would still very much prefer not to be doing any of this. And some days, none of the above feels funny at all.
I also recognise that this is entirely based on my own experience to date, and I would never want to trivialise or invalidate what others are going through, which may look completely different to my own.
But if I'm here for now, I'm going to celebrate the tiny, ridiculous wins where I can.
Because even when life fucks with your lemons, I've found you can still make a pretty great pie.
A great lemon meringue pie. 🥧
🍋 P.S. — Know Your Lemons
Speaking of lemons - this is another public service announcement: Get to know yours.
I mean get weirdly familiar with them. Feel them often. Learn what's normal, what's lumpy, what's changed, and what suddenly feels suspiciously unlike the boobs/moobs you've been carrying around for years.
So please, check your lemons today and fondle responsibly.
And if something changes, go see your GP and advocate for imaging.
You are not too young or too old.
90% of breast cancers have no genetic link.
It can happen in men too.
And things can change rapidly.
Because if it can happen to me, it can happen to you.
And I care about you. And your lemons. 🍋
Some snaps to share from my camera roll this week:
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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