Three days after the first infusion, the noise has quieted.
Not disappeared — just softened.
I’m now moving through day four of a fourteen-day cycle, shortened this round by the realities of the calendar and the Christmas closure at Princess Margaret. That adjustment matters clinically, but it hasn’t changed the larger picture. The work has begun. The drug is in my system. The process is underway.
Physically, I feel better than I expected. Energy levels are uneven — moment to moment rather than hour to hour — but they’re manageable. When fatigue arrives, it’s honest. A short nap resets things quickly. I’m learning the difference between tiredness that needs pushing through and tiredness that needs respect.
There’s intermittent nausea, light and brief. Not constant, not debilitating. More like a reminder than a warning. Brain fog comes and goes the same way — a slight delay in thought, a softening of focus — but it hasn’t taken anything essential from me. I can still think clearly. I can still write. I can still decide.
Vital signs have been steady. Blood pressure has remained controlled, heart rate low and consistent, especially during sleep and early mornings. The cardiovascular monitoring done post-infusion hasn’t raised new concerns. The ECGs show a heart doing what it’s always done: slow, deliberate, stable. That matters more than it sounds like it should.
Walking continues, but at a reduced pace and volume. This isn’t a season for testing limits. It’s a season for cooperation. Short walks, light movement, enough activity to keep circulation and rhythm intact without demanding recovery I can’t yet afford. The discipline now is restraint.
I know from experience that the middle of the cycle — days seven, eight, and nine — is often where side effects sharpen before they release. I’m not naïve about what may still arrive. But I’m also not anxious about it. This isn’t anticipation. It’s awareness.
Most importantly, there is a psychological shift that’s hard to quantify but impossible to miss.
I’m no longer waiting.
Waiting for scans.
Waiting for eligibility.
Waiting for permission to act.
Treatment has begun, and with it, a sense of forward motion that no amount of planning can replicate. The uncertainty hasn’t vanished, but it’s been given a container. The fight is no longer theoretical.
I’m under care.
I’m being monitored.
I’m responding.
That’s enough for now.
This phase isn’t about heroics or milestones. It’s about settling into the rhythm of treatment, listening carefully, and letting the process unfold one day at a time.
I’m here.
I’m steady.
And I’m moving forward.