Starting treatment is rarely a single moment. It’s a sequence — measured not just in infusion hours, but in nights slept, symptoms noticed, and the quiet recalibration that happens once the drugs are already moving through your system.
I am now three days past infusion.
Day four of a standard fourteen-day cycle, shortened this time because Princess Margaret’s systemic treatment centre closes on Christmas Day. The calendar shifted, but the biology did not. The drugs are doing their work on their own schedule.
And so is my body.
The Medical Baseline After Infusion
From a clinical perspective, things have been steady. Post-infusion ECGs showed no acute abnormalities. Heart rhythm remained sinus, heart rate low but consistent with my long-standing bradycardic baseline. Blood pressure readings have stayed within a narrow, predictable range — no spikes, no crashes, no red flags.
These early checks matter. They establish whether the body is tolerating the therapy at a systems level — cardiac conduction, autonomic response, vascular tone. So far, all signs point to stability.
That doesn’t mean nothing is happening. It means what is happening is controlled.
Energy: Variable, But Manageable
Energy levels have become moment-to-moment rather than linear. I feel capable one hour and suddenly heavy the next. Fatigue arrives without drama — no collapse, just a quiet insistence that rest is required.
The good news is that rest works.
Short naps reset me almost completely. That tells me the fatigue is treatment-related rather than systemic failure. My body isn’t breaking down; it’s redirecting resources. I’m listening.
Nausea and Brain Fog: Present, Not Dominant
Nausea comes and goes. It’s mild, transient, and rarely dictates my day. Brain fog is more noticeable — brief moments where focus softens or thoughts take longer to land. It’s not frightening. It’s familiar to anyone who has lived inside chemotherapy cycles before.
These are not symptoms of alarm. They are signals of engagement — evidence that the drugs are interacting with fast-dividing cells and inflammatory pathways.
Sleep and Recovery
Sleep has remained solid. Falling asleep takes a little longer than usual, but once I’m out, I stay out. One brief wake-up to pee, then back to sleep. Morning vitals continue to reflect strong parasympathetic tone — low resting heart rate, stable blood pressure, calm recovery.
Sleep is doing its job. So is magnesium. So is restraint.
Where I Am in the Cycle
If experience is a guide, the more difficult stretch typically arrives around days seven, eight, and nine. That’s when cumulative drug effects peak before easing toward the next infusion.
Knowing that matters. It allows me to plan, not fear.
Right now, I’m through the first gate. The acute reaction window has passed. What remains is endurance — pacing energy, respecting fatigue, and letting treatment do what it was designed to do.
Perspective: Treatment Is Not the Enemy
It’s easy to frame chemotherapy as something to “get through.” I don’t see it that way. Treatment is not an interruption of life; it’s an active phase of it.
Being under treatment means the disease is no longer unchecked. It means the strategy has shifted from surveillance to action. That alone brings relief.
I’m not chasing optimism. I’m grounded in process.
Where Things Stand Now
I feel reasonably well, all things considered. I’m functioning. I’m adapting. I’m not pretending the side effects don’t exist — I’m contextualizing them.
This is what it looks like to live inside treatment, not around it.
I don’t know exactly how this cycle will unfold. I do know that, three days in, my body is holding steady, the data is reassuring, and the symptoms — while real — are manageable.
That’s enough for today.
I am under treatment.
I am adjusting.
And I am ready.