Here’s an entry from my journal a year ago.

Dear Diary,

Newsflash…chemotherapy blows! So much for my ‘mind over matter’ strategy. I thought if I combined my 20-year no-barfing streak and Lance Armstrong’s advice on keeping physically active, I would kick chemo’s ass. I didn’t have grandiose plans for a post cancer Tour De France (I haven’t ridden a bike since the pink 10 speed I got during the sixth grade), but I thought I would make the most of my free time between treatments by going for long, introspective walks and meeting up with friends for cappuccinos.

My first round of chemo had other ideas for me …

Although I had planned to start January 7, 2010 well rested, I only managed to squeeze in about two hours of sleep the night before. From midnight until 3am, I watched infomercials, planned my first day of chemo wardrobe, scrubbed my bathtub, and read Anna Karenina in an attempt to get tired. Then I spent the next three hours punching my pillow in the dark while I cursed the day my Starbucks barista was born (she obviously ruined my life by making my 5pm latte with caffeine instead of decaf). I had already plotted my return to the scene to yell at her when I remembered the nurse telling me that the pre-chemo steroids could cause insomnia.

I choked down half a piece of toast and headed for the Cancer Agency. Then, I settled into a green lazy boy chair while the nurse quizzed me about my drug intake the previous day. She shook her head in irritation because I had missed the bold instructions on the pill bottle to take 2 steroid tablets twice a day and not just one.

She topped up my steroids intravenously and then hung a plastic bag with a bio-hazardous sign on the IV stand next to me. I tried not to watch as the cold poison dripped into my veins. Less than five minutes after it started, I yelled at her to stop before I projectile vomited onto the little old lady beside me. (Did they not consider the risk of chain reaction barfing when they designed the chemo treatment rooms to have patients sit in a circle, facing each other?)

A doctor arrived and instructed the nurse to dump Benadryl and Gravol through my IV so that I would stay too stoned to notice my body’s allergic reaction to the drugs. Four hours later, I got home, organized my closet, and decided that maybe I should get a bike.

But when the steroids and the good anti-nausea medication wore off a couple of days later, I reconsidered. I spent the weekend crawling (sometimes literally) between my bed and the bathroom floor. Sitting in front of the toilet while eating out of a bag of corn chips (my gluten intolerance ruled out soda crackers) became my new hobby. When I stood up to stumble back to bed, I tried to avoid looking at my spotted, 14 year old acne face in the mirror and then gingerly lowered my screaming muscles onto my duvet (they ached more than the day after I completed my first and last half-marathon). I lay there too sick to move and wondered how people got through more than four rounds of this hell.

By Wednesday night (six days post chemo), I started to shiver inside my clammy skin. GO TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM IF YOUR TEMPERATURE RISES ABOVE 38* shouted the message on my Chemo Emergency Contact sheet. I tried to be a hero and tough it out, but the next morning, my Aunt drove me to Vancouver General Hospital. I knew I had a high fever (39.9* or almost 104* on that morning) when she had to come with me to the bathroom while I gave my urine sample because I was so delirious that I got lost between my stretcher and the toilet. After 12 hours in the ER, three doctors agreed on a diagnosis of Febrile Neutropenia. I was impressed until I heard that it meant fever with an undetermined infection. No sh!t.

At 4am, a porter pushed me through hushed hallways until we arrived in my new pressurized isolation room in the acute care ward. They sealed me in. Later that morning, a nurse whispered to me from behind her face-mask that I had a white blood cell count of zero. I nodded, unfazed. Then she explained that if I got exposed to any type of illness, I could literally die. I was silent. I couldn’t think about all of the germs that floated by me during my 24 hours in Emergency.

Three days of temperature checking, bedside counselling (who knew chemo would make me more emotional than my worst case of PMS), and 2am gown changes (hello hot flashes), a doctor came in with my discharge papers. I could have kissed him as I thanked him and the amazing nurses for their tireless support.

I put on real clothes for the first time in four days and looked back at my hospital bed as I opened the door of my temporary jail cell.  I tried not to notice the colony of hair strands littered all over the white sheets. Today I would celebrate my freedom; tomorrow I could worry about shaving my head and preparing to face off with chemo for Round 2.