emme2844

July 5th–7th, 2017 — Chemo Day

Rachel picked me up early that morning.

I remember being nervous in a way that sat heavy in my chest but didn’t quite have words yet. I had no idea what I was walking into. Was it going to be like the movies—violently sick, hair falling out, days spent unable to move? Would I be in bed for weeks afterward, unable to come back to myself?

If I’m honest now, I would have taken any of those outcomes over what actually happened.

It was a cold day at Blue Ridge Cancer Care. I brought a pillow and blankets like I was preparing for a long trip into something unfamiliar. Rachel brought her laptop so we could watch Outlander, already knowing we would be there most of the day. On the way, she even drove up onto a curb by accident—small proof that none of us were fully steady that morning.

Ian was at work. Part of me was grateful for that in a strange way—like I needed at least one piece of normal life to keep moving while I stepped into something entirely unknown.

The first part of chemo went as planned.

The drug was delivered through my port—this small device under my skin that led directly into a vein near my heart. I sat in a chair for hours, half watching Outlander, drifting in and out of awareness. Four hours passed like that. I felt tired, a little nauseous, but nothing dramatic. Nothing like what I had feared.

Then came 5-FU.

My kryptonite.

This was the drug that went home with me—pumped continuously through my port for the next 48 hours. I don’t remember those two days clearly. I don’t remember most of them at all. I barely remember the ride home.

Ian came home to find me sick in the bathroom. After that, everything becomes fragmented—pieces told back to me later like a story I wasn’t present for.

He got me into bed, set up a trash can beside me, tried to make the room as safe as it could be. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I threw up every couple of hours. Over and over again.

I don’t remember it, but I know now that my body was collapsing into survival mode.

On July 7th, my Aunt Marci came to take me back to the cancer center so Ian could be taught how to disconnect and clean my port. I remember that part—faintly. I remember being told I looked terrible.

But I also remember feeling terrible, so I suppose the assessment was accurate.

They had me sit in a chair. They disconnected the pump. Nurses checked my vitals. More than one doctor came in—Dr. Preston and Dr. Kochenderfer. I didn’t understand whether the concern in the room was routine or something more serious. I only remember looking at Ian and my aunt and realizing from their faces that this was not routine at all.

Something was wrong.

Dr. K didn’t wait. He sent us directly to Roanoke Memorial Hospital.

I had known my Aunt Marci my whole life, but I had never seen her like that—uncomposed, shaken in a way she didn’t allow herself to be. She has always been the steady one. The reliable one. The kind of person who shows up and stays. She had taken care of me after I got married, and years earlier I had taken care of her after her surgery. Life had already quietly taught us how to trade roles.

But that day, she felt far away from steady.

And that’s when I started to understand something I couldn’t fully name yet: this was bigger than chemo side effects. Bigger than a hard day.

We arrived at RMH around noon.

After that, time stops behaving normally.

Most of what happened on the oncology floor is gone from my memory now. What I know comes from other people’s voices filling in the gaps I lost.

At 1 a.m., I supposedly called out for help. I don’t remember speaking. My voice, they said, was barely more than a whisper.

By then, my heart was functioning at about 10%.

At some point I was moved to the cardiac ICU. I don’t remember the transition. I don’t remember the fear. I don’t remember the machinery or the urgency or the decisions being made around me.

At 3 a.m., my oncologist and the cardiac team made the decision to put me under full sedation.

And then I left.

I woke up five days later.

Or at least that’s what it felt like.

In my mind, I thought I had slept for seventeen years.

Next comes the part I never saw—the part my aunt and my husband lived through while I was gone.