Mojo and the Mess

When doctors talk about cancer treatment, they focus on the big picture: tumor shrinkage, test results, “buying more time.” And sure, that’s what matters most to them. But what they don’t talk about—what nobody really prepares you for—is the collateral damage.

Cancer treatment doesn’t just take your hair and your energy. It chips away at you, piece by piece, until you’re left with a body that barely feels like your own. And here’s the kicker: my treatment isn’t even over yet. I’m still in the middle of it.

Here’s what they didn’t warn me about:

Your joints feel decades older overnight.

I wake up and my hips feel like they belong to an 80‑year‑old. My knees grind. My shoulders ache so badly I have to mentally hype myself up just to reach for something in the kitchen. Chemo, radiation, and hormone‑suppressing meds are brutal on your bones and connective tissue, but nobody tells you that until you’re already in pain.

Your teeth and nails become fragile.

My teeth have started cracking and chipping from basic chewing. I’m battling cavities I’ve never had in my life, because the drugs and dry mouth have wrecked my enamel. My nails are brittle, peeling, and sometimes lifting right off my fingers. It’s humiliating to see those little reminders every day of how fragile treatment makes you.

Your skin bruises and scars like paper.

Every port placement leaves a permanent scar. Biopsies leave reminders etched in my skin. Even a light bump leaves a bruise the size of a fist. I’ve become hyper‑aware of how I move, not because I’m fragile as a person, but because my body now wears every battle it’s been through.

Your memory slips away.

“Chemo brain” sounds like a cute joke until you’re in the middle of it. I lose words mid‑sentence. I forget what day it is. I’ll have entire conversations and not remember a thing. It’s terrifying to feel like your brain doesn’t belong to you anymore.

Your body will never be the same.

People love to say, “Once treatment is over, you’ll bounce back.” That’s a lie. I’m still in treatment, and I already know there’s no going back to who I was before. The damage doesn’t just heal the moment the last drip of chemo hits your veins.

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Here’s the worst part: most of this gets brushed off as “normal.”
When I mention my bone pain, I get a shrug. When I bring up my crumbling teeth, I’m told, “That’s to be expected.” When I cry about my memory loss, I get, “It’ll probably improve later.”

But “normal” doesn’t mean acceptable. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean we should suffer in silence.

This is why I fight for myself. I ask questions. I push back. I demand scans, referrals, and second opinions, even when it makes people uncomfortable. Because if I don’t, the system will just expect me to quietly deal with the damage while they move on to the next patient.

And you know what? That’s exhausting. I shouldn’t have to fight this hard to be heard. But I do—because I’m still here, still in treatment, and I’m the one who has to live with this body long after everyone else goes home.

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So if you’re going through treatment right now:

• Document everything. Bruises, nail loss, mouth sores, pain—write it down and take pictures.
• Don’t let “that’s normal” shut you up. It may be normal, but it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get help.
• Ask for what you need—pain management, dental care, PT, mental health support. Your comfort matters too.
• Advocate for yourself even when you’re exhausted. Because your body, your quality of life, is worth fighting for.

Because here’s the truth: cancer isn’t just a disease, it’s a full‑body demolition. And I’m still standing in the rubble, trying to figure out what’s left.

-Mojo & Izzy