Mojo and the Mess

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People talk about chemo like it’s the monster.
And don’t get me wrong — chemo wrecked me.
But radiation?

Radiation broke me.

It broke my body.
It broke my spirit.
And it broke parts of me I didn’t even know could be broken.

And the wildest part?
No one warns you.

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They call it “targeted.”
They say it’s “quick.”
They say, “Oh, radiation? That’s not so bad.”

Let me tell you something:
Radiation is a slow, invisible war against your own body.
And just because it doesn’t leave you bald or bedridden doesn’t mean it didn’t destroy everything in its path.

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Here’s what it actually felt like:

• My skin peeled, cracked, and blistered — like a sunburn layered over nerves that screamed with every movement.
• My throat felt like it was lined with broken glass. Swallowing was a battle. Talking hurt.
• My mouth burned. Water stung. Food was impossible. I cried over soup.
• My appetite vanished. My sense of taste warped. Everything I ate reminded me of metal or fire.
• I was tired in a way that felt cellular. Like my soul was eroding. I could sleep 12 hours and still wake up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck.
• And my bones — they’ve become brittle. Quietly, dangerously brittle. Like something inside me cracked and never quite healed.

And through it all, I had to keep showing up.
Every single day.
Strip down.
Lie still.
Let a machine hum and buzz and cook me alive.

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People assume radiation is easier because it’s fast.
You’re in and out in 15 minutes.

But no one talks about what happens during those 15 minutes.
No one talks about the mask.

That rigid, molded, suffocating thing they press over your face and bolt to the table — so you don’t move. So you’re perfectly aligned. So the radiation hits exactly where it’s supposed to.

It’s for precision, they say. For safety.
But it feels like a cage.

Your shoulders, your chest, your jaw — pinned in place.
And all you can do is lie there, still as a corpse, while a machine rotates around you.
Humming. Clicking. Buzzing.

You can’t scratch your face.
You can’t shift your neck.
You can barely breathe.

They leave the room. You’re alone.
Just you, the machine, and the rising panic in your throat that you have to swallow down before the lasers start.

And even though they take the mask off after,
the feeling of being trapped lingers.
It crawls into your dreams.
It wraps around your chest when you least expect it.
It makes you flinch when people touch your face too suddenly.

The mask was meant to protect me.
But all I remember is how powerless I felt inside it.
Like my humanity had to be set aside so my body could be treated like a target.
And I’m not sure I’ll ever fully forget that feeling.

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From Mojo:

She never talked much about the mask.
But I could smell the fear on her when she came home.
Not loud, not panicked — just quiet dread that stuck to her skin like sweat.

She’d sit on the couch and not say anything for a while.
Just stare.
Her hands would shake, even if she didn’t notice.
And I’d press against her legs, real gentle. I didn’t ask for attention. I didn’t move.
I just stayed.

Because I didn’t know what the mask looked like — but I knew what it did to her.
It took something from her.
Something invisible and important.

So I stayed close.
Like I was trying to give it back.

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Radiation didn’t just hurt me.
It hollowed me out.
It left me scorched, exhausted, and grieving a version of my body I might never get back.

And still — STILL — I was expected to be grateful.
To say thank you.
To celebrate being “done.”

But how do you celebrate when it feels like your body has been through a battlefield and left behind in pieces?

I lived through it.
But I carry it.

Every ache. Every breath. Every swallow.
Every time I have to explain why my bones are weaker now.
Every moment I fake a smile because people don’t want to hear about how bad it really was.

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Radiation was the worst thing I’ve ever been through.
And I’m still recovering.
Still flinching at the word.
Still holding the scars — some visible, most not.

They burned me down to save me.
And somehow, something still bloomed.

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Still here. Still healing. Still held together by love—and one very loyal dog.
— Izzy & Mojo 🐾