When people say chemo is toxic, they usually mean it makes your hair fall out, wrecks your stomach, and turns your body into something unrecognizable. What they don’t usually mean is: it can break your heart. But here I am, sitting in a cardiologist’s office, learning that years of poison pumped through my veins to save me from cancer have also quietly been damaging the very muscle that keeps me alive.
I thought “heartbreak” meant grief, or loss, or the way cancer ripped apart the life I thought I’d have. I didn’t know it could mean shortness of breath when I walk across the room. I didn’t know it could mean my heart literally struggles to pump the way it used to.
Chemo, the Double-Edged Sword
Chemo is a thief. It takes your energy, your appetite, your eyebrows. But the cruelest trick? It sometimes takes pieces of you that you can’t get back.
Certain chemo drugs are known to cause something called cardiotoxicity — a fancy way of saying they can poison your heart muscle. Anthracyclines like doxorubicin (the “red devil” for anyone who knows the drill) are some of the worst offenders. Others, like targeted therapies (hello, Herceptin and friends), can also leave cracks in the armor.
Doctors warn you about nausea and hair loss, maybe even neuropathy. But nobody really sits you down and says, “Hey, by the way, there’s a chance this treatment could make it harder for your heart to beat.”
What It Feels Like
It’s weird to describe what heart damage feels like because it sneaks up on you. It’s not like breaking a bone. It’s not like catching the flu. It’s more like suddenly realizing you’ve been carrying around a weighted vest you didn’t agree to wear.
Walking up the stairs leaves me breathless. Lying down at night makes me feel like there’s an elephant on my chest. My ankles swell. I get so tired, not just cancer tired — heart tired.
It’s not just exhaustion anymore. It’s my body literally struggling to pump life through me. And it makes every little thing harder.
Another Layer of Loss
I already lost my twenties to this disease. I lost my uterus, my hair, my carefree “someday.” And now, piece by piece, I’m losing the things that were supposed to keep me alive through all of it.
Having cancer is like playing Jenga with your own body — every treatment pulls out a block, and you hope the whole tower doesn’t collapse. Heart damage feels like someone yanked out a block I didn’t even know was holding everything up.
And it changes how I think about everything. Running errands. Laughing too hard. Even making plans. Every decision now runs through the filter of: Will my heart handle this?
Living with a Broken Heart
There are meds they give you to help — beta blockers, ACE inhibitors — things to keep the heart steady, to strengthen what’s left. But they don’t give you back the freedom you had before.
I live with the constant awareness that my heart is fragile now. That the treatment meant to keep me alive is also making me weaker. That the finish line keeps moving, and my body has to keep chasing it.
But here’s the thing: I’m still here. My heart is still beating, even if it’s slower, even if it stumbles sometimes. And that’s something.
To Anyone Else Whose Heart Hurts
If you’re out there going through treatment, and suddenly the chest tightness, the swelling, the breathlessness shows up — please don’t ignore it. Don’t write it off as “just cancer tired.” Push for answers. Get the scans. Protect your heart, even while you’re fighting to protect the rest of you.
Because cancer doesn’t just take one thing. It tries to take everything. And it’s okay to grieve every piece of yourself you lose along the way — even the parts people can’t see.
🐾 Mojo’s POV
Hi, it’s me, Mojo. Mom says her heart isn’t working the way it used to, so I’ve officially promoted myself to Head of Heart Security. That means I nap on her chest so I can keep track of her heartbeat, and if it skips or stumbles, don’t worry — I’ll know before anyone else does.
My job is to make sure her heart doesn’t forget why it’s beating: me, peanut butter snacks, and all the people who love her. So if you’re reading this, thank you for being here. You help keep her heart going too.
💔 If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Thank you for reading, for caring, for showing up here. If you want to follow along with me and Mom as we keep navigating this mess, hit subscribe, share the blog, and help us keep surviving out loud.
Leave a reply to genuinebutterybe24030086 Cancel reply