There are days when I wake up and think, I can’t do this again.
I know treatment is supposed to help me. I know it’s what’s keeping me here. But some mornings, the thought of walking into that hospital, sitting in that chair, and letting poison drip into my veins makes me want to pull the covers over my head and disappear.
Treatment isn’t just the hospital visits. It’s the mental buildup. It’s dreading the smell of antiseptic the second you step through the door. It’s the sound of the IV pump beeping in your ear for hours. It’s watching your nurse try to make small talk as they push another bag of chemicals into your body that you know are going to wreck you for days.
And it’s the meds.
I hate the pills that I have to choke down even though I know they’re going to make me feel worse before they (hopefully) make me better. I hate the injections that burn for what feels like an eternity. And the worst part? My husband has to be the one to give me some of those shots.
He hates it. I hate it. I can see the guilt in his face every single time, but what choice do we have? He steadies his hands, does everything I taught him, and I brace myself as the needle slides in. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I scream. Sometimes he has to sit through a temper tantrum that would rival an angry toddler because, I just don’t want to. Sometimes I grit my teeth and try to be silent so I don’t make it harder on him than it already is.
It’s excruciating. Not just the pain, but the whole process—the loss of control, the fact that my husband has to hurt me to help me, the way my body tenses before he even touches me because it knows what’s coming.
And all of that is before I even set foot in the hospital for treatment.
I know people mean well when they tell me, “Stay strong!” or “You’ve got this!” But strength doesn’t always look like being positive. Sometimes it’s me choking down meds I know will ruin my stomach. Sometimes it’s letting my husband give me a shot even though I want to run from the room. Sometimes it’s dragging myself out the door for chemo when everything in me is screaming, Don’t go.
There are days I don’t want to go at all. Days I want to stay home, curl up with Mojo, and pretend cancer doesn’t exist. Days I want to feel normal for just one day, even if it’s fake.
But I still go.
Not because I’m fearless or because I’m endlessly hopeful. I go because I know what’s at stake. Because my husband wants me here, and so do I. Because there are still moments I want to fight for—the small, quiet, beautiful ones I’d miss if I stopped.
None of this is easy. It’s not inspiring. It’s brutal. But if you’re going through this too, please know it’s okay to hate it. It’s okay to cry in the car. It’s okay to dread the shots, the pills, the infusions.
Because showing up for treatment when every fiber of your being wants to run the other way? That’s strength.
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