You don’t prepare for chemo all at once.
You do it in pieces, in rooms, in small decisions that feel practical on the surface and heavy underneath.
I start with the house, because it’s something I can control.
Bathrooms come first. They always do.
I sanitize everything—not in a panic, but with intention. Door handles. Counters. Light switches. The places hands go without thinking. Chemo weakens your immune system, but it also sharpens your awareness. I clean like someone who knows how easily a small thing can become a big one.
I set up puke buckets. More than one. One by the bed. One in the bathroom. One near the couch. I don’t label them or hide them. I make them accessible, because dignity during chemo often looks like not having to rush.
I add a small stool with a cushion in the bathroom. Sitting becomes necessary in ways you don’t anticipate until it is. Brushing teeth. Washing hands. Waiting for the dizziness to pass. The bathroom turns into a place of endurance, not just function.
Hand sanitizer goes everywhere. By the door. On the nightstand. In the kitchen. In my bag. It becomes muscle memory—sanitize, sanitize, sanitize. Not because I’m afraid, but because prevention is quieter than infection.
Masks get stacked within reach. Not buried in a drawer. Not forgotten. Ready for appointments, pharmacies, unexpected visitors, days when my body won’t tolerate risk.
Then there’s scent—something no one warns you about until it’s already a problem.
The candles I love, the ones that usually make the house feel like home, suddenly become unbearable. Strong scents turn into headaches. Nausea. Overstimulation. So I swap them out for cleaner, lighter ones. Subtle. Neutral. Things that don’t ask too much of my senses.
Even comfort has to change.
I replace bathroom products too. New soap. New shampoo. New lotion. Chemo skin is sensitive in ways you don’t expect—dry, irritated, reactive. What once felt luxurious can suddenly feel like sandpaper. I choose products that are gentle, unscented, forgiving. I stop assuming my body will tolerate what it used to.
I wash blankets. All of them. I want everything that touches me to feel clean, soft, safe. I build nests on the couch and the bed—pillows arranged not for aesthetics, but for survival. Places to land when my body gives out without warning.
Food gets adjusted quietly. I get rid of anything I know will turn my stomach. I stock bland, predictable options. Easy things. Safe things. I accept that my relationship with food will shift again—that nourishment won’t always look like enjoyment.
I catch up on laundry—not because I’m being productive, but because I know there will be days I won’t have the strength to care if it’s done. Clean clothes become a gift I leave for my future self.
And while I’m changing the house, I’m changing myself too.
I lower expectations before they have the chance to hurt me. I cancel plans in my head before I have to cancel them out loud. I stop imagining who I’ll be during chemo and focus instead on who I need to be to get through it.
Chemo requires space. Physical space. Emotional space. Mental space. It forces you to rearrange your life around survival and asks you to make peace with the fact that everything will slow down.
So I prepare.
Not because I’m strong.
Not because I’m ready.
But because adapting is how I stay here.
And if you’re doing this too—sanitizing, rearranging, quietly bracing yourself for what’s coming—I see you.
This isn’t giving up.
This is getting ready.
🐾 Mojo 🐾
Mojo notices the changes before anyone else. He always does.
The extra blankets. The slower movements. The way I pause more often.
He settles closer, like he’s clocked the shift and decided, Okay. We’re doing this again.
And honestly—having him here makes the house feel ready in a way nothing else can.
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— Izzy & Mojo
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