The first two treatments were treacherous. If each treatment was going to put me in such peril, was it worth the risk? After all, I learned that chemotherapy can actually kill you, and the things that my body went through those first six or seven months, made me wonder if I would make it passed the preventative measures I enrolled in.
After a few days, all the chemo side effects seem to come at once. Try vomiting with painful mouth sores swelling the skin next to and around your teeth, staying hydrated when you’re constantly drawn to the toilet, and sitting when all that diarrhea pushes out hemorrhoids. The extreme burnout made it more difficult to handle the rushing to the bucket and the washroom. My God, make it stop. It was out of control. How can my one-hundred-and-ten-pound debilitated physique endure such exaggeration? One effect over another, my deficiencies accumulated. Then the fever began.
One thing the nurses warned me about was fever. I was to go to the emergency the moment I started a fever. So I called the ambulance, and after some questions, they took me to my treating hospital, where I was placed in isolation.
Nurses immediately connected me to a saline drip for hydration. I couldn’t recognize then that I was severely dehydrated, but I’m able to identify it after years of living in my new body. To avoid it happening, I must constantly take in liquids, though little at a time. There is no guarantee that drinking will prevent it, especially during rough patches like chemotherapy and diarrhea. Now when my urine is darker than usual, I make an effort to drink more.
After about one week in the hospital, I was sent home to recover some strength before my next chemo sessions in three or four weeks. Back in my zombie state, I went through each day wondering when the torture would end.