Chemo Day One: Coffee, Poison, and Zero Fucks Left

From sourdough to steroids, a deeply confusing hospital pee, and the moment cancer started feeling real.

First Chemo: Sourdough, Steroids & Shite Hair

A recollection of my first chemo treatment—just over three weeks ago—on Wednesday 20th April.

We kicked off the day at our local, wildly successful Double Cross Dining Room. We watched them build their first tiny joint around the corner, and now they’ve moved into a big, shiny space. Trendy. Quiet. Nothing like the hubbub of a 'traditional' Crowie coffee shop—if that’s even a thing.

I had a nervous large almond latte and some ridiculously expensive artisan sourdough toast with butter and Vegemite. Also known as the breakfast of champions. At champion prices. I've been off dairy milk for over a year and actually enjoy the nutty hit of almond. Look at me—hipster mode engaged. Beard intact. Hair bleached and toned white—just for a laugh. We sat mostly in silence.

Uber Overwalking

Kerry and I took an Uber—eschewing the 7–8 minute walk for a far more dramatic 12-minute car ride. We arrived at Royal North Shore Hospital, shuffled through the COVID rigmarole, and descended into the North Sydney Cancer Centre. Also known, in my mind, as the Centre for Shite Hair.

A nervous wait. Then my name. Hug from Kerry. Then off I went—shit scared, a bit angry, mostly confused but trying to stay optimistic.

Why do I not feel ill, yet I’m about to get lousy juju to make me better?Or is it good juju?

Weight was up 6 kilos—steroids or chocolate, take your pick.Height was down 3 cm. Shrinking. Apparently that's critical when dosing poison.

The result? My official Aussie passport has been wrong for 20 years. I’m keeping it. I reckon I had my Cuban heels on the day I got measured.

The Protocol Begins

Treatment plan? Alternating R-maxi-CHOP with R-HiDAC in 21-day cycles. Three of each. Then an autologous BMT.

At 11:20am, the first jab: anti-nausea meds in. Then the chemo starts. Let the pagger commence.

The day itself? Uneventful on the surface. I tried to get my bearings. Figured out which nurses I could wind up. Tried to joke my way through it, as I do. Defence mechanism 101.

Then came the Red Devil. The nurse pushed it slowly, and I got upset—tears-welling kind of upset. She asked why.

"Because I feel fine, and this stuff is going to make me feel shit."

She sat with me and pushed the drug by hand. Small thing. Meant a lot.

The Neon Horror

After a couple hours, they flushed me with saline and I went for a pee.

HOLY FUCK.

It was neon red. Like dayglo traffic cone red. No warning, no prep. Just... horror.

Being male, I didn’t lift the seat. Missed the mark. It looked like a scene from Psycho. I’d been told I was h.i.g.h.l.y. t.o.x.i.c. and I believed it.

Fifteen minutes cleaning up. Probably peed on myself a wee bit (see what I did there). It was mortifying.

A quote came to mind—my new mantra:

"See the field in which I grow my fucks. Please observe—it is entirely barren."

Aftermath

They released me without ceremony. I Ubered home. We had a quiet meal. Early to bed. I can’t remember if I slept. Probably not. I was up in the wee hours, pacing, catching up on blog notes.

I think I even went to work the next day, as if to say “this fucking thing isn’t having me.” I lasted until lunch. Came home. Maybe I just wanted to ride Rudi and feel some air.

Friday—I was back again. Sat across from the crew as they drank beers. I had a Diet Coke or two. Not my finest call. My back hurt. Everything hurt. I told the boys not to visit.

Saturday came. Neulasta injection day.

And that’s another story entirely.