Diagnosis to Chemo: A Week in the Blender

(Also known as: steroids, shock, and swearing)

T-minus 5 Days: The Boys Know

We told the boys. I don’t really remember how it went down. Probably calmly, probably not. From that moment on, things went fast and sideways. Emotions? Take your pick—anger, disbelief, swearing at inanimate objects. I felt like cancer was something that happened to other people. The well-worn phrase why me? turned into a kind of internal chant.

T-minus 4 Days: Rage, Google, Repeat

Steroids. Hell of a drug. I was irritable, furious, and wired like a faulty plug. I kept trying to do things—cancel stuff, sort admin, feel in control. But honestly? I was just spinning. Bargaining? Not really a thing. I don’t do invisible deities. Maybe I made deals with myself, but even I wasn’t buying them.

T-minus 3 Days: Meet the Haemo Registrar

I met a Registrar. No idea where that sits in the hospital food chain but they seemed smart, young, and bloody exhausted. Possibly still learning. Possibly running the whole show. Who knows.

The meeting? A blur. They answered loads of questions. Some of mine sounded clever in my head and idiotic out loud. Kerry took notes while I tried not to melt into the floor. We compared notes later. Not sure it helped.

T-minus 2 Days: Bye, Nurse Leader

Just as I started to feel like someone actually gave a damn, the Haemo Nurse Team Leader dropped the bomb: “I’m off on maternity leave next week.” Fabulous. Another handover. Another shrug from the universe. I wanted continuity. I got... a warm smile and a countdown to departure.

Why are nurses so good at making you feel safe—and then vanishing like ninjas in scrubs?

T-minus 1 Day: The Pack (aka The Redemption Box)

They gave me a “care pack.” Mouthwash, lip balm, moisturiser, eye drops—the full apocalypse kit. I scoffed. Thought: Cheers, but I’m not exactly a MooGoo guy.

Turns out, I used every last thing in that bag. Especially when my mouth felt like I’d gargled lava. The moisturiser was elite. The mouthwash? Disgusting but effective.

Kerry pointed out the whole thing was sponsored by Big Pharma. Classic. The company that nukes your immune system also gives you lip balm. Balance, I guess?

Chemo Day (aka Surrender Thursday)

Wednesday the 20th rolled around. Did I sleep the night before? No idea. Was I scared? I don’t think so. Maybe I’d already mentally packed a bag and handed myself over to fate.

Here’s the kicker: I’m not daft. I like to think I could hold my own on The Chaser. But back then? I couldn’t tell you what Mantle Cell Lymphoma really was. I didn’t know how rare it was. I didn’t understand the treatment. I was in the eye of a storm, hoping I’d wake up—but each morning, the storm was still there.

Wrap-Up

So that was the week. Five days, a few nervous breakdowns, one heavily pregnant nurse, and a free deodorant. I walked into chemo having no idea what would come next—except that it wouldn’t be normal again for a while. Maybe ever.

But hey, at least I had my mouthwash.