TREATMENT: ONE DAY AT A TIME
This one is going to be a tough one to write.
It's definitely the bad and the ugly, but also the unexpected good.
Once my PET scan confirmed there was no spread, I was given the green light to start treatment and met with my oncologist. She explained what the next few months would look like and the side effects I could expect.
She told me that radiation is cumulative, meaning the side effects build over time. Most people don't start experiencing significant side effects until around week three. I was given a long list of possible side effects, percentages, and statistics. She also explained that after a certain point it would be difficult to separate what was being caused by the radiation and what was being caused by the chemotherapy.
I was reminded again that if treatment didn't work, surgery would be necessary. If surgery was successful, I would then move into five years of surveillance.
The appointment lasted about an hour and a half. I took my sister with me, and if I could give one piece of practical advice to anyone facing a similar appointment, it would be this: take someone with you or ask if you can record the conversation. You're hit with so much information, statistics, and possible outcomes that it can be hard to take it all in.
It was a lot to take in, but I made a conscious decision not to dwell on every possible side effect. There was no point worrying about what might happen. I would deal with each challenge if and when it came.
One of the things I was told was that because the treatment area was in my pelvis, I would likely go into menopause around three weeks into treatment. I was offered IVF, but because my cancer was advanced, there wasn't really time to delay treatment.
I told them I was happy to proceed. Having children had never been part of my life plan anyway.
But strangely, with everything that had happened since my diagnosis, this was the only thing that brought me to tears.
I remember talking to a friend afterwards and being completely fine until I started explaining the menopause side of things. Then the tears came.
I think it was the finality of it all.
This was really happening.
After that, I had my planning CT scan, where they mark your body so they can line everything up accurately when treatment begins.
Then the day finally arrived.
I met with my medical oncologist the day before my first radiation session and was told I would be taking chemotherapy tablets on the days I received radiation, Monday through Friday.
She also gave me a tip that ended up being a lifesaver: use Voltaren gel on my hands and feet. There was evidence that it could help reduce the tingling and soreness that often comes with the chemotherapy tablets.
Whether it was the cream or pure luck, that ended up being one side effect I didn't get. Possibly the only one!
The first three weeks of treatment were surprisingly manageable. I had a few issues with the chemotherapy tablets, but overall I felt okay.
Then week four arrived.
And everything changed.
The nausea became relentless.
There were days when I couldn't keep food down, and even the thought of eating made me feel sick.
I should have started taking the anti-nausea medication before I felt sick, but I didn't.
The oncology nurses had warned me that once nausea takes hold, it can take a while for the tablets to work and it becomes much harder to get on top of.
Thankfully, the medication they gave me worked quickly when I did start taking it.
If you're ever in a similar situation, don't wait until you feel nauseous before taking the anti-nausea medication. It's much easier to prevent nausea than it is to try and catch up once it starts.
My appetite disappeared almost overnight. One day it was there, the next it wasn't.
I had been warned that I would feel tired, but nothing prepared me for that level of exhaustion. It wasn't normal tiredness. It felt like every ounce of energy had been drained from my body.
Getting out of bed for treatment became a battle.
The skin around my thighs began breaking down from the radiation. It became so severe that it resembled third-degree burns. Unfortunately, because I was still having treatment, there wasn't much they could give me to help until that was done.
I constantly felt like I needed to go to the bathroom and had very little control over it.
I remember one day after treatment, waiting to go home, when I suddenly realised I wasn't going to make it to the toilet.
I've never felt so embarrassed in my life.
But my mum was there.
She wrapped me in her coat, told me it was okay, helped me get home, and helped me clean up.
I felt awful all the time.
Eventually, I stopped working, even from home. I simply couldn't do it anymore.
It's funny the things you remember from difficult seasons.
For every treatment, I wore fun, colourful, cosy socks. Pink penguins, blue clouds, stripes, anything bright.
They became part of my radiation uniform.
The radiation therapists always noticed them and would comment on them when I arrived.
I honestly don't think I would have made it through treatment without the radiation therapists. I had the same team for all six weeks and they became a constant source of kindness throughout treatment.
They could see I was losing weight and constantly reminded me to eat whatever I felt like, even if it was only small amounts.
Then there was my family.
My mum, who came with me to every appointment.
Aaron, who drove me to every appointment.
My sister, who became the backbone of our family during that season. She did my washing, helped my mum with everything, and somehow managed to keep us all going while I was focused on simply getting through each day.
There were days before I started using bed pans when I simply couldn't make it to the bathroom in time.
Those moments were humiliating. I felt embarrassed, frustrated, and completely stripped of my independence.
But my family never made me feel like a burden.
My mum would run me a bath while she and Aaron quietly cleaned everything up. My sister was always there helping. Not once did any of them complain. Not once did they make me feel ashamed.
That is one of the clearest pictures of unconditional love I've ever experienced.
When I had nothing left to give, they helped me keep going.
They weren't the only ones.
My aunts, my cousins, and Aaron's family checked in constantly. They prayed for me and reminded me that I was never facing this alone.
Aaron's mum, Bonnie, would send milestone gifts through Mum and Aaron to celebrate the small victories along the way. Those gifts meant more than she probably realised.
Aaron's godmother, Jean, was preparing for a mission trip during my treatment. Through her, missionaries and nuns on the other side of the world were praying for me too.
I think this is one of the things I will treasure most: knowing so many people prayed for me when I had nothing left to give.
There were even a couple of appointments I missed because I simply couldn't get out of bed.
By that stage I was counting down the days until my final treatment.
I had been told that most people start to improve about two weeks after finishing radiation and I could not wait.
But recovery wasn't immediate.
By the end of treatment, I was barely getting out of bed because it hurt to walk. I was using bed pans. I was barely eating.
The menopause side effects were mostly hot flushes and temperature swings. One minute I was freezing, the next I was unbearably hot.
Because I could barely move, I'd call Mum at all hours of the day and night asking her to turn my fan on, then off, then on again.
She never complained. She would simply come in, adjust the fan, make sure I was okay, and head back to bed.
At the time, it was miserable. But now it's another reminder of just how much love surrounded me during that season.
I had known people who had gone through radiation before and had heard plenty of stories about it. I remember thinking:
"Why is this so much harder for me?"
I couldn't understand it.
One of the biggest blessings during that time was Nicole.
She checked on me constantly, and when I told her how much I was struggling, she reassured me that treatment like this is incredibly hard.
She told me they had seen even the toughest men struggle through it.
Then she said something that stayed with me:
"They're literally throwing everything at your cancer to try and avoid surgery."
For the first time, I stopped comparing my experience to other people's.
I gave myself permission to admit how hard this really was.
After treatment finished, recovery took weeks.
I stayed in my room most of the time and barely came out.
I wasn't sleeping because I constantly felt like I needed the bathroom.
I would lie awake at night praying.
Most nights, I simply asked God to help me get through another day.
And if I'm being completely honest, on the very worst nights, I prayed for Him to take me.
I would tell Him that if all of this was for nothing, then I didn't want to keep going.
Those nights were dark.
But God stayed.
Not by instantly making everything better.
Not by taking the pain away.
But by giving me enough strength for that day, and then the next one, and then the one after that.
Then one day I got tired of sitting in my room.
The skin breakdown had mostly healed, so I made myself get up and sit in the lounge.
Even if it was only for a couple of hours.
The next day I did it again.
Slowly, little by little, I started getting pieces of my life back.
I stopped using bed pans.
My appetite began to return.
I started spending more time outside my room.
And eventually I began to feel like myself again.
Treatment was one of the hardest things I have ever gone through.
It tested me physically, emotionally, and spiritually in ways I never expected.
There were days when I felt completely defeated. Days when getting out of bed felt impossible. Days when I wondered how I would make it through another treatment, another appointment, another night.
But through it all, God never left me.
He showed up through my family, through Nicole, through the radiation therapists, through friends who prayed for me, through my work, who supported me throughout treatment and recovery and never once made me feel pressured to return before I was ready, and through His presence in the middle of some very dark moments.
Looking back, strength didn't look anything like I thought it would.
Most days it looked like simply getting through the next hour.
And sometimes that's enough.
If you're walking through something difficult right now, whether it's cancer or something entirely different, this is what I learned:
Take it one day at a time.
You don't need strength for six weeks, six months, or six years.
You just need enough strength for today.
And God is faithful to provide it.
Before you go...
If this post brought you hope or met you where you are today, you're welcome to let me know below.
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