It’s been a little over three weeks since my last post related to my treatment—and while not much has drastically changed, the slow-motion rollercoaster of healing continues. Just when I think I’m starting to get ahead of the game, my body says, “Plot twist!”
Let’s start with the hands. The palms of my hands have gotten darker—like I’ve been working on a car engine and forgot to wash up. Except, I have washed up. Frequently. I’ve moisturized, buttered, and slathered my hands with every product under the sun, but they still look like I’ve been digging in dirt with no shame or gloves. And they feel dry. Not “I-need-lotion” dry, but “I-could-file-my-nails-on-my-palms” dry.
This is likely the early signs of Hand-Foot Syndrome, something I was warned about with Capecitabine. So far, no cracking or peeling—just rough, discolored skin that refuses to soften. But I’m watching closely because I don’t trust my body anymore. And that’s the real story here.
I don’t trust my body. Not the way I used to.
Every twinge, every ache, every new sensation sends my brain into a tailspin. The voice in my head is constant: What if the cancer is still there? What if it’s back? Once you’ve heard the words “you have cancer,” it’s hard to un-hear them. And even harder to forget that they could come back at any time.
For example, lately I’ve been feeling some tenderness again under my arm near the infamous Shitty Titty—and I also started experiencing weird little shocks, like quick needle sticks. So at my most recent appointment, I told my nurse exactly what was going on. She said it could be nerve regeneration. Apparently, radiation isn’t done doing its work and can take 4 to 6 months to fully finish its healing (and damaging) process. Great.
And when she pressed on the most tender spot—a little pocket beside my breast—I nearly jumped off the table. I’m not being dramatic here: that pain was indescribable. Like an invisible hot poker jabbed me out of nowhere. I do not want to experience that again.
And yes, I’m still massaging the scar tissue. I’ve been diligent about it—while I’m lying in bed, in the shower, at my desk. If there’s a way to multitask a scar massage into my day, I’m doing it. But honestly? It doesn’t feel like it’s changing. That knot of scar tissue is hanging in there like a squatter with no plans to move out.
Let’s talk labs. Still abnormal. Surprise, surprise. My potassium? Low. Again. My hemoglobin? Dropped below normal. Again. I’m not even sure what I’m doing wrong anymore. I drink water. I take my meds. I eat my bananas. Still… abnormal.
The only win that day was that my Keytruda infusion went smoothly—no extra potassium dragging it out, and the nurses used the correct blue tubing with a filter. If you’ve been following along, you know how I feel about the tubing drama. Thank goodness for a calm, hiccup-free infusion room this time.
Now, I’ll admit, by the time I got to my room for treatment, I was starving. I’d eaten breakfast around 7 a.m., and by 3 p.m., my stomach was writing angry letters to management. So when the nurse offered food, I didn’t say no. I should have—but I didn’t.
Let me set the scene: one tasteless chicken salad sandwich, cheese and peanut butter crackers, a sad little bag of chocolate chip cookies, and a can of ginger ale. Not one item supported my healthy eating plan, but when you’re hangry, health plans become suggestions. I inhaled that meal like it was five-star dining. No regrets. Okay, maybe one. But only because that sandwich was offensively bland.
Meanwhile, I’m still trying to live a balanced life. My memory is foggy at best. Short-term memory? It’s on permanent vacation. I’m constantly writing things down—on my phone, on paper, on sticky notes—just to get through the day without forgetting something important. Sometimes, I still forget.
That’s where I am right now—somewhere between healing and holding my breath. I’ve got tenderness, brain fog, dry hands, scar tissue, and emotional whiplash—but I’m still here. Still showing up. Still trying.
Until next time… keep moisturizing, keep breathing, and if you must eat a sad sandwich, make sure you at least get some good cookies out of it.
