Reporting Live from Chemo Station 19

Reporting Live from Chemo Station 19

🌼 Date: Tuesday, December 09, 2025

⚡ Energy: Wired, overwhelmed, and weirdly alert

💔 Status: Alive and officially infused

🌞 Outlook: Buckled in — let’s do this

Chemo Day: The Great Storm

This morning, we left the house with plenty of time for the 45-minute drive.

But Mother Nature said:
“Let’s make this fun.”

Flooding.
Storms.
Traffic stopped dead.
Power outages.
Every road looked like a scene from a dystopian drama.

GPS ETA: 8:12 am
Appointment time: 8:00 am
Me: Hyperventilating
Because I do not do late.
Bus drivers are NOT late.
Okay… fine…
Not usually double digits late.

I called the chemo clinic the second their phones turned on at 8:00.
A miracle happened:
A human answered.

I explained everything — the wound, the storm, the anxiety, all of it.
She said:
“Don’t worry. Be safe. Get here when you can.”

I hung up and burst into tears.
No hormones, remember?
Plus, three weeks of fear, pain, stress, and “what if my whole timeline gets screwed” finally broke me.

When I sink, he doesn’t just throw me a rope — he jumps in.

And Then… the Nurses Made Me Cry AGAIN

When I finally got to the infusion room, something unexpected happened.

Three of the nurses recognized me.
From Bryan’s treatments.
They cared for him during his three battles.

They remembered him.
They remembered me.
They remembered us.

And when they learned he had passed…
We all cried.
Right there.
In the infusion room.

They told me they rarely, if ever, get updates on patients after treatment ends.
It meant the world to them to finally know.

He mattered. He still matters.

The Pregnancy Test Fiasco

Then the doctor ordered a pregnancy test.
LOL.
Girl.
No.
This oven has been turned off for FIFTEEN YEARS.

My IV basically said,
“I accept incoming fluids only, thank you.”
It refused to give up any blood.
Not one drop.

One of the nurses literally said,
“Come on, Bryan, that’s not funny. Help your mama out.”
We laughed through tears.

The doctor finally said if I accepted responsibility, she’d waive the test.
I was like,
“Doc, the only way I’m pregnant is if the Virgin Mary herself blessed me personally — I had Essure put in 15 YEARS ago.”

And with that…
CHEMO ROUND 1 WAS ON.

Chemo-day glow and all.

💗 Introducing: Sir Drips-A-Lot

(My new, tall, shiny, clingy chemo boyfriend)

At some point during chemo, after my fifth close encounter with death-by-IV-pole, I had a realization:

If this thing is going to follow me around, bump into my ankles, and get tangled with every other patient like we’re doing the world’s slowest tango…
he deserves a name.

We will spend HOURS together.
He holds all my fluids like a champ.
He doesn’t judge when I ugly cry.
He doesn’t flinch when I swear like I’m trying to win a rap battle.
And he NEVER tells me to calm down.

Behold… Sir Drips-A-Lot.

Chemo Day 1: Meet My New Dance Partner

Chemo comes with a lot of unexpected side quests…
but no one warned me about the pole dancing.

Walking that IV pole around the infusion room is like trying to waltz with a drunk octopus. There are cords, wheels, bags, pumps, and more random sticky-outy bits than a toddler’s science project. And the number of obstacles between my chair and the “patient restroom”? Criminal.

Every time someone else was out for a walk with their pole, we’d both do that awkward
“Sorry—no you go—wait—shit—okay!” shuffle.

Like… is there a “Right of Way” manual for this thing? They hook you up and send you off into the battlefield with NO training, NO instructions, NO laminated cheat sheet.
(Maybe I should teach a class. My schedule is pretty open…
you know, except for the TEN freaking appointments I average each month.)

You’re pumping people full of fluids for four hours straight.
You know we’re going to have to trot on over to the “patient only restroom.”

Would it kill someone to add:

• a cord hook (hello, even $40 vacuums have that),
• a phone shelf,
• a cup holder,
• and maybe a damn rhinestone option?

Because if I’m dragging this pole around like a reluctant toddler on wheels, the LEAST they could do is make it pink and sparkly.

The Bathroom Debacle (AKA: The Day a Stranger Saw My Whole Ass)

My very first trip to the “patient only restroom” gifted me a valuable life lesson:

👉 You have to double-click the lock.

Why? Because I learned the school of hard knocks way — mid-pee, pants around my ankles, — when a RANDOM DUDE opened the door.

At this point in my life, modesty has packed her bags and left the country.

I’ve given birth.
I’ve had a lifetime of “scoot down a little more… a little more… a little more” PAP smears.
I’ve been squished, smashed, scanned, and unfolded like origami.
I attend weekly appointments where my front-opening gown is basically optional.

And now?
I’m built like a 12-year-old boy with medical tattoos — so WHY the gown?
Do preteen boys have to wear those?
Asking for a friend.

The Dress Code for Chemo Day #1

If I must sit in a chair for hours, I will do it in STYLE.

So, naturally, I showed up in:

• My “I AM THE STORM” shirt
• My pink leopard Princess Blanket of Emotional Support™ – Thank you Teri!
• And the grand finale…
  DEAR CANCER, YOU PICKED THE WRONG BITCH socks. Thank you, Jenn and Sarah!

I feel they set the tone, don’t you?

Now for the other fun facts they don’t tell you…

For the first 3 days after chemo, I’m supposed to use my own restroom — and flush twice each time to avoid leaving behind any toxic radioactive glitter.

If Casey has to clean up anything that escapes from either end (sorry, but if you’re here you signed up for raw and real), he must:

• glove up
• double-bag anything used
• and wash his hands like he just handled uranium

The man didn’t sign up to become a Toxic Body Fluid First Responder, but here he is, earning medals daily.

If I get chemo funk on my clothes (Jesus take the wheel NOT the pink satin leopard PJs), they must be washed solo, then washed again with my regular laundry.

Our water bill is going to send the city council into retirement.

Meanwhile, the IV pole is still my clingy new boyfriend.

He goes everywhere with me.
He holds all my fluids.
He beeps when he wants attention.
And he will absolutely yank my arm out of socket if I walk too fast.

But you know what?

He can stare all he wants, because between my socks, my shirt, my fluffy blanket, and my attitude…

I still look like the better half of this relationship.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time