The Hot Coal Foot Club
🌼 Date: Sunday, May 17, 2026
⚡ Energy: Pins, needles, hot coals, and a little bit of rage
❤️🩹 Status: Neuropathy has entered the chat and turned up the volume
🧐 Outlook: Looking for Plan B, because Gabapentin and Tina are not friends
Today, the neuropathy in my feet and hands decided to ramp itself up a notch.
Because apparently my body looked around at all the healing, recovering, peeling, swelling, tightening, and general post-cancer nonsense and thought, You know what this needs? More nerve drama.
Enter: chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy.
Or CIPN, because cancer treatment loves an acronym.
Chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy is nerve damage caused by certain cancer treatments. It can cause numbness, tingling, burning, pain, weakness, sensitivity to touch or temperature, balance issues, coordination problems, and trouble doing everyday tasks like walking, buttoning clothes, or picking things up.
Thank you, Google.
Very informative.
Very rude.
Certain chemo medications are known for being more likely to cause neuropathy, and one of them — Docetaxel — was part of my chemo cocktail.
So once again, the gift bag from Cancerland keeps on giving.
And this is where the “it’s not so fun to be Tina” portion of the program enters the picture.
Now, before I go any further, let me say this clearly:
Everybody’s journey is different.
Not every person with breast cancer gets the same chemo cocktail.
Not every person has the same side effects.
Not every person gets neuropathy.
Not every person experiences it the same way.
Some people get mild tingling.
Some people get pain.
Some people get numbness.
Some people get weakness.
Some people get lucky and do not get invited to this particular bullshit party at all.
I, apparently, received an invitation.
With glitter.
The neuropathy started for me about two or three months ago.
At first, it was mostly in my feet.
Just tingling toes.
Aching fingertips.
Annoying, but manageable.
The kind of thing where you think, Okay, this is weird, but maybe it will pass.
Then the ball of my left foot went numb.
All the time.
Not sometimes.
Not after walking too much.
Not only at night.
Just numb.
Like my foot had quietly resigned from full sensation without giving proper notice.
And now?
Now about 80% of the time, both of my feet are numb from my toes to my arches.
Which makes walking feel unstable.
Not dramatic, falling-down-the-stairs unstable.
More like my feet are sending delayed, blurry text messages to my brain.
Brain: “Are we standing on the floor?”
Feet: “Maybe.”
Brain: “Are we balanced?”
Feet: “Define balanced.”
Brain: “Are we safe?”
Feet: “LOL.”
When I am at home, it is not quite as big of a deal.
I can hold on to the wall.
I can grab the counter.
I can shuffle around like a tiny haunted grandma and pretend this is all part of my charm.
But when we go out, I hold on to Casey.
Because apparently we have reached the stage of recovery where I need a husband, a hoodie, a mask, and a handrail.
Very sexy.
Very youthful.
Very “please don’t let me eat pavement in public.”
And then there are the nighttime episodes.
Because why should neuropathy respect business hours?
Sometimes in the middle of the night, my feet start burning like I am walking on hot coals.
Which is extra fun because I am not walking.
I am lying down.
Trying to sleep.
Minding my own business.
And my feet are like, What if we pretended the floor was lava, but internally?
Beautiful.
Love that for us.
I have tried lotions and creams that are supposed to help with neuropathy.
I have tried recommended supplements.
I have tried being patient.
I have tried ignoring it.
I have tried bargaining with my nervous system like it is a toddler in the cereal aisle.
So far?
Nothing has really helped.
And I know the first thing my oncologist may want to prescribe is Gabapentin.
Which is why I already told her I have been on it before, and I do not want to be on it again.
I will politely ask for Plan B.
Or Plan C.
Or Plan “please do not turn me into a dizzy zombie who also feels like pudding.”
Gabapentin and Tina are not friends.
Now again, this is just my experience.
Some people take Gabapentin and it helps them.
Some people tolerate it beautifully.
Some people swear by it.
So do not hear me saying nobody should take it.
Medication is personal.
Bodies are weird.
Side effects vary.
Talk to your doctor.
Don’t take medical advice from a bald-ish woman on the internet whose feet are currently filing a complaint with management.
But for me?
Gabapentin was a no.
A hard no.
A no with a security escort.
When I took it before, the side effects far outweighed any positives it had to offer.
It made me dizzy.
Tired.
Zombie-like.
Jittery and jello-like at the same time, which feels like something that should not be physically possible and yet there I was, experiencing it like a science experiment nobody approved.
Have you ever felt like you were having an out-of-body experience?
Like you are hovering slightly above yourself, watching yourself try to function, and thinking, Wow. She is not okay.
That was me on Gabapentin.
Present, but not really.
Awake, but not useful.
Moving, but not trustworthy.
Like my body and brain were on two different Wi-Fi networks and neither one had a strong signal.
That is how Gabapentin made me feel, and I do not want to feel like that again.
But the neuropathy itself is also making something else make a lot more sense now.
I understand why I have not been cleared to go back to work yet.
I understand why I have not been cleared to drive my own car.
Because, as it turns out, being able to feel the pedal under your foot is kind of important.
Who knew?
Apparently, the Department of Motor Vehicles frowns upon operating a vehicle when your feet are sending your brain vague Morse code from somewhere near the floorboards.
And honestly, they are not wrong.
Driving requires trust.
You have to trust your foot to know where the gas pedal is.
You have to trust your foot to know where the brake pedal is.
You have to trust your body to respond quickly and correctly.
Right now, my feet are not giving “trustworthy.”
They are giving “buffering.”
They are giving “maybe we’re touching something, maybe we’re not.”
They are giving “good luck, girl.”
So as frustrating as it is, I get it.
I hate it.
But I get it.
Because the last thing I need after surviving cancer treatment is to accidentally launch myself through a Starbucks drive-thru because my numb little chemo feet could not properly identify the brake.
I miss my independence.
I miss driving.
I miss being able to just get in my car and go somewhere without needing another human, a plan, or a full risk assessment.
But safety matters.
And right now, my feet are not exactly making a strong case for freedom.
So here we are.
Clear of cancer, but not cleared to drive.
Cancerland really does love a plot twist.
The frustrating thing about neuropathy is that it is invisible.
If you look at my feet, they look like feet.
Tiny, possibly adorable feet, depending on your personal opinion.
But from the outside, you cannot see that they feel numb.
You cannot see the burning.
You cannot see the weird buzzing.
You cannot see the instability.
You cannot see that walking sometimes feels like I am stepping on someone else’s feet and hoping they know where we are going.
You cannot see the calculation happening in my head when I stand up.
Where is the wall?
Where is Casey?
Is the floor uneven?
How far do I have to walk?
Can I make it without looking like a newborn deer on roller skates?
And the hands are starting to join in too.
Because why should the feet have all the fun?
The fingertips ache.
They tingle.
They feel off.
And I know enough to worry about where that could go.
Buttoning clothes.
Opening jars.
Holding small things.
Typing.
Writing.
Doing all the little daily tasks we take for granted until the nerves in our hands start acting like they are buffering.
Neuropathy is not just uncomfortable.
It is inconvenient.
It is unsettling.
It is one more way cancer treatment follows you home after the big treatment days are supposedly over.
That is the part people do not always understand.
When chemo ends, the side effects do not all line up politely and leave the building.
Some of them linger.
Some of them show up late.
Some of them get worse before they get better.
Some of them knock on the door months later like, Hey girl, did you miss me?
No.
No, I did not.
Please leave.
But here we are.
Trying to figure it out.
Trying to manage it.
Trying to keep walking.
Trying to keep using my hands.
Trying to stay safe.
Trying not to spiral into the terrifying Google results that live three clicks past “common symptoms.”
Because Google is helpful until it isn’t.
Google will tell you what something is.
Then Google will put on a cape, turn off the lights, and lead you straight into Anxiety Land.
So I am trying to stay in the practical zone.
I emailed oncology.
I explained what is happening.
I told them I have been on Gabapentin before and do not want to be on it again.
I asked what my options are.
And now I wait.
Again.
Because apparently waiting is the unofficial mascot of cancer recovery.
Waiting for replies.
Waiting for healing.
Waiting for skin to calm down.
Waiting for hair to grow.
Waiting for swelling to go down.
Waiting for nerves to behave.
Waiting for my body to stop acting like a haunted house with medical billing.
I know there may be other options.
Medication.
Physical therapy.
Acupuncture.
Maybe labs to check if anything else is contributing.
Maybe things I have not thought of yet.
Maybe something that helps.
Maybe something that doesn’t.
Maybe more waiting.
But I am trying to stay hopeful.
Even if I am also annoyed.
Those two things are basically roommates now.
Hope and annoyance.
They live together in my chest, right next to the tightness, swelling, and whatever the expander bags are doing today.
The truth is, neuropathy scares me.
Not in a panic way.
More in a quiet, deeply irritating way.
Because I want my life back.
I want to walk without thinking about it.
I want to sleep without my feet pretending to be on fire.
I want to use my hands without wondering if this is going to get worse.
I want one part of my body to just do its job without requiring a meeting, a medical message, or a support plan.
But I also know this:
I have made it through every other awful thing this journey has thrown at me.
Surgery.
Chemo.
Radiation.
Lotion betrayal.
Antibiotic betrayal.
The Greased Pig Phase.
The Shrinky Dink Phase.
The Giant Gown of Coachella.
The bag checks.
The staring strangers.
The waiting.
The fear.
The “you’re clear” joy with the tiny anxious asterisk.
So now I will deal with this too.
I will ask the questions.
I will push for options.
I will protect my boundaries.
I will hold on to Casey when I need to, and apparently I will keep letting him be my chauffeur until my feet remember how pedals work.
I will use the wall, the counter, the furniture, the husband, the dogs, the universe, and sheer stubbornness to keep myself upright.
And I will keep telling the truth about what recovery actually looks like.
Because being “clear” is beautiful.
It is powerful.
It is the best news.
But being clear does not mean every side effect packed its bags and left.
Some of them are still here, dragging their feet.
Literally.
So today’s update is this:
The cancer may be clear, but the nerves are still pissed.
My feet are numb.
My hands are tingling.
Gabapentin is not invited.
And I am still here, walking carefully through this next weird chapter.
One hot-coal footstep at a time.
Want to follow the journey from the beginning?
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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time
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