Why Am I Always Freezing?

Why Am I Always Freezing?

🌼 Date: Saturday, August 29, 2026

⚡ Energy: Frozen vegetable phase, apparently ongoing

💓 Status: Blanket, sweater, socks, heating pad, still cold

🧐 Outlook: Google MD has entered the thermostat debate

Why am I constantly cold?

Not chilly.

Not “maybe I should grab a sweater.”

Cold.

Like take-a-blanket-to-cover-my-legs-and-an-extra-jacket-when-I-go-anywhere cold.

Including indoor places.

Restaurants.

Appointments.

Work.

Anywhere with air conditioning, which apparently is now my personal enemy.

And at home?

At home I sit in my recliner wearing pajama pants, a sweater, warm socks, under a blanket, with the heating pad turned on low against my lower back.

Meanwhile, poor Casey is sitting next to me in shorts and a T-shirt, sweating like he accidentally married a human snow globe.

Because I have asked him to turn off the air conditioning.

Again.

Sorry, babe.

Cancer recovery has turned me into a tiny frozen hostage negotiator.

So, naturally, enter my Google MD diploma.

Still on probation.

Still not allowed to prescribe.

But allowed to explain why my internal thermostat may be acting like it lost the owner’s manual.

From what I understand, feeling constantly cold after chemotherapy and radiation can happen for a few different reasons.

Nerve sensitivity.

Circulation changes.

Metabolism changes.

Thyroid changes.

Anemia.

Loss of body fat or muscle.

Basically, cancer treatment can mess with the body’s heating system in more ways than I expected.

Because of course it can.

Cancer recovery is nothing if not generous with the freebies nobody asked for.

Now, I have had my thyroid tested many times, and that is one thing that is still functioning correctly.

Thank you, thyroid.

Gold star.

Please continue.

But even with a working thyroid, I am still freezing.

So let’s explore this latest cancer freebie.

Some chemotherapy drugs can damage or irritate peripheral nerves.

That can make the body misread normal temperatures as freezing.

There is even a fancy term for temperature-related nerve weirdness: cold dysesthesia.

Which sounds like something a dramatic Victorian woman would faint from, but apparently it can also be what happens when your nerves are still cranky from chemo.

Normal indoor air?

My body: “Absolutely not. Arctic tundra. Emergency.”

Someone opens a door?

My body: “We may not survive.”

Restaurant air conditioning?

My body: “Tell my story.”

There can also be circulation changes.

Treatments can lower red blood cell counts or affect the way blood vessels behave, which means less warm blood may be reaching the hands, feet, and legs.

And let me tell you, my legs have opinions.

Cold opinions.

Loud opinions.

Wrapped-in-a-blanket opinions.

Cancer treatment can also put heavy stress on the body.

And when your body has spent months being cut open, poisoned, burned, medically inflated, medically deflated, hormonally hijacked, and generally treated like a construction zone, maybe the internal thermostat gets a little dramatic.

Fair.

Rude, but fair.

Then there is the weight loss part.

I have lost about fifty pounds.

Which sounds great until you realize body fat and muscle also act like insulation.

Apparently I misplaced some of my natural padding.

Tiny Tina got tinier, and now indoor air conditioning is a threat.

Cool.

Or actually, not cool.

Too cool.

Way too cool.

I would have thought that since chemo ended in February and radiation ended in April, my body would have had enough time to simmer down.

But apparently healing does not work on my preferred timeline.

Again with the waiting.

Always with the waiting.

Waiting for hair.

Waiting for nails.

Waiting for energy.

Waiting for skin to heal.

Waiting for surgery.

Waiting for strength.

Waiting for my body to stop acting like room temperature is a personal attack.

From what I have read, chemo-related nerve changes and radiation-related tissue changes can take six to twelve months or longer to calm down.

As nerves slowly try to recover, they can stay extra sensitive.

Hypersensitive.

Dramatic.

Basically, my nerves may still be sitting around in tiny blankets saying, “We have been through enough.”

Same, nerves.

Same.

Bone marrow recovery can also take time after chemo.

Even when labs improve, rebuilding red blood cells, iron stores, energy levels, and overall stamina is not instant.

Because apparently my body did not receive my request for expedited shipping.

Radiation can also cause localized inflammation and changes to blood vessels in the treated area, which can affect circulation and how the body handles heat in those regions.

So the answer may not be one simple thing.

It may be a whole committee.

Chemo nerves.

Radiation tissue.

Weight loss.

Lower muscle.

Recovery fatigue.

Circulation.

Hormone changes.

My body’s internal heating department appears to be understaffed and poorly managed.

So what am I supposed to do?

The very glamorous cancer survivor answer is:

Layers.

So many layers.

Dress in adjustable layers.

Which, honestly, is also the life of a bus driver.

You start cold.

Then the bus gets warm.

Then the kids get on.

Then the weather changes.

Then you are too hot.

Then you open a window.

Then you regret everything.

Layers are not new to me.

I am a professional layer person.

I also need to protect my extremities.

Warm socks.

Slippers in the house.

Gloves or mittens if I am touching something cold.

Basically, I need to dress like I am preparing for a light expedition every time I leave the recliner.

Warm drinks can help.

Targeted heat can help.

Heating pads.

Heated blankets.

Blankets over my legs.

Warm socks.

The whole cozy survival kit.

But I also have to be careful because of neuropathy and numbness.

If nerves are not reporting temperature correctly, it is possible to burn skin without realizing it right away.

So heat has to be tested carefully.

Low settings.

Pay attention.

No accidentally roasting myself like a tiny marshmallow.

I also need to keep advocating for myself.

Track patterns.

Is the cold worse at certain times of day?

Worse when I am tired?

Worse after eating?

Worse after work?

Worse after sitting too long?

Worse when my body is already waving the white flag?

Information helps.

Annoying, but true.

I need to keep getting enough protein, calories, and nutrients so my body can rebuild muscle mass, red blood cells, and strength.

Because apparently protein is not just about muscle.

It is part of my internal rebuilding crew.

And since I am still recovering, still working, still dealing with hormone blockers, still managing psoriatic arthritis, and still waiting for exchange surgery, my body needs actual fuel.

Not vibes.

Not stubbornness.

Not “I’ll eat later.”

Fuel.

I also need to continue my doctor-approved movement program.

Light walking.

Stretching.

Gentle exercise.

Not because I am training for anything.

Because movement helps circulation.

And circulation helps get warm blood to the places that are currently acting like they live in a freezer drawer.

So yes, I am still cold.

Yes, I am still wearing layers.

Yes, I may show up with a blanket.

Yes, I may look like I packed for both dinner and survival.

And yes, Casey may continue sitting next to me in shorts while I am bundled like a couch burrito.

Marriage is compromise.

Sometimes compromise means one person sweats while the other person tries not to turn into a popsicle.

I wish my body would hurry up and figure this out.

I wish I could stop packing extra clothes like I am going on a weather-based adventure.

I wish indoor air conditioning did not feel like a betrayal.

But this is where I am.

Still recovering.

Still adjusting.

Still learning what this body needs now.

And apparently, what it needs is warmth.

Lots of it.

Blankets.

Heating pads.

Layers.

Protein.

Movement.

Patience.

And maybe an apology card for Casey.

Because Tiny Tina is cold.

Cancer recovery is rude.

And the thermostat wars are officially ongoing.

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