Chemotherapy Cycles and Infusions Explained
Let’s talk about how chemotherapy works. Treatment is broken down into cycles—a fancy way of saying you get medicine, take a break, and then repeat. Each cycle consists of a few treatment days, followed by some recovery time. My treatment plan includes 8 cycles, each spread across 3 weeks. Every week brings a new adventure.
Now, about the infusions themselves—this is where things get interesting. Every session feels like a chemistry experiment (minus the goggles). Each week starts with vitals, blood panels, weight checks, and yes, even height to ensure my body can handle the next round of chemo. And then comes the waiting—the drugs are mixed on-site by the pharmacy team. Sometimes I’m sitting around for hours waiting for my personalized cancer cocktail.
The Infusion Process: Not Your Average Doctor’s Visit
When the drugs are finally ready, the real fun begins. Before they pump me full of chemo, I get pre-meds to manage nausea and side effects. One of them is Benadryl, and once that hits, any plans to work or be productive go out the window. I sleep through most of the infusion, which usually takes about 3-6 hours. Let me tell you, that recliner chair becomes my best friend.
And then there’s the ice gloves and socks I wear during the Taxol part of my treatment. These frosty accessories are not a fashion statement but a tactic to help prevent neuropathy—the numbing and tingling in hands and feet that Taxol can cause. So, while I'm sat in my recliner tucked up under a blanket, it feels a bit like I'm in a winter wonderland... minus the actual snow.
Every infusion comes with company—Andy joins me for the heavy-hitting infusions with the strongest chemo cocktail, my mom comes along for one of the shorter ones, and a friend tags along for the third in the cycle. For Andy and Mom, it feels like they’re doing something, like they’re part of this fight in a situation where they otherwise feel powerless. And I appreciate that.
As for my friends? I think they’re a bit curious, and I’m more than happy to indulge them. Awareness is important. Honestly, it’s led to some funny conversations - like the time in recent weeks when I was uninvited to a girls’ glass-blowing night out—apparently, there was a genuine fear that with all the chemicals in my body, the heat would make me spontaneously combust.
Images from Left to Right: Infusion days two, four, and five (of 16 total)
My Chemo Port Experience
All these infusions need a good access point, and that’s where the chemo port—or port-a-cath—comes in. Officially known as a totally implantable venous access device (TIVAD), it’s a small chamber sitting just under my skin, attached to a long plastic tube that runs into a large vein near my heart. This allows the chemo drugs to be delivered directly into my bloodstream without needing to poke a vein every time. Convenient, right?
Getting the port surgically placed was a surreal experience in itself, but now it's a daily reminder of the fight happening beneath the surface. I slather lidocaine (numbing cream) over the port an hour before each infusion, so when the needle goes in, it’s mostly painless. That first time feeling the port being accessed? Definitely a flinch-worthy moment.
Images from Left to Right: Port-a-cath surgery one week before first infusion; bandage off after one week; nearly healed in six weeks.
The Corner Room Setup: Oddly Luxurious
In addition to my own front row parking spot outside, the Cancer Center gave me a cozy corner room with a TV and a mini fridge stocked with water, coffee, juice, and snacks like crackers. When you’re stuck for 6 hours, this is oddly exciting! There’s a recliner for me and a chair for guests. Honestly, I thought I’d get some work done during these sessions, but as soon as that Benadryl kicks in, it’s game over. I drift in and out of sleep, eat, drink, and sometimes shuffle to the bathroom with my portable IV carriage in tow.
The Nurses: More Than Caretakers, They’re Teammates
The nurses here? Absolute rockstars. Over time, we’ve developed these quirky little relationships. My phlebotomist and I are creating a business plan for rating nurse "pokes" and patient veins (think: G2 or TrustAdvisor). My chemo nurse? She gets patient reviews on how well she inserts and removes the needle, and we have a bet every session on how fast I’ll fall asleep after the Benadryl drip starts - she’s winning so far.
These small connections make long, tough days a little more bearable, even lighthearted at times. In many ways, chemo is a waiting game—waiting for the meds to work, waiting for the side effects to subside, and waiting for the next round. But with an incredible care team and access to the right resources at Northwestern Medicine, I’m finding my way through it.
I’ll be honest—I haven’t made complete sense of my emotions yet. There's always this anxiety the night before an infusion, which lingers into the morning. Afterward, I feel a bit edgy (sorry to whoever is in my path when I arrive home), but it wears off with a nap (and I try to restore balance with a sheepish apology). I’m still sorting through how to process these feelings. Chemo may be routine, but it’s a rollercoaster each time.