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Photo: Courtesy of Jessica Sliwerski.

Day 2: The Day After Chemo

I’ve figured out how to make chemo recovery more tolerable — hydration. The problem is, I can’t possibly drink enough water; the chemo drugs are drying, and they’re vehemently coursing through my body. So I return to hospital first thing this morning and get another large bag of saline fluids that measures approximately four bottles of water; that takes about two hours to administer intravenously.

I once saw a show on the Food Network where a mixologist of some renown went to all these swank bars in Vegas and got totally fucked up on fancy cocktails. The next day, he went to a trendy lounge where hot nurses hooked him up to an IV of fluids. He pulled his shades over his eyes, passed the fuck out, and woke up feeling like a rock star, ready to get his party back on. That's kind of like what I do: I get good and fucked-up on designer chemo drugs, and then I return for intravenous hydration at least three times within the next six days.

Exactly 24 hours after the chemo infusion, my husband gives me my Neulasta shot in my thigh. I sit on the toilet, and he kneels in front of me. One, two three, pow! Right in the muscle. "Shit!" I yell, biting my lip and holding back tears. Neulasta puts my bones into overdrive making white blood cells to replenish the ones chemo obliterated.

My hair is falling out everywhere. I take a shower, and there are chunks of hair on my hands. I decide it is time to be bald. I am ready. I spend a good half hour beneath the water, massaging my sore scalp and pulling hair out by the fistful. It’s all over the shower curtain, the tiles on the wall, the sides of the tub, the shampoo bottle. I watch it spiral down the drain. I emerge from the shower with only a smattering of random stragglers. Looking in the mirror, I feel a hot lump in my throat. I cannot believe this is my life, I think, not for the first time.

I ask my mother-in-law, who is visiting, to shave the remaining hair. I want all of it gone. I can no longer bear the agony of watching it slowly fall away. As she trims, she says, "You have a husband who loves you no matter what. You have a daughter who loves you no matter what. That is all that matters in this world."

Tears stream down my face, but they are not sad tears. They are tears of pride because I did it. For the first time since the day I was diagnosed, I finally feel free. All of the worry, all of my fear, all of my angst, all of my sadness floats away. Gone is the woman who was so worried about what she may look like bald, and in her place is one fierce bitch.