Chemo Phase II Begins | Cold Hands, Warm Heart

My quality of life over the last couple of weeks has improved tenfold. And I genuinely don’t think I realized how bad I was actually doing until I started feeling somewhat human again.

Finishing the Red Devil and switching to weekly Taxol has been the biggest mental, emotional, and physical relief.

Don’t get me wrong, Taxol is still chemotherapy. I am still being willingly poisoned once a week. But the symptoms I have experienced compared to the Red Devil are NIGHT AND DAY.

The Red Devil was absolutely fucking brutal.

The physical and mental pain I experienced during those eight weeks was unlike anything I have ever felt in my life. There were nights I was genuinely scared to fall asleep because I wasn’t completely convinced I would wake back up. I couldn’t tell if what I was feeling was a normal chemo symptom or if my body was actually actively dying.

Which is a really fun little game to play at 2 AM while the rest of the world sleeps…

Is it chemo or am I dying?

Google was obviously no help because according to Google I died six symptoms ago.

Now that I am getting further away from AC and more into Taxol, I am realizing how incredibly sick I actually was the last 2.5 months. When you’re in it, you don’t really have a choice but to keep moving. I still had to be a mom. I still had appointments. I still had responsibilities. So I just… survived.

Having that part of chemotherapy behind me is such a massive relief.

And I am so proud of my body.

My relationship with my body has been complicated for most of my life. I have spent YEARS criticizing her, shrinking her, picking her apart, and wishing she looked different.

And then I watched her survive the Red Devil.

She was poisoned. Poked. Scanned. Swollen beyond recognition. Exhausted. In pain. And fighting stage 4 cancer at the same time.

And she still carried me through every single day.

I owe my body the biggest apology of my life. And probably flowers. And a vacation. And maybe I’ll stop criticizing her so much for retaining eleven pounds of chemotherapy fluid.

My first Taxol infusion had me SO anxious. They monitor you incredibly closely because severe allergic reactions are common, especially during the first infusion.

Because apparently my anxiety wasn’t busy enough.

We needed to add a little “possible anaphylaxis” and “maybe an airway obstruction” razzle dazzle to the cancer experience!

Thankfully, I had my mom and my brother Zac with me for round one. They hung out with me, distracted me, made me laugh, and watched the nurses stare at me like a hawk while we waited to see if my body was going to accept Taxol or choose violence.

Thankfully… she accepted it!

So far, Taxol and I are getting along pretty well.

I wouldn’t say we’re friends. But we’re coworkers who can sit next to each other at a staff meeting without causing a scene.

Neuropathy is a pretty common side effect of Taxol, so protecting my hands and feet has become a big part of my weekly infusions. My oncologist has me wear ice-cold mittens and socks to hopefully prevent long-term nerve damage.

And yes… they are exactly as enjoyable as they sound.

If it weren’t for my mom sitting with me making sure I behaved, I 100% would not wear those ice packs properly… definitely not my favorite activity. But in the grand scheme of everything this body has already carried me through, it truly feels like small potatoes. If freezing my fingers and toes for a few hours can protect my nerves long-term… fine! Freeze me like a bag of peas.

Another huge piece of my treatment has been my hormones.

My cancer is estrogen and progesterone positive, meaning those hormones help fuel its growth. Before I even started chemotherapy, my oncology team acted very quickly to shut that down. I received a small capsule injected under my skin that slowly released a strong hormone blocker for multiple weeks and temporarily “put my ovaries to sleep.”

Which is the very gentle medical way of saying I was launched headfirst into menopause at 31 years old.

And holy shit… menopause is also NO JOKE.

My internal thermostat completely lost its mind.

Thankfully after finishing the Red Devil, my oncology team supported my decision to stop the hormone blocker for now safely. I truly believe that has also played a huge part in how much better I have been feeling lately.

For months, it has felt like my body is no longer mine. Cancer makes decisions for me. Chemotherapy makes decisions for me. My body has changed faster than I can mentally process any of it.

But lately, I have started to feel tiny pieces of myself coming back.

I have more energy. I am laughing more. I am enjoying my days more instead of just trying to survive them.

I know there is still a lot ahead of me. I am still bald. Still doing chemo. Still freezing my hands and feet once a week like a Costco bag of mixed vegetables.

But I feel hopeful.

I feel stronger.

And most importantly, I feel like Makenzee is coming back again.

After everything my body and I have been through together, I will never take that feeling for granted again.

Feeling like Makenzee again also means finally feeling more like Max’s mom again.

That has been one of the hardest parts of all of this for me.

During the Red Devil, I was physically there, but so many days I felt like a shell of myself. I was surviving hour by hour while also trying to keep a tiny, 40-pound dinosaur happy!

I was nearly bed ridden after my last Red Devil infusion and felt terrible missing out on time with my favorite little dude.

There were days I couldn’t get out of bed without legitimately passing out on the floor, or having a massive debilitating migraine that made me throw up all day. There were so many days I couldn’t play the way I wanted to, and days I had to ask for more help than I have ever been comfortable asking for.

The mom guilt was HEAVY. It still is.

Max obviously has no idea what stage 4 cancer is. He doesn’t understand chemotherapy or why Mom suddenly lost all of her hair… but he knows bald heads are really fun to drive HotWheels on.

Sometimes he will dramatically say “oh no mama! Your hair!” when I take my hat off, and it will never get old. I will laugh every single time.

But lately, I have been able to be more present with him again. I don’t think I will ever be able to fully explain how much that means to me.

Cancer has taken a lot from me over the last few months. But it has also completely changed the way I look at the smallest moments of my life.

A good day is no longer “just a good day.”

A morning spent laughing with Max feels like a precious gift. Having enough energy to play with him for a short spurt of time feels like a Super Bowl win. Beginning to feel somewhat present in my own life again feels absolutely HUGE.

I still have a long road ahead of me, and I know not every day will feel this good.

But right now, I am soaking it all in.

I am here. I am laughing. I am hopeful. And I am getting closer to being fully present for my sweet boy again.

There is truly nowhere else I would rather be.

My husband Cole, has been my absolute rock through every second of this. His patience with me deserves some sort of award at this point. He listens to every fear, every random thought, and every medical rabbit hole I somehow find myself lost in. He reminds me how strong I am when I forget, loves me through the really ugly days, and continues to pour so much goodness into me every single day.

Walking this path is horrible. Truly, 0/10. Do not recommend. But having Cole beside me through something this heavy has been one of the greatest gifts hidden in all of this chaos. Max and I are so unbelievably lucky to have him.

And our families… I genuinely don’t know where to begin. Both sides have wrapped their arms around us so tightly and refused to let us carry this alone. They have filled in the gaps on the days I simply can’t. They show up for Max. They show up for Cole. They show up for me. Again and again, without hesitation.

Cancer has a really cruel way of changing the way you see life. It strips so much down and makes you realize very quickly what actually matters. And through all of the ugly, I have been given the gift of seeing just how deeply my little family is loved.

There are days this life feels unbearably heavy. But there has not been a single day we’ve had to carry that weight alone.

When I count my blessings, I count our families twice. Every single time.

---

Something really incredible happened for Max recently, too.

His Uncle Zac, my older brother, was an EOD officer in the Army. He reached out to a few of his close friends from those days and asked if they would be willing to send Max something small and uplifting to bring him a little extra joy during such a difficult time.

What happened next was beyond anything we ever could have imagined.

The message spread. And spread. And then apparently REALLY spread…

Max received an absolutely astronomical amount of challenge coins, patches, handwritten letters, hats, pins, stickers, toys, and little pieces of love from every direction. People who have never met my son took time out of their lives to make my little boy feel special.

And that completely broke me in the best way.

I carry a lot of guilt when it comes to Max and my cancer. I know logically I didn’t choose this, but the mom part of my brain doesn’t always care about logic. I hate that so much of his little life has had to shift because his mama got sick. I hate the days I’m too tired to play the way I normally would. The appointments. The people coming and going. The times I’ve had to ask someone else to step in when all I want is to be the one doing it myself.

He’s only two. But he knows our normal changed.

So when all of these packages started showing up for HIM, I completely lost it. Obviously. Crying is basically one of my most consistent hobbies in 2026.

Seeing people show up for my baby, love on him, and go out of their way to bring joy into his little world healed a part of my mom heart that I didn’t even realize was hurting so badly.

I will never be able to properly thank every single person who sent a coin, a patch, a letter, a hat, a toy, or even just shared Max’s story with someone else. I wish I could personally hug every one of you and explain what you did for me as his mom.

Someday, when Max is older, I will tell him about this chapter of our lives. I’ll show him every coin, every patch, and every handwritten letter. I’ll tell him that when his mama got cancer and our entire world flipped upside down, people we had never even met stepped in and wrapped their arms around my little boy.

I’ll tell him that there was an entire army of people rooting for him, too.

Cancer has taken a lot from us. But it has also given me a front-row seat to a level of kindness and humanity I don’t think I ever fully understood before.

I will carry this with me for the rest of my life.

Thank you for loving my baby when my mama heart needed it the most. 💕