Halfway Done With "The Red Devil" | Powered by Otter Pops and Spite

First and foremost, my fashion sense is getting even worse now that I am not able to go to work every single day. This is my new uniform, in all its glory! We are celebrating the halfway mark of my first phase of treatment. That means we are roughly 1/8th done with the entire process, which sounds small. But it's actually a big deal we have made it this far already! I am holding strong.

I've learned that "AC chemotherapy" is actually just a fancy medical abbreviation for the two drugs currently running my life.

A = Adriamycin (aka The Red Devil)

C = Cyclophosphamide

Now, if these medications were people, Adriamycin would be the loud, dramatic friend who kicks the door down and announces their arrival before anyone asked them to. The friend who probably pre-games for children's birthday parties.

Adriamycin doesn't believe in subtlety.

Its entire personality is basically:

"Oh, you have cancer cells? Not anymore, b*tch."

It storms through the body on the hunt for fast growing cells and starts causing chaos. Adriamycin is exactly who you want to invite to the party when boring cancer cells have completely ruined everything with their awful personality. Cancer cells hate Adriamycin. Unfortunately, my hair follicles, digestive system, taste buds, and energy levels aren't huge fans either. They are collateral damage.

Then there's Cyclophosphamide.

Cyclophosphamide is much less flashy. No cool nickname. No bright red color. No dramatic entrance.

It's the quiet accomplice standing behind Adriamycin saying,

"Don't worry. I have your back."

While Adriamycin is busy plowing down doors, kicking ass and taking names, Cyclophosphamide is working in the background; sneaking around making sure cancer cells can't regroup, recover, or make a comeback.

Cancer cells are not only asked to leave… they are forcefully demanded to NEVER ever come back.

I hope the cancer cells living inside my body are dumb enough to fall for the medication's tricks, but smart enough to listen to the threats of what will happen if they attempt to rejoin the party uninvited in the future.

Together they're basically the breast cancer version of a well-spoken smiling cop and a far more aggressive, gritty hard-ass cop.

The goal isn't to make me feel good.

The goal is to make cancer feel bad.

Very bad.

So while I may currently resemble a tired potato with a Stanley cup full of crushed ice and compression socks pulled up to my eyeballs, these two medications are in there doing exactly what they were hired to do:

Causing absolute workplace chaos for cancer cells.

And for that, I'll allow it.

The symptoms have been life changing, which is no secret when it comes to chemotherapy.

About 95% of my hair has packed its bags and left the building. I look RIDICULOUS, and you have my full permission to laugh!

Every morning I take my hat off, catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and immediately start laughing like a lunatic.

Not because it's funny exactly.

More because it's so unbelievably shocking.

One minute you're a normal 31-year-old woman with a set haircut and coloring schedule, and the next minute you look like a freshly hatched baby bird that somehow has bills to pay, a toddler, and a chemotherapy schedule.

It's a very strange experience!

The funny thing is that I keep expecting to get used to it, and I haven't.

Every single time I see my reflection, my brain still does a double take.

"Oh. Right. That's me."

To be clear, I'm not upset every time I look in the mirror.

Sometimes I genuinely laugh. Almost every time.

Sometimes I stare at myself and think, "Wow, cancer really committed to the bit."

And sometimes I catch myself thinking that I look surprisingly tough.

Not by choice, of course.

But apparently when your hair abandons you, the hairs jump ship at random times without any formation. The bald spots were so random. Now my entire head is ALMOST 1 giant bald spot.

I knew I would lose my hair. What I did not know is that losing my hair was going to come with physical pain. My scalp is very sensitive, and wearing hats and head covers has nothing to do with not wanting the world to know I am balding. They truly make life far more comfortable and prevent my head from rubbing against anything.

The steroids make me absolutely unhinged.

The jitters are so intense that the only way I can describe them is this:

Imagine you're 8 years old, sitting in the backseat of your mom's Dodge Durango in 2002 on the winding road to McCall after eating two giant servings of spaghetti.

That's the feeling.

The motion sickness is unreal.

I can be laying completely still in bed, not moving a single muscle, and somehow still feel like I'm riding a carnival ride designed by someone with a personal vendetta against my stomach.

About 50% of the time, my eyes feel like they're vibrating.

Not twitching.

Not blurry.

Vibrating.

I realize that sounds ridiculous, but it's the most accurate description I have.

Then there's my tongue.

For a few days after treatment, my tongue transforms into a cat's tongue. Same sandpaper texture. Same rough feeling. If someone told me I could lick a piece of furniture and remove the varnish, I'd believe them.

The mouth sores this round have also chosen violence.

They're enormous and don't just stay in my mouth. They travel down my throat and into my esophagus, making eating feel like an extreme sport.

Unfortunately, chemotherapy isn't very selective. Its job is to destroy fast-growing cells, which is great when we're talking about cancer cells.

Less great when we're talking about the healthy cells lining the inside of my mouth.

Some days, ice chips and Otter Pops are the only things that don't feel personally offensive.

Some days I can only keep my eyes open for 30 minutes at a time before my body demands another nap.

Maybe chemotherapy IS turning me into an actual cat?

I have been getting multiple bloody noses a day, which is also very common and expected. But that is a pretty minor symptom and does not bother me too much.

There are a lot of little things that can feel overwhelming when they’re all happening at once. Thankfully that’s not always the case. Sometimes it’s only one or two symptoms demanding my attention instead of all of them clocking in for the same shift.

This still sucks, don’t get me wrong. But the level of suck definitely fluctuates throughout the week.

Cancer treatment has a funny way of humbling you. One day you're making plans and checking things off your to-do list, and the next you're celebrating the fact that you successfully ate half an Otter Pop and stayed awake long enough to watch 1/2 an episode of a TV show with your toddler.

But there are good days too.

Days where I feel more like myself.

Days where I can play with Max, laugh with my family, sit outside in the sunshine, and remember that this part is temporary. I live for those moments. Literally.

The hard days are real.

But thankfully, so are the good ones.

Max and I are still playing hard! That will never, ever change. Being his mother and giving him every piece of normalcy is a top priority.

We just have to adjust our definition of "hard" these days.

Unfortunately, my tiny, reckless stuntman is no longer allowed to full-body body slam me, launch himself off the couch onto my shoulders, or use me as a human jungle gym... sometimes he needs gentle reminders. But we work through it.

Apparently when you have cancer lesions in your sternum, doctors become very opinionated about allowing a toddler to treat you like a wrestling training facility.

Who knew?

As ridiculous as it sounds, I miss those things tremendously.

I miss scooping him up without thinking about it.

I miss being climbed on at full speed.

I miss the accidental elbows to the face and the flying toddler tackles that used to be such a normal part of our day.

It's funny the things you never realize you'll miss until they're gone.

The good news is that kids are adaptable. Especially Max. He is amazing. He is the entire reason why my heart is beating, and my will to live is as intensely strong as it is.

We focus more on building racetracks, reading books, snuggling on the couch, chasing bubbles, playing outside, and finding new ways to spend our time together. We are also working on coloring pictures and how to actually use art supplies, instead of eating them and flushing them down the toilet for no reason.

The activities look different, but the love doesn't.

Not even a little.

That kid is my entire world.

Every hard day, every appointment, every infusion, every side effect... I would do it all a thousand times over if it means getting more time with him.

He's worth every second of this fight.

My support system has continually showed up for me.

I'm assuming if you have read THIS far... that you more than likely are a valuable part of my support system. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for the love, support, prayers, and continuous kindness. You have no idea how much it means to me, and how much of a positive difference you make in my life.

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For Max: Help Makenzee Fight Stage IV Breast Cancer by Donating Below.

Cole's own experience having his head shaved the day I shaved mine. We love this guy so much!