Healing2ways

1. The waiting room is its own emotional universe.

They don’t warn you how heavy the waiting room feels. Everyone is quiet, but not in a sad way — more like we’re all holding our breath at the same time.
You notice things: the sound of machines, the scent of disinfectant, the shuffle of slippers and trainers.

You also notice the faces. Some people look scared. Some look bored. Some look like this is their tenth cycle and they just want to get on with it.
But something unexpected happens too: you start rooting for strangers. Even the ones you don’t speak to. You want them to be okay. Because you understand.

2. The fear builds… and then strangely settles.

You have a port put in but not always. If you have to have a canula put in that can be scary. That tiny pause where your brain fires off every possible fear:
What if it hurts? What if I react badly? What if I can’t do this?

And then… it just settles.
You breathe.
You realise you’re here now.
And there’s no turning back, so your body does this weird survival shift into calm. You surprise yourself with how strong you actually are.

3. The nurses become the people you trust more than anyone.

Nobody tells you that chemo nurses feel like superheroes in scrubs.
They explain every click, every tube, every drip.
They tell you when it might sting, when it might feel cold, when they’re about to do anything new.

They are gentle in a way that makes you emotional.
They call you “love” or “sweetheart” or “my darling,” and suddenly you feel safe.

4. The drip feels strange — but not as terrible as your imagination predicted.

Depending on your treatment, the sensation is different for everyone.
For me, it felt:

• a bit cold

• a bit heavy in the vein

• slightly metallic at the back of my throat

• and oddly, like nothing dramatic

You keep expecting pain or a movie-moment collapse, but chemo starts quietly. Almost anticlimactic.

No explosions. No drama. Just… drip, drip, drip.

5. Your mind becomes louder than your body.

The biggest battle isn’t physical — not on day one.
It’s mental.

You think about everything:
How did I get here? Is this really happening? Will it work? Will I still feel like myself after this?

It’s like your brain opens every cupboard of fear and dumps it on the floor.

But then something else happens too:
You realise you haven’t lost yourself.
You’re still you — just a you who’s deeply tired of the unknown.

6. The kindness hits you the hardest.

A stranger smiles at you.
A nurse rubs your hand.
Someone’s partner brings extra biscuits and offers you some.
You suddenly understand how brave everyone in that room is — not just the patients, but the families holding them up.

It’s overwhelming, but in a good way.

7. The exhaustion afterwards is real.

Not just physical tiredness — emotional tiredness.
You go home feeling like you’ve run a marathon with your heart, not your legs.

You might crash on the sofa.
You might cry.
You might feel normal for a bit and then suddenly drained.
All of it is okay.
There’s no right way to react to day one.

8. You learn something about yourself you didn’t expect.

You learn that you’re stronger than you thought.
Not because you wanted to be strong, but because you had no choice.

And when you finish that first session — when they unclip the line and say “You’re done for today” — something shifts.
You realise you can do this.
Maybe not easily.
Maybe not gracefully.
But you can.