You hear about cancer and chemo your entire life like it’s a demon lurking in the background. I rarely even wanted to say either word in conversation because the idea alone terrified me. Then one day, my worst fear was standing at my doorstep and there was no way to dodge it.
Here’s the thing about fears: when you’re actually forced to confront them, they have so much less power than you imagined.
The First Infusion
Walking into the infusion center felt like stepping into the twilight zone. I’d always been careful about my health, careful about what I put in my body — and here I was voluntarily letting them inject what I thought was pure poison into my veins.
Let me tell you: that first infusion was fairly uneventful.
I expected to be wheeled out in a wheelchair. I expected to feel like death. Honestly, my fear and anxiety probably produced more side effects than the actual chemo did.
What They Give You
Before the chemo itself, they load you up with premeds:
- Leucovorin — a high-dose vitamin infusion that helps the chemo work more effectively
- Bevacizumab — a monoclonal antibody that interferes with the blood supply to your tumors so the chemo can hit harder
- Zofran — for nausea
- Lorazepam — I had to request this directly, but it was a life saver for stress and relaxation. If you’re anxious about infusions, ask for it. It’s a completely normal thing to request.
Then the chemo. During the actual infusion, I felt slightly nauseous — probably compounded by stress, all the fluids, and the situation more than the drugs themselves. A bit weird. Slightly dizzy. Nothing profound.
The Infusion Room
The environment is calmer than you’d expect. You get a reclining chair. You can watch movies, browse your phone, have snacks you brought or grab from what they provide. Nurses check on you regularly — adjusting your meds or flow rates, bringing warmed blankets, making sure you’re comfortable. You might talk to a volunteer or the nutritionist. It’s genuinely laid back.
The most stressful moment? When they actually start the cytotoxic drug. The nurses dress in full PPE — gown, gloves, face shield, the works. You think to yourself: They need to be dressed like they’re handling ebola, but they’re pumping this directly into my veins?
That messes with your head the first time. But after a few infusions, you realize it’s just a precaution in case of a spill or leak. They’re exposed to these drugs for years across hundreds of patients — that’s a completely different scenario than your twelve infusions. Let it go.
Walking Out the Door
The moment you march out the revolving door after your first infusion and the fresh air hits your nose and the warm sun hits your skin — it’s a stark contrast to the cold, sterile infusion room. That feeling is hard to describe. Relief doesn’t cover it.
The Take-Home Pump
After each infusion, I had to bring a pump home with me for three days. Honestly, wearing the pump felt worse than the actual infusion. It’s a fanny pack that makes a weird squeaky clicking sound every few seconds. For three days straight. You have to be constantly aware of the tube running from the pump to the port in your chest — careful not to snag it on a doorknob, get it tangled in your sleep, or catch it on anything. You don’t want that ripped out.
It’s a nuisance. It’s weird. But it’s manageable with a little awareness.
The Cumulative Effect
This isn’t well described in the beginning. The effects of FOLFOX aren’t immediate like a car wreck. It’s more like a slow drain on your systems. You notice the change only when you look back after weeks to months of treatment. Each cycle takes a little more out of you than the last.
But here’s what I’ll say: there are things you can do that help. Nutrition, supplements, staying active, supporting your body through the process. I was doing a lot of extra things on my own that my oncologist didn’t know about. He was often confused by how well I was handling treatment and how my bloodwork stayed close to normal.
After about six infusions, he told me: “If I didn’t know you were stage four as your oncologist, by looking at you and this bloodwork, I would have no idea you had cancer.”
I’m not bragging. I’m telling you that the extra effort matters. What you do outside the infusion chair can make a real difference in how you tolerate treatment. I go deep into all of that in The CRC Roadmap at beat-crc.com.
You can get through this. The first one is the scariest because you don’t know what’s coming. Now you do.
— Aaron M.
Keep reading:
The CRC Roadmap 
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