What I see is that most people who are diagnosed with cancer consider chemotherapy to be one of the most frightening treatments. That’s not without reason—after all, it’s a toxin that affects not only a person’s general wellbeing, but also drastically reduces resistance to infections, leads to visible physical changes, and can have long-term consequences.
I don’t want to go deeply into exactly what those are, partly because I’m not a doctor, and partly because there are many different chemotherapy drugs. Not only do they differ from each other, but they can also affect individuals in very different ways—something you could probably write entire books about.
However, I feel that since I’ve gone through one of these treatments—through the initial fear, moments of reassurance, and struggles along the way—it might help someone if I share my own experience.
The pitfalls of fear
Like many others, I tried to ease my initial fear of chemotherapy by joining social media groups and bombarding my AI “friend” with endless questions.
The problem with this is that, strange as it may sound, there is such a thing as too much information. The more answers you get—especially about possible side effects and risks—the more things you start to fear all at once. My brain, at least, treated these responses like a long list and more or less assumed that everything others had experienced would also happen to me. (Spoiler: it did not)
It was almost like taking a patient information leaflet at face value—which, as we know, can be overwhelming even for something as simple as paracetamol.
Relying on individual experiences regarding side effects can also be misleading, because when someone reports a symptom, we don’t know whether it was directly caused by chemotherapy, by another medication they were taking alongside it, by an interaction, or even by an infection. An it is certainly how their body reacted, not yours. So you might end up fearing things unnecessarily.
On top of that, people who had very strong or traumatic experiences with chemotherapy are more likely to respond to such questions than those who went through it relatively smoothly. Those people often aren’t even active in those forums anymore. So the overall picture can appear much more dramatic than reality.
Using AI also has its own challenges and pitfalls. The wording of your question can influence the answer, and your own fears can shape how you ask things. Sometimes the information may come from unreliable sources, or it may simply be incorrect. I can confidently say I’ve experienced all of these. So even if it gives a confident answer (and it usually does—even when it’s wrong), it’s very important to cross-check if you want to go there at all.
As you come across more and more frightening information, it’s easy to become increasingly anxious. Instead of feeling reassured, the constant searching only amplifies your fear, creating a vicious cycle that drains your energy—at a time when every bit of it matters.
If I could go back in time, I would simply ask my doctor about the main side effects and risks to have a basic understanding, and then rely on my own observations.
Chemo or no chemo
For me, this wasn’t really a question. My cancer had spread to the point where aggressive treatment gave me a real chance of recovery, whereas without it, my outlook would not have been good.
With other treatments, I did face difficult decisions, so I know how incredibly hard this can be. There is risk in everything—no one can take that away.
I often see people become frustrated or bitter and blame doctors if chemotherapy or any other treatment doesn’t go as planned. I don’t think that’s fair. We know that chemotherapy carries risks, and there are no guarantees. Doctors are trying to help with the tools they have and what current knowledge suggests gives the best chance—but everyone knows these tools are not perfect. And you always have the right to say no.
These decisions can be mentally exhausting. It’s easy to fall into the trap of sharing your dilemma with many people. Then everyone pours their own experiences, opinions, and perspectives onto you—often one-sided and not always relevant. The more this happens, the harder it becomes to decide.
What helped me was advice from former CIA agent Evy Poumpouras: before sharing your dilemma or asking for advice, ask yourself—why would this person know better than me, when I know my own situation best?
If the answer is unclear, don’t share. If the answer is professional knowledge or extensive experience that you don’t have, then their opinion matters.
Once you’ve made a decision, it’s important to commit to it and not constantly look back. There is no perfect decision, so self-blame is pointless. You just have to make the best of the situation with the knowledge you had at the time.
It’s also worth mentioning that on social media you will eventually come across people who are strongly anti-chemo or even anti-medical intervention in general. That’s too extreme for me, and I don’t lean in that direction, so I won’t go into it here. I’ll just say this: spending too much time hesitating is also a decision—and it carries its own risks.
I’ve seen and read multiple doctors say that a common problem is people delaying decisions until the cancer progresses and their chances worsen. That’s a risk that really isn’t worth taking. You have to make a decision within a realistic timeframe.
PORT
Chemotherapy can be given through a vein, a PICC line, or a port (in some cases medication too). Long-term chemo is usually not given through veins because it’s more inconvenient for the patient and can damage the veins over time. A PICC line is a catheter inserted into the arm to avoid this issue, while a port is a small device implanted under the skin in the chest.
I had a port.
It sounds scary to have something implanted in your body, and it is indeed a minor surgical procedure, but for me it didn’t cause any long-term discomfort—and I don’t think I’ve met anyone for whom it did.
The insertion was done without general anesthesia. The area was covered, and I only felt the local anesthetic and some movement in my chest. Once it’s done, they cover it with a dressing, and that’s it.
After the anesthetic wore off, there was some mild pain for a few days, but I didn’t even take painkillers because it wasn’t that bad. It goes away, and later you barely notice it’s there.
Emotionally, it hit me a bit harder. At first, I didn’t like having this foreign object inside me. Especially because it made everything that was coming feel more real—something that had previously only existed in words.
But after a few days, I got over that too, and by the end I actually grew quite fond of the little thing. It made me feel kind of… supernatural.
One thing to prepare for is that accessing the port before chemo can be painful. Doctors can prescribe a lidocaine cream, which you apply 1–1.5 hours beforehand according to instructions, and it completely numbs the area. For me, 1.5 hours worked best. In the UK, you can also get this cream at pharmacies—it’s called EMLA cream.
Some people choose to just tolerate the pain, but I don’t think it’s worth suffering if there’s an alternative. Chemotherapy is a marathon, and every bit of pain and stress adds up and can weaken you in the long run. It’s worth to look after yourself to maximise your chances.
After the port is implanted, chemotherapy can usually be started quite soon—within a few days, or sometimes even earlier.
The port is then removed once it’s considered that no further chemotherapy will be needed. In my case, this happened during the surgery following chemotherapy. While the port is in place, it needs to be flushed monthly, so it’s not typically left in unnecessarily if it’s no longer needed.
(To be continued…)
Blooming Anyway 
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