Chemo Change: Heatwave, Shivers, and Hard Truths

Last Thursday’s chemo knocked me off my feet in a way I didn’t expect. My oncologist said this new mix would be “milder” than my previous rounds, but my body clearly didn’t get the memo. The first time around, I was on Carboplatin and Paclitaxel. This time, Gemcitabine joined the party and it feels like it came with a heavier punch.

Maybe it’s because my liver is still recovering from the first mix. Maybe it’s because my body is tired of fighting. Either way, I’ve been struggling to adapt, and that’s been hard to admit, even to myself. I wanted to share where I’m at - not just for those following my journey, but to remind myself that these ups and downs are part of the process, even when they don’t make sense.

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/20ca26_567069e5f65a47528b465b77b0fd1742/1080p/mp4/file.mp4

What’s Changed in My Treatment

My first chemo combination — Carboplatin and Paclitaxel — was no walk in the park, but I got to know its rhythm. I learned how my body reacted, how many days I’d feel wiped out, and when the fog would finally lift.

This new mix is different. Now, Gemcitabine is in the picture. My oncologist explained that it’s supposed to be gentler, but I can’t help feeling like it’s pushing me harder. The reality is my body isn’t starting from zero. My liver has already taken a hit from the first round, so even if the drugs are “milder” on paper, they might not be milder on me. That’s the part that’s been so hard to wrap my head around - the way my body’s past battles shape today’s fight.

How This Round Feels Different

The first few days after last Thursday’s infusion felt like I had been hollowed out from the inside. It wasn’t just fatigue - it was a bone-deep heaviness that made even sitting upright feel like a chore. My muscles ached in new places, and my head felt wrapped in a fog that not even my usual warm, earthy comfort of my morning matcha could cut through.

On top of that came the constant shivers, as if my body couldn’t decide what season it was in. One moment I was freezing under blankets, the next, waves of heat would roll over me, the kind of hot flushes that make you want to crawl out of your own skin. And all of this is happening during a relentless heatwave here in the south of France, where my home feels more like an oven than a refuge. The contrast is maddening - shivering in 35°C heat, sweating through my clothes one moment, then freezing the next.

With my first chemo mix, I could predict the crash and slowly climb back up. This time, the crash is longer, the climb feels steeper, and the side effects are more chaotic. I find myself arguing with reality - telling myself it shouldn’t feel this bad if the drugs are “milder,” trying to push through, then realizing my body has already decided the pace.

The frustration is real. I want to be stronger, to adapt faster, to not let this phase swallow up whole days of my life. But my body keeps reminding me that healing isn’t a race, and sometimes survival means letting go of the timeline I wish I had.

What I’m Learning About My Body

This round of chemo has been a humbling reminder that my body is not a machine I can't just push harder when things get tough. It’s more like a partner I have to listen to, even when I don’t like what it’s saying.

I’m learning that “milder” is a word that belongs to the medical charts, not necessarily to my lived experience. I’m learning that sometimes strength is quieter than I thought, not about powering through, but about respecting my limits.

Most of all, I’m learning that progress doesn’t always look like forward motion. Sometimes it’s staying still, resting, and trusting that the work is still happening deep inside, even when I can’t see it. This isn’t the story I wanted to tell about this phase of my treatment, but it’s the one I have and that makes it worth sharing.

To my readers: If you’ve been following my journey, thank you for walking beside me, even on the slower, heavier days. Your messages, prayers, and quiet presence remind me that I’m not doing this alone. I’ll keep showing up here, telling the truth as best I can, no matter how the story unfolds.