Cold Hands, Fierce Heart - Chemo Session 5 of 18

When I walked into chemo session #5, I came in with my mind ready. My body may have been tired, but my spirit was in fight mode. At this point, I know what’s coming - the routine, the rhythm, the quiet hum of IV machines. But even with preparation, there's nothing casual about cancer treatment. Every session is a mental and physical battle.

There’s a strange thing about chemo that people don’t always realize: the chemo itself isn’t what hurts. Not in the way you'd think. I have a port in my right shoulder - a small device implanted under my skin that makes access easier and spares my veins from constant needle sticks. The chemo drugs drip steadily through that port, almost silently. It’s almost deceptive - the stillness of the process masks the chaos it’s causing inside.

What does hurt, what I dread, are the cold mittens and booties.

Yes, you read that right - ice-cold therapy gloves and foot covers. They’re not for comfort.

They’re optional but they’re part of the strategy.

The mittens are cold, but my will is fire.

Why I Choose the Cold

The cold mittens and booties aren’t mandatory - they’re optional, available to any patient who requests them. But for me, they’ve become a key part of my personal strategy. I ask for them every session, because I want to do everything in my power to protect my future - my mobility, my strength, my independence.

One of the chemo drugs I’m receiving carries a risk of peripheral neuropathy - nerve damage that often shows up in the hands and feet. It can cause numbness, tingling, or burning sensations, and in some cases, it becomes permanent. That’s something I take seriously. I want to walk, write, cook, and feel with my hands and feet when this is all over.

The cold works by constricting blood vessels in those areas, slowing the amount of chemo that reaches the nerve endings. It’s a way to reduce the risk of long-term damage. It’s not comfortable - not even close - but it’s my choice. A hard one, but one I stand by.

This isn’t just about getting through treatment. It’s about preserving the quality of life after treatment. For me, these freezing gloves and booties are more than medical gear - they’re part of the armor I’ve chosen to wear in this fight.

Ten Minutes of Fire and Ice

Choosing to wear the cold mittens and booties means choosing pain - short-term, sharp, and intense - in exchange for a chance at long-term protection. And that choice isn’t easy.

The first 10 minutes are the worst. As soon as the frozen gear goes on, it feels like plunging your hands and feet into ice water. The cold isn’t just uncomfortable - it burns. It stings. It makes your skin feel like it’s on fire from the inside out. My hands throb, my toes feel like they’re cracking, and every instinct I have tells me to take them off.

But I don’t. I breathe through it. I remind myself why I’m doing this - to protect the nerves I’ll need later. I grit my teeth and push through.

By minute 10, the pain shifts. Numbness settles in. It’s not relief exactly, but it becomes manageable. I can relax just a little, unclench my fists, lean back into the chair, and settle into the rest of the infusion. The cold stays on for the first hour of the 90-minute session, but those first 10 minutes are the peak of the storm.

And when I get through it? That in itself feels like a win - a quiet, personal victory inside a much bigger war.

Five Down, Thirteen to Go

Altogether, this session lasted about an hour and a half one of the shorter ones in my chemo cycle. Each cycle includes three sessions: the first is the longest, nearly 3 hours, and the next two (like today’s) are about 1.5 hours each. Even when the session is “small,” it’s never easy. Each time I sit through one, I remind myself: I’m not just surviving this - I’m fighting through it. Each drip, each minute, each icy glove is a step toward healing, even if it doesn’t feel like it in the moment.

Session 5 means I’ve completed nearly a third of the journey. I have six full cycles to go through - that’s 18 sessions in total. Five down, 13 more to go. It’s progress I can feel, but it’s also exhausting. The sessions don’t just take a toll on the body - they test the mind, the spirit, the sense of self.

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What Keeps Me Going

People often ask how I do it. Honestly? Some days I don’t know. But then there are things - small, meaningful, grounding things - that keep me moving forward:

• A message from someone reminding me I’m not alone.

• A playlist that takes me somewhere else, even if just for a song or two.

• A mental image of the life I want after this - healthy, free, and whole.

  
  

I hold onto those things like lifelines. I remind myself that this pain is temporary, even when it feels endless. That healing is happening, even when I can’t see it.

This is not just treatment. This is war. And I didn’t come to lose.

To Anyone Fighting

You’re not weak for being tired.You’re not alone for feeling afraid.And you’re definitely not broken for needing to pause and catch your breath.

You are fighting a battle most people can’t see - and you’re doing it with more strength than you know.

I’ll be back for session #6 next week. One round closer to the end. One chapter deeper into my comeback story.