There are things you prepare for when chemotherapy begins.
The appointments.
The medications.
The long days.
But there are also the things no one quite tells you about—the small rhythms that slowly become part of your life, the quiet discoveries that meet you in the middle of the journey.
Unexpected gifts.
Not the kind you would have asked for.
But the kind that somehow find you anyway.Here are a few I’ve discovered along the way.
The Gift of Discipline
Hydration has become one of my quiet strategies.
Before and after infusion, I drink water like it’s my full-time job. Big tumbler. Ice cold. Refilled again and again.
It feels like one small way I can support my body as it processes the treatment and works through the side effects.
Yes, it means many trips to the bathroom and disrupted sleep at night.
But if it helps my body even a little, it’s worth it.
Sometimes discipline isn’t about grand gestures.
Sometimes it’s simply choosing the small things that help you keep going.
The Gift of Preparation
Chemo days now come with their own little packing list.
Prayer kit.
Lip balm and moisturizing sanitizer.
Vomit bag.
Mask.
A tumbler for water.
Cooler and cold therapy socks and mittens.
And my phone — messages from friends, music, a quick scroll on social media, an eBook, a podcast, a movie — anything that helps keep my mind occupied so cancer doesn’t win my thoughts for the day.
Preparation, I’ve realized, isn’t about controlling everything.It’s simply about giving yourself what you need for the moment you’re in.
The Gift of Endurance
About 24–48 hours after my first set of infusions from January to March comes the Lapelga shot to help build up white blood cells.
Then, another day later, the aches arrive.
Bones, joints, muscles—everything feels it.
Those days require patience. They pass slowly, but they do pass. And a few days later, I begin to feel more like myself again.
Endurance, I’m learning, isn’t always about strength.
Sometimes it’s simply staying through the hard hours until they soften.
The Gift of Divine Reassurance
In March, I completed the first phase of my treatment — four chemotherapy sessions from January to March.
April began the second phase: twelve weekly infusions with a new medication.
During my first session with the new drug, Taxol, I suddenly experienced chest tightness, shortness of breath, flushing, nausea, and sharp pain in my lower back. The nurses immediately stopped the infusion and administered antihistamine through IV. Once I was stable, they resumed the treatment. Allergic reactions to Taxol are common to patients.
It was my longest infusion so far — about three hours.
But in that moment of fear, I was also reminded that we are never alone.
The nurse assigned to me that day was the very same nurse who cared for me during my first infusion back in January. She is Catholic, and when we first met, she told me she had been reading about Padre Pio. That day in January, she noticed the bracelet I was wearing and recognized it immediately.
When I saw her again during this new phase of treatment, it felt like a quiet reassurance — as if God had sent a familiar face, an angel nurse, to be there for that moment.
Sometimes the gifts in this journey come in the form of people who show up exactly when they are needed. Another small God wink.
The Gift of Learning
Nausea was something I expected.
So far I’ve experienced it, but thankfully without vomiting. I do have medications if needed, but I’ve mostly managed with simple things—breathing exercises and peppermint tea.
This season has made me more attentive to my body.
You learn quickly what helps.
You learn what to prepare for.
Along the way, I’ve also been attending workshops offered to patients—on nutrition, creative writing, anti-cancer lifestyle, and even makeup and fashion for women undergoing chemotherapy.
Each one has been its own kind of encouragement.
Small reminders that even in the middle of treatment, there is still space to learn, to create, and to care for ourselves in new ways.
And somehow, all of this learning brings a quiet kind of confidence.
The Gift of Perseverance
April has been the hardest month so far.
For the first time, migraines, acid reflux and mouth sores persisted for two weeks, with pain consuming most of my waking hours. On many days, the only relief I could find was drinking hot water, sitting in the dark, closing my eyes, or sleeping until the wave passed. I allowed myself to cry when pain seemed unbearable.
Sometimes the hardest part is not just the pain itself, but the feeling of not being able to do much about it. At this point, I’ve chosen not to take any medication for it.
And there are moments when that feels frustrating — when the day slips by and I have little energy for anything else. Even simple things, like folding my own laundry, can feel like such an effort.
But perhaps this, too, is where perseverance quietly lives.
Not in accomplishing more, but in allowing the body the rest it needs, and trusting that tomorrow may bring a little more light.
The Gift of Grace over Perfection
In one of the nutrition workshops I attended, the advice was simple:
Eating healthy is important, but calories are calories. Some days you might crave something sweet or comforting. On those days, feed your soul.
I smiled when I heard that.
This season is not about perfect choices, such as eliminating all added sugars, which I initially tried to do.
It’s about nourishment, survival, and kindness toward your own body.
When I saw my oncologist late in April, I mentioned the migraines, acid reflux and mouth sores and my non-pharmaceutical approach to managing them. She gently reminded me to be kind to myself and said it was okay to take a pain reliever within a safe limit if I needed it.
Another small reminder that healing, too, requires grace.
Sometimes letting go of perfection simply means allowing ourselves the care we need.
The Gift of Rest
Fatigue is real.
So I’ve created what I now call my little “camp” in the basement — a place where everything I need is within reach.
A small table.
Water nearby.
The remote.
A playlist of piano and rain sounds for sleep and relaxation.
A soft blanket.
And most importantly, permission to rest.
Rest is not weakness.
Sometimes it’s exactly what healing requires.
The Gift of Showing Up
Just five days after one of my chemo treatments, I had the joy of emceeing a dear friend’s 50th birthday celebration.
Being there felt like a small victory — a reminder that even in the middle of treatment, life continues to unfold in beautiful ways. That joy and celebration can still find their place, even in difficult seasons.
Moments like that feel like small victories. Not because everything is easy, but because showing up — when you can — becomes its own quiet celebration.
The Gift of Receiving
Perhaps the most humbling gift has been accepting help.
Meals.
Rides.
Texts.
Prayers.
Check-ins.
Allowing people to care for you is not always easy. But I’ve come to see that when people feel helpless watching someone they love walk through something difficult, helping becomes their way of loving.
And in receiving it, I’m reminded again and again how surrounded I truly am.
Humility, it turns out, is also a gift.
Some gifts arrive wrapped in ribbons.
Others arrive quietly, disguised as endurance, discipline, rest, or the kindness of others.
These are not gifts I would have chosen.
Yet they are the gifts this season has placed in my hands.
And I am learning to receive them —
Softly,
and with gratitude.
