It's hard to put into words what it's like to have chemotherapy every couple of weeks. The anticipation starts a few days before and often makes me feel like a lamb heading to the slaughterhouse, fully aware of its fate. You know you're about to be poisoned, but it's a poison that offers you a lifeline. Mixed feelings, to say the least. Preparing for it is a bit like getting ready for annual leave at work – rushing to finish your most important tasks because you know you'll be out of action for a few days. The psychosomatic response kicks in early, for me. The nausea often starts in the hospital car park, a visceral reminder of what's to come. Today it started even earlier, in the school car park when I was dropping my son off in the morning. Perhaps it’s car parks. I bring my laptop to the hospital, attempting to squeeze in a bit more work while I’m still myself; clinging to normalcy for as long as possible. But once the chemo hits the bloodstream, there's no fighting it. There is only one winner, and you have no choice but to succumb. There’s something weirdly cathartic about that particular moment, when you let go. Your energy depletes. Your skin turns yellow. Nausea sets in, and before long, you are a shell of yourself. Having said all of this, I do realise how fortunate I am to have the opportunity to be treated. I’m also grateful to the 83 year old woman on my ward who told me that she thought I was about 26. See you in a few days 🌻