Chemo Round 1: The Hangover With No Party
I began my first round of chemotherapy on Friday, June 6. My drugs? Doxorubicin — nicknamed the Red Devil—and Ifosfamide. A particularly ruthless combo.
The plan: 6 rounds total, one every 21 days. This treatment protocol is used for soft tissue sarcomas, which is what Angiosarcoma of the breast falls under. According to MD Anderson’s studies and the patients they’ve treated, this approach is considered highly effective.
Goal #1: Kill off any lurking cancer cells.
Even though my PET/CT scans came back negative (no visible spread), I learned that doesn’t mean they’re not in there. Cancer cells are clever. They divide rapidly—hence their fast-growing, sneaky nature—and each time they do, they learn and adapt, trying to find new places in the body to take root. It’s not a matter of if they’ll try to spread, it’s when. My chemo’s job is to find those rogue invaders and destroy them before they set up shop in my liver, lungs, heart, or other soft tissues.
Goal #2: Shrink the beast.
At my last scan, the tumor in my breast had grown to a monstrous 12 cm. In order to surgically remove it with the best chance of success, we need better margins—more healthy tissue around it to cut into. So the goal is to shrink it down and make some space.
Chemo Week:
Five days of infusions, with each day a little different:
Day 1: Pre-meds (Zofran, steroids, albumin, and something to protect my heart), then both Doxorubicin and Ifosfamide.
Days 2–4: Pre-meds + Ifosfamide.
Day 5: Pre-meds only for support.
Honestly, the infusions themselves weren’t as horrible as I imagined. The pre-meds and take-home prescriptions kept nausea in check. What hit hardest was the sheer exhaustion. And the fluids. So. Many. Fluids. Five hours of IV drips every day, plus being tethered to a little backpack pumping Mesna (I nicknamed her Margarita) into me 24/7. Mesna is a cytoprotectant—its job is to protect my healthy cells from the damage chemo can do, especially to my bladder. Think of it as a kind of bodyguard for my insides.
The bloat was real. Between the fluids and the steroids, I felt like I was eight months pregnant. And the cravings? Unhinged. I would go from sour candy to pickles to a bowl of fruit in minutes. Real meals? Who is she?
Eventually, the infusions ended and the backpack came off. I could move without tubes and beeps. The bloat settled, and my appetite tiptoed back toward something resembling normal.
That’s when the weirdest part kicked in: I kind of… felt okay?
Not great, but not what I expected either. It was like having a hangover—except there was no party, and no champagne to blame. Just the fog, the fatigue, the food aversions, and mornings where I could barely open my eyes. I’m normally a 4:30 AM workout girl. Now, I was dragging myself out of bed, still groggy, skipping coffee (which should tell you everything), and nursing a dull headache until noon. Most days I didn’t start to feel “better” until the afternoon.
But I made it. Round 1, done.
“You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them.” – Maya Angelou
Right now, I’m learning to live in this new “norm”—this odd, uninvited chapter. To be honest, I’d give anything to be back in Tennessee, on my back porch, watching the sunset. Instead, I’m here in Houston, melting in the heat and humidity.
But I’m here for a reason. I believe that. I have to believe it.
And as much as I miss home, I know that healing is happening. One round at a time.
