🔥 April 2025 – Nora’s Cell Shield Melted in the Chemo Reactor

The month everything changed.

Well... I kind of saw this coming after surgery.

If you’d asked me last April whether cancer or chemo would ever be part of my story, I would’ve laughed. I was healthy—or so I thought. 🧬

Now, here I am—facing the chemo reactor.

My body, once armored in invisible shield cells, is being stripped down.

This month isn’t just about treatment. It’s about surrender. About letting go of what protected me, and trusting that healing will rebuild me from the inside out. 💥

🔥 April 8, 2025 – The Plan Has Begun Blueprint of the Cancer Treatment Reactor

👩‍⚕️ Reuniting with Dr. Rivard

It’s been nearly a month since I saw Dr. Rivard in person. After our phone call last week, it was grounding to sit across from her again. She confirmed the biopsy results: Stage 1A high-grade serous carcinoma of the left ovary. 🧬

Because of the tumor’s aggressive nature, she recommended six cycles of chemotherapy. That number echoed in my head—I couldn’t picture myself in that space. It distracted me completely. 😶‍🌫️

💉 Port Placement: My First Step

Before chemo begins, I’ll need a port placed in my upper left chest. It’s a dime-sized device that replaces the need for an IV. In my mind, I imagined something detachable—like a plug-in. But no, it’s a real implant. I’m learning how naïve I’ve been. This is all new. All I know is: These cancer cells have to go. 🧨

🧠 Predicting the Unpredictable

Dr. Rivard also asked if I’d consider genetic testing. It could reveal hereditary abnormalities and help guide future care. I said yes. If there’s a way to predict the unpredictable, I want to know. Knowledge is power—even when it’s uncomfortable. 🔍

📚 Chemo Education with Val

After my appointment, Val met me for chemotherapy education. She walked me through everything:

• What to expect before and after treatment

• How to manage side effects

• When to call the triage nurse 🚨

• What red flags to watch for

My mind was spinning. I asked, “Is it possible I won’t have side effects? ”Val reassured me: some people don’t, and some even keep working. That gave me hope—especially since I plan to return to work in two weeks. 💼

She also scheduled my port placement. When she said it would be a procedure, I froze. Wait—they’re actually going to operate and place something inside my chest? 😳It’ll be outpatient, about 45 minutes. Still… another OR visit on my record. Ugh. 🏥

on our way to my first Oncology visit after surgery , still have my long hair

🔥 April 9, 2025 – The Plan Has Begun

Arming Myself for the Upcoming War: Hair Preservation ✅

Today was one of those days you need reinforcement. Mike booked a later tee time to stay close. Jacob headed to the gym. Grace and Mayet came over, bringing enough food to fuel us through the week ahead—my battle week. 🍲💪

Before chemo could take my hair, I decided to take it myself. I wanted it gone on my own terms—not shredded strand by strand by medication. This was my way of preserving something: control, dignity, identity. ✂️🧠

As Grace and Mayet grabbed the clippers, I started to get emotional. There’s a Filipino belief that when you’re going through something hard—heartbreak, grief, change—you cut your hair. And that’s exactly what this was. I was trying to hold on, even as I let go. 💔

Jacob came in, and I asked him to take a video or some photos so I could remember this moment. He started acting silly—snapping goofy pictures, making faces. That’s his way of coping when he’s nervous or something’s bothering him. 😅

Eventually, I had to stop him. Grace and Mayet took over. As they began cutting, we all started bawling. It got real, fast. They could barely finish because we were sobbing together. 😭

Jacob stepped in and gently shaved the rest of my hair when Grace and Mayet couldn’t continue. Once they pulled themselves together, Mayet gave me a clean shave while Grace checked for any stray hairs. 🪮

These were good cries. Protective cries. Emotional armor. I kept thinking: What would this feel like if it were chemo meds tearing my hair out instead of clippers in the hands of people I love? 💔💇‍♀️

Before and After

not a dry eyes of us 3

Start

🔥 April 13, 2025 – Friendship Shield Up

Our group chat has shifted—everyone’s focus is now on getting me ready for chemo. After cutting my hair and still recovering from surgery, I felt fragile but surrounded. 💬🛡️

They asked if I was up for lunch and maybe some last-minute shopping for things I might need, since I won’t be out and about for a few weeks—or maybe months. I said yes. Grace picked me up, and we met our friends at one of our favorite Vietnamese spots. Lunch was lively, full of laughter and chatter, just like old times. 🍜💬

I was a little weak, walking slowly, and everyone kept checking on me to make sure I was okay. Aerin had to leave for work, so we wrapped up our lunch date with hugs and headed to the outlet mall. 🛍️

I walked around with them, taking breaks here and there. It just felt good to be outside, soaking up the fresh air and normalcy. I picked up a few things from a couple of stores—small comforts, quiet armor. 🌤️🧣

After shopping, we got hungry again and decided to grab dinner at a Mexican place. The others ordered margaritas, and I went straight for my favorite: Caldo de Res. It’s a rich Mexican beef soup that tastes almost like Filipino nilaga or sabaw sa baka—warm, familiar, healing. 🍲

We ended the night with hugs and heartfelt wishes for strength and solid health as I head into chemo. These moments—simple, ordinary, full of love—are my shield. 🫂💪

🔥 April 14, 2025 – Port Placement Shield Up!

Before heading to the hospital, I did my prep. It was similar to what I did before my tumor removal surgery—just a different site. I washed the area with antiseptic soap, followed the instructions, and got myself mentally ready. 🧼🫀

Mike stayed with me until Nurse Shelly admitted me and got me prepped for the procedure. He said goodbye, and I was wheeled into the OR. This was my first time entering an operating room fully aware of my surroundings. It felt surreal. 🏥

The procedure took over an hour—they had to redo my IV, and there were moments when I could feel the pressure and pain as they placed the port in my chest. One nurse stayed beside me the whole time. I was dizzy and sleepy from the anesthesia, but I could feel her presence—checking on me, talking to me, making sure I was comfortable. 💉😵‍💫

Once it was done, they wheeled me back to my room. I felt sore—a familiar kind of rawness, like waking up from surgery with something foreign inside me. The port felt alien, but necessary. 🛌

After I was briefed, Mike picked me up and we headed home. I spent the evening doing food prep for tomorrow. I made lugaw with chicken, loaded with ginger—it smelled so comforting. 🍲🧄 For snacking, I made binignit, sweet and soothing. 🍠🥥

I followed Val’s instructions: eat light and drink more than 64 oz of water. And I did. Hydration, nourishment, and a little bit of normalcy before the next step. 💧✅

🔥 April 15, 2025 – The Day Has Come to Face the Chemo Reactor

The Day I Won’t Forget

You know those moments you never forget—the first time you do something and the feeling stays with you forever? This was one of those days.

I woke up early, hydrated, ate a light breakfast—coffee and toasted sourdough—and showered. I kept pacing around, mentally preparing myself. ☕🍞🚿

Then suddenly, I got a call from the infusion center:

“Nora, you’re late for your appointment. ”Wait—what? I thought it was at 9:30. Nope. It was 8:00 AM. 😳Thankfully, they said they’d still accommodate me. So off we went.

💉 Port Access & Survival Mode

After the nurse brought me in, Mike left, and I was in the care of Nurse Amy. She asked if it was my first time, and I said yes. She gave me a detailed rundown—medications, side effects, and the 4.5-hour procedure ahead.

Then came the moment: accessing my port. I didn’t know what to expect. She prepped the area, but the real challenge was the IV needle. My body went into survival mode—hands tense, ready to swat the needle away. 😬

She noticed and asked,

“Would you like to close your eyes and not see it, or have someone hold your hand? ”I chose the hand. Someone held mine. And when she finally inserted the needle, I felt the pressure—and then relief. It was done. 🙌

🧠 The Chemo Reactor Awakens

The medication began. First came Benadryl through the IV—oh boy, that knocked me out. 😴I woke up groggy and saw Nurse Amy changing meds, now in full PPE.

“Why the PPE? ”She explained she was administering my first chemo drug.

As I drifted back to sleep, I felt the chemo moving through my veins—zapping sensations from my brain to my knees. It was like a reactor had exploded inside me. My cells felt caught in a tidal wave of medication. 🌊⚡

In the darkness, I saw twinkling stars. I was in and out of a dreamlike state for the first three hours. When I finally woke up, I told Nurse Amy. She said it might be the Benadryl and suggested switching to a tablet next time. 💊

🍲 Lunch & Chemo Curiosities

After the first drug, I had lunch—crackers and chicken lugaw. When I opened the container, Nurse Amy said,

“That smells so good!” It was probably the ginger. 🧄🥣

She administered the second chemo drug, and I asked to use the bathroom. She asked me to wait ten minutes—likely to monitor for reactions. I didn’t have any.

But when I flushed the toilet, I saw something strange: bubbles in my pee. 🫧Of course, I checked Dr. Google. Turns out, it’s a known chemo waste effect. Fascinating and weird.

💊 Medication Brief & Aftermath

During treatment, the pharmacist stopped by to review my medications—especially the anti-nausea protocol. There’s a process, and I nodded along, not realizing how much I’d need it later.

After chemo, I felt exhausted. Mike picked me up, and I collapsed onto the couch. I didn’t want to do anything. I felt solemn but stable—just as Val had warned me about the first seven days of chemo. 🛋️🧘‍♀️

my first chemo

🔥 April 16–26, 2025 – Not a Day in April Without Incident

Side Effects, Setbacks, and the Chemo Reactor in Full Force

The morning after chemo, I woke up early needing to use the bathroom. Mike was on the couch, staying close. When I tried to stand, he helped me—but I immediately couldn’t feel my heels. It was like they weren’t there. 😨

I panicked. Mike slipped on my house shoes, and I tiptoed to the bathroom. Later that morning, I felt groggy, fatigued, nauseous, and had a metallic taste in my mouth. I could barely eat—nothing tasted right. 🧠🥴

The next day, Mike tried to cheer me up with familiar comfort food. He went to Cracker Barrel and brought back chicken fried chicken. 🍗I knew Val had warned me: no fried or spicy food, only small portions. But I didn’t listen. I wanted to eat fried chicken!

The first bite hit my stomach—and I instantly regretted it. I felt like throwing up, nearly choked, and heartburn settled in fast. Mike panicked and felt awful for letting me eat it. 😓

After lunch, I broke down emotionally. I felt completely out of it—no appetite, foggy brain, muscle pain, and neuropathy in my hands and feet. I looked at Mike and asked,

“Can I stop chemo? I don’t think I can handle the side effects .”He said, “Okay, hon. Whatever you want. We can talk to the doctor about it.” 💬💔

As if April couldn’t pass without another incident, I ended up back at the hospital with a mild infection. I guess April is just following March’s lead. The chemo reactor has officially activated—and all hell broke loose. ⚠️🌪️

Clinic visit - Mild infection

On Saturday, Aerin visited and brought a delicious Filipino breakfast she made just for me. That was so thoughtful. 🍳 But here’s the funny part—I couldn’t taste any of it. Still, I ate it anyway. I missed the food, and at least it looked beautiful on the plate. 🍽️

💥 April’s Final Blow

Just when I thought April had thrown enough at me, it ended with a bang. On April 27, I developed a high fever—104°F—later that afternoon. I called the triage nurse, and she told me to go to the ER immediately. 🚑🌡️