If you’ve ever run a marathon, you know the kind of exhaustion that hits your bones. The kind that makes you question your life choices and your sanity. But my first chemo infusion? It wiped me out in a way that made that marathon feel like a warm‑up jog.
I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect to feel so drained after sitting still for six hours, hooked up to a line that fed chemotherapy straight into my heart. I didn’t expect the emotional whiplash of moving from medical procedures to brunch to grief to family time in less than 48 hours. And I definitely didn’t expect the strange mix of gratitude and heartbreak that would settle into my chest.
If you’re navigating breast cancer treatment, or you’re supporting someone who is, I want to walk you through my chemo port placement experience, my first infusion, and the emotional storm that followed.
Because this journey is messy. It’s raw. And it deserves to be told honestly.
Curious about the backstory? It all starts much earlier. Start here 👇
What a Chemo Port Actually Is (and Why They Recommended It)
Before my first infusion, I had a port surgically placed under my skin. If you’ve never seen one, imagine a tiny button with a tail — honestly, it looks like a sperm cell. The “head” sits under the skin so nurses can access it easily, and the catheter “tail” runs into a major vein near my collarbone.
It’s not glamorous. But it’s practical.
A port makes it easier to draw blood, deliver chemo, and avoid the endless poking and prodding of fragile arm veins. When you’re facing multiple rounds of treatment, that matters.
If you’re curious, this is the one to open 👇
Port: What to Expect
The Placement Procedure Itself
The procedure was done in a smaller OR with a team of women who immediately made me feel safe. They chatted, moved around me like busy bees, and reassured me that no one was new on the job — something I absolutely asked about.
The room itself was impressive. Tracks on the ceiling. Huge screens. Equipment that looked like it belonged in a sci‑fi movie. My engineer‑minded husband would’ve geeked out so hard, but he was stuck in pre‑op while I got the VIP tour.
The sedation wasn’t as strong as what I had during my mastectomy, but it did the job. One minute I was listening to the nurses talk about their ER days, and the next I was waking up to the sound of cleanup chatter, shocked that we were already done.
Modern medicine is wild.
My Chemo Port Placement Experience (The Real, Unfiltered Version)
The procedure itself? Easy. The aftermath? Not so much.
By the time we left the hospital and stopped for brunch, I could feel stiffness creeping into my neck and jaw. Chewing hurt. Turning my head hurt. Swallowing hurt. Everything felt tight and wrong.
At home, I tried Tylenol. I tried lying down. I tried ice. I tried distracting myself with TV and a phone call. Nothing touched the pain. I even had a skin reaction to the adhesive, which added a whole new layer of discomfort.
Eventually, I took a leftover pain med from my mastectomy — and still felt nothing but misery.
The Pain Management Confusion
The nurse had warned us away from ibuprofen, so we avoided it at first. But by late evening, I was in tears. My husband called the on‑call doctor, who said, “Please take ibuprofen. If it helped after your mastectomy, use it.”
Within an hour, I felt relief.
I was frustrated that we hadn’t been told the full story. But I was also grateful to finally breathe without wincing.
And I needed that relief, because the next day was about to break my heart.
My First Chemo Infusion: More Exhausting Than a Marathon
I’ve run multiple races in my adult life. I didn’t start running until almost 30, but once I did, I went all in — even completing a full marathon. And I can say with complete honesty that my first chemo infusion left me more exhausted than that marathon ever did.
Six hours. Sitting still. Letting medicine drip into a port that fed straight into my heart.
It was surreal. It was heavy. It was the kind of tired that settles into your bones and refuses to leave.
The Day Everything Collapsed: Losing My Sweet Rascal
The morning after my port placement, I had a scheduled “fill” appointment with my reconstruction nurse. My parents were driving up from Oregon. We were juggling plans and logistics. And before any of that, my cat Rascal had a vet appointment for an ongoing respiratory infection.
I thought it would be routine.
It wasn’t.
Rascal spiraled fast. We ended up in the ER. He stopped breathing. And we had to make the decision no pet parent ever wants to make.
I wanted more time. I wanted more mornings with him curled on my chest during coffee and meditation. I wanted more of his purring, his warmth, his dog‑like excitement when I walked through the door.
But he was suffering. And loving him meant letting him go.
I lost my fur baby that day. My companion of over 13 years. My meditation cat. My heart.
Want the full story on my ‘fill’ appointments? It’s right here 👇
Loving and Losing a Furry Companion
If you’ve ever loved an animal, you know this grief. It’s sharp. It’s tender. It’s full of memories that feel like gifts and wounds at the same time.
I joined the countless people who know what it means to love and lose a furry soulmate.
And I miss him every single day.
The Small Mercies: Parents Visiting, Distraction, and Support
My parents arrived later that day, and their presence was a balm. We cooked. We played games. We shared stories about pets we’ve loved. We laughed in that soft, fragile way you do when your heart is still cracked open.
This season of my life has been a strange mix of physical pain, emotional exhaustion, deep grief, and unexpected gratitude. My chemo port placement experience taught me how strong and vulnerable the human body can be. My first infusion showed me what real fatigue feels like. Losing Rascal reminded me how fiercely we can love.
If you’re walking a similar path, you’re not alone.
If you need support, community, or comfort, come join me.
You deserve support. You deserve softness. You deserve to feel held through this.
And I’m right here with you.
Go on, tap that subscribe button — future you will be glad you did.
Want more stories, tools, and honest moments like this? Hit subscribe and come along for the next post.
Leave a Reply to NancyCancel reply