If you’ve ever wondered what actually happens on chemotherapy day — the prep, the emotions, the logistics, the weird little rituals — this one’s for you. Whether you’re supporting someone you love or you’re about to begin your own journey, the chemo day routine can feel like a mystery until you’re living it.
I’ve gotten so many questions like, “What’s it like to get chemotherapy?” and “Can you feel it going in?” and even, “What does the room look like?” These are the kinds of things no one really explains until you’re sitting in the chair yourself. And honestly, I wish I’d had a post like this before I started.
As I write this, I’m actually hooked up for my third round of treatment. So this is as real‑time and honest as it gets. Today, I’m taking you through my chemo day routine from the night before all the way to settling into the treatment room. My hope is that it gives you clarity, comfort, and a sense of what to expect.
Let’s walk through it together.
Every healing journey has a “before.” Mine begins right here.
👉 Read the beginning:
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Your Chemo Day Routine: What Really Happens Before Treatment Begins
The Night‑Before Prep
My chemo day routine actually starts the night before. Think of it like packing for a trip — except the destination is a recliner chair, a cold cap machine, and several hours of medical care.
I check my cold capping supplies and make sure all my ice packs are in the freezer. I want them rock‑solid by morning so they’re ready for my cold booties and mittens. I also prep a quick grab‑and‑go breakfast for the next day. Something simple like a soft‑boiled egg or a homemade superhero muffin.
Then I go through my chemo to‑go bag — build your own with my freebie here 👉 take a peak. I refill anything I used last time, swap out things I won’t need, and add anything I think will help pass the time. Sometimes that means replacing a coloring book with my laptop or switching out snacks.
I also charge all my electronics and place them in one central spot so I don’t forget them. Tablet, Kindle, laptop — all stacked next to my water bottle and morning pills like a little tech shrine.
The Morning‑Of Ritual
The morning of treatment, I eat a solid breakfast. Protein is my best friend here — eggs and toast or a superhero muffin with peanut butter. Protein keeps me full longer and helps prevent that sugar spike‑and‑crash situation that can make the day harder.
Then I shower and get my hair damp, but I don’t wash it. Because I cold cap, my hair needs to be wet before treatment, and I won’t shampoo until after. My husband helps later by adding conditioner so the cap comes off more easily later.
I get dressed in the comfiest clothes I own: sweatpants and this button‑up top I originally bought for my mastectomy. The wide neckline gives the nurse easy access to my port. I top it off with a zip‑up hoodie and a crocheted hat from my mother‑in‑law.
Packing the Car and Heading Out
We load three bags into the car:
- My chemo treatment bag
- My cold capping bag
- Our cold bag with lunch and ice packs
It’s a lot, but each one has a purpose. If you want help building your own chemo day setup, check out my post on what to pack for treatment day 👇
The drive is about 30 minutes, and I always play upbeat music. Taylor Swift, Beyoncé, Sia — the holy trinity of “you’ve got this.” It keeps my spirits lifted, especially on grey, dreary mornings.
If I’m running late (which… let’s be honest, is often), I apply lidocaine to the skin over my port in the car. My husband drives while I frost myself like a cupcake. And yes — frost is the right word. The first time, I rubbed it in like sunscreen. Big mistake. Now I swirl it on thick and cover it with saran wrap to protect my clothes.
Cancer is many things. Glamorous is not one of them.
Arriving at the Clinic and Settling Into the Room
Check‑In and the Walk Back
We park and enter a smaller building attached to the medical center. It looks like any doctor’s office — until you know what happens behind those sliding doors.
I check in, get my medical bracelet, and wait until a nurse calls me back. Walking through the hallway, I pass nurses typing at their stations, a little beverage area with instant coffee and tea, and the scale that greets every patient whether we like it or not.
Then I’m led to my room.
Inside the Treatment Room
My room is about 12 by 12 feet. No exam table — instead, a heated recliner chair that becomes my home for the next several hours. There’s a, less inviting, chair for my husband, a TV on the wall, and a menu for ordering food from the hospital cafeteria.
Because I cold cap, the Paxman machine sits in the corner like a portable A/C unit with a hose that plugs into my cap. Add the IV pole, drawers, sink, and two nurses moving around, and it gets crowded fast. If you’re a visual person, you’ll love this 👇
https://paxmanscalpcooling.com/system
They scan my bracelet, confirm my name and dosage, and prep everything. It’s a well‑oiled system, but it still feels surreal every time.
The Hardest Part of My Chemo Day Routine
Cold Cap Precooling
The most uncomfortable part of my chemo day routine is the cold cap precooling. Those first 20 minutes are rough. The cap tightens, the cold sinks in, and my scalp protests loudly.
Heated blankets help. So does having a funny show queued up. Some patients take anti‑anxiety meds — always talk to your care team if you’re considering that. For me, distraction is key.
COMING UP IN PART 2…
In the next post, I’ll walk you through:
- The infusion process
- What Cytoxan and Taxotere feel like
- Cold booties and mittens
- The 90‑minute post‑cool
- The emotional side of treatment
- Heading home and recovering
As the hours pass and the cold cap finally settles, the real work of treatment begins — the medicines, the sensations, the strange mix of calm and chaos that only a chemo room can hold. This is where my chemo day routine shifts from preparation to endurance, from getting settled to getting through. And honestly? What happens next deserves its own space, its own honesty, and its own deep breath.
In Part 2, I’ll take you inside the infusion itself — the TC drugs, the cold booties, the emotional waves, the 90‑minute post‑cool, and what those long hours actually feel like from the inside. If you’ve ever wondered what a TC chemotherapy experience is really like, you’ll want return for Part 2.
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