Chemo Brain — The Chaos No One Warns You About

Let me tell you something nobody really explains when you get diagnosed:

Chemo brain is REAL.

Not “oh I forgot my keys” real.

Not “bit tired today” real.

No.

I’m talking full system malfunction, lights-flickering, error-404-brain-not-found levels of chaos.

People think cancer takes your hair.

Sure, it does that.

But chemo?

Chemo takes your mind first.

And honestly, I still don’t know whether to laugh or cry about it — so usually I end up doing both.

The Fog That Eats Your Thoughts

Chemo brain feels like living inside a thick fog where everything is slowed down, softened, or completely erased. One minute I’m mid-sentence, telling Mum something important, and the next minute I’m staring into the distance like a traumatised meerkat thinking:

“…what was I talking about?”

And the answer is always:

No idea.

Gone.

Deleted.

Sent to the shadow realm.

It’s like my thoughts fall straight through holes in my head.

Walking Into Rooms Like a Confused Ghost

I’ll walk upstairs with purpose — a mission, even — and by the time I reach the top step, I’m standing there thinking:

“Why am I here?

Who sent me?

What do I want?”

And the worst part?

I genuinely expect the answer to appear like subtitles at the bottom of the screen.

It never does.

I just wander around like a lost SIM waiting for someone to click me.

The Vocabulary of a Goldfish

My words vanish mid-conversation.

Someone will ask me a simple question like, “What do you want for tea?” and I will stare them dead in the eye and answer:

“Yes.”

Just… yes.

To what?

Why?

Who knows.

My brain picked a direction and ran with it.

Autocorrect Thinks I’m Possessed

Let me tell you — do NOT look at my text messages right now.

Spellings?

Gone.

Grammar?

Not a chance.

Words?

Made up.

Sometimes I read back what I’ve sent and think:

“Was this me? Or did a demon borrow my phone again?”

I’ve genuinely typed sentences that look like someone having a stroke whilst falling down the stairs.

The Emotional Side Nobody Talks About

Here’s the part that hurts:

Chemo brain makes you feel stupid.

It makes you feel like you’re losing yourself piece by piece.

I used to be sharp.

Fast.

Capable.

Organised.

Now?

I feel like someone took out my brain, shook it like a snow globe, and shoved it back in sideways.

And when you already have trauma, heartbreak, exhaustion, and fear sitting on your chest — losing your mental clarity feels like the final punch.

Sometimes I worry:

“Is this me now?

Is this who I’ll be forever?”

But everyone tells me it’s temporary.

Chemo fog lifts.

Brains reboot.

Thoughts reconnect.

Still doesn’t help when you’re in the middle of forgetting your own sentence.

Chemo Brain + Heartbreak = Absolute Madness

Combine chemo brain with heartbreak?

Chaos.

Pure chaos.

I can be crying over Ryan one minute, then forget why I’m crying the next.

Or I’ll remember a conversation we had…

except half of it is wrong

or out of order

or something I dreamt

or something chemo invented entirely.

And then I sit there thinking:

“Did that actually happen, or is this just my brain creating drama because it’s bored?”

Even my emotions feel scrambled — like someone put them in the tumble dryer with no lint filter.

Chemo Brain Moments That Deserve Awards

I once tried to drink my phone because I thought it was a can of Pepsi.

I put my keys in the fridge.

I referred to the colour green as a taste — and meant it.

I tried to call Gavin “Google” because I forgot his real name.

I spent 10 minutes looking for a hat that was already on my head.

And honestly?

At this point I just roll with it.

The Only Way to Survive It

Chemo brain teaches you a strange kind of surrender.

You stop fighting it.

You stop hating it.

You stop trying to be the old you.

And you learn to laugh.

Because if you don’t laugh…

you’ll crumble.

I remind myself:

This fog isn’t forever.

This confusion isn’t permanent.

This isn’t who I am — it’s what I’m going through.

But until it passes?

Please be patient with me.

I’m operating at about 3 brain cells, and they take turns.