Last Night Broke Me

 

Last night was one of those nights where I honestly thought,

“If the Grim Reaper walked in right now, I wouldn’t even argue.”

 

Not because I want to die —

but because I’m exhausted from surviving.

 

The pain was unreal.

My bones felt like they were filled with fire.

My head throbbed so hard it felt like my skull was pulsing.

Every position hurt.

Lying down hurt.

Sitting up hurt.

Breathing hurt.

 

And even crying hurt.

 

Have you ever cried so much that your own tears feel like glass?

That was me.

At 2am.

3am.

4am.

Wide awake, sweating, freezing, shivering, aching, begging my body to just give me a moment of peace.

 

I couldn’t get comfy — not for one single second.

 

I tossed.

Turned.

Stared at the ceiling.

Listened to the clock tick like some kind of torture soundtrack.

 

My body felt too heavy for the bed

and too restless to stay still.

 

Chemo does this thing where it sneaks into your bones and refuses to let go.

It settles in the joints, the muscles, the spine —

turning simple things like lying on a pillow into a war.

 

By the time the sun came up, I wasn’t “waking up.”

I was just still awake, still hurting, still trying to breathe through a night that felt never-ending.

 

People always talk about the nausea, the hair loss, the tiredness —

but this pain?

The pain that keeps you awake until morning?

The pain that makes you whisper things in the dark you’d never admit out loud?

 

This is the side of cancer people don’t see.

 

The messy, broken, exhausted side.

The “I can’t do this” side.

The “please let me rest” side.

 

And yet… here I am.

Still here.

Still typing.

Still fighting through another morning even though the night nearly swallowed me.

 

No makeup.

No positivity quotes.

Just honesty:

 

Last night was hell.

And I’m still recovering from it.

 

 

The Morning After Hell

 

When morning finally dragged itself in,

I didn’t get out of bed —

I escaped it.

 

My whole body felt bruised,

like I’d been wrestling ghosts all night and lost miserably.

 

I waddled into the kitchen,

wrapped up in my dressing gown,

my hat pulled down over my ears,

slippers on,

looking like a tiny exhausted Eskimo

who’d survived a blizzard and was now searching for tea.

 

Honestly, if Mum had taken a photo right then

I’d look like one of those wildlife documentaries:

 

“The rare, sleep-deprived chemo creature emerges from her nest…”

 

I made myself a cup of tea —

which took all the energy I had

because even standing hurt.

 

And as I waited for the kettle to boil,

all I could think was:

 

“Do you know what I want?”

 

Not medicine.

Not a heat pad.

Not even sleep.

 

I wanted Ryan.

 

Not for sex.

Not for drama.

Not for anything complicated.

 

Just the way he held me in that hotel.

 

The way he wrapped himself around me

when I was shivering so hard my teeth were rattling.

 

The way his chest felt warm against my back,

his arm over me like a shield,

my head tucked under his chin.

 

That night…

that was the best sleep I’d had in forever.

 

Four, maybe five hours —

which for me might as well be a luxury spa weekend.

 

And I remember waking up thinking:

 

“So this is what it feels like not to suffer?”

 

That one night felt like a miracle.

 

A moment where chemo didn’t win,

pain didn’t win,

my own brain didn’t win.

 

Just warmth.

Just comfort.

Just peace.

 

And standing there in the kitchen this morning,

shaking, aching, half-alive,

drinking tea like it was medicine…

 

I felt that longing again.

 

Not for him to come back into my life.

Not for romance or madness or heartbreak.

 

Just…

that feeling of being held.

Of being safe.

Of sleeping without fighting for it.

 

And the hardest part?

 

I don’t think I’ll ever forget that night.

Not because of him —

but because for once,

my body wasn’t my enemy.

Just for a few hours.

 

Tonight Hit Different

 

By 7:48pm, I couldn’t take any more.

 

My body felt done.

My bones hurt so deep it felt like the ache was coming from the marrow itself —

a cold, sharp pain that no blanket, no dressing gown, no hot water bottle could touch.

 

Mum helped me into bed,

tucked the covers around me like she used to when I was little,

and for a moment I just lay there, shaking,

feeling every pulse of pain like a reminder that chemo is in charge right now, not me.

 

And then the tears came.

 

Not loud crying —

the quiet kind.

The kind that slips out when you’re too tired to fight it.

The kind that hurts your face, your head, your chest.

 

Even crying hurts.

Everything hurts.

 

I could hear Mum running a bath for me,

the water thundering into the tub,

steam starting to drift through the hallway.

 

She kept calling out every few minutes:

 

“Nearly ready, love… I’ve put extra bubbles in.”

 

Because that’s what mums do.

They can’t take the pain away,

but they’ll try to soften the edges of it.

 

I lay there for a minute,

listening to the water,

feeling the coldness in my bones like winter had moved inside me,

and I whispered to myself:

 

“Just get up.

One step at a time.

You can do this.”

 

Not because I felt strong.

Not because I had hope.

But because sometimes surviving the day is all you can manage.

 

And right now?

That’s enough.

 

When Mum came in and helped me out of bed,

she put her arm around me like I was fragile glass,

guiding me slowly toward the bathroom.

 

I must’ve looked a state —

puffy eyes, dressing gown hanging off one shoulder,

shivering like I’d been dragged out of a frozen lake.

 

But she didn’t mention any of that.

She just said:

 

“Come on, sweetheart… let’s get you warm.”

 

And I cried again —

not from pain this time,

but because in moments like this,

love is the only thing holding me together.