And Then the Drip Started…

So there I was — one earphone in, trying not to think about him and listening to music , trying not to think about chemo, trying not to think about anything — when the nurse came over to start the drip.

The chemo hit my bloodstream like a cold wave.
It’s weird, the way you can feel it.
Like poison dressed up as medicine.

I sat back in the chair and suddenly felt so small.
Everyone around me had someone — a partner, a friend, a daughter — someone holding a hand, making jokes, fetching tea. And I had… me.

Just me. i asked mum to stay at home, I Needed to be alone in case i cried again 
My phone.
My thoughts that never shut up.
And the quiet realisation that life doesn’t pause for heartbreak just because you’re fighting cancer.

As the drip clicked steadily beside me, I kept thinking about him.
Not in a desperate way — just in that sad, empty ache you get when you finally let go of something you cared about more than you should have.

Blocking him was the right thing.
I know that.
But that doesn’t stop the sting.

It’s mad, isn’t it?

I messaged him this morning, and told him i missed him at the breakfast table in the hotel i stayed at last night, his reply 

'Its  a really good breakfast, Obviously i did enjoy spending time with you , but yes i didn't share the same feelings and im sorry, about that. 

I’m literally sitting here pumping chemicals into my body to stay alive, and yet part of me is grieving a lad who never actually wanted me i deserved that  i'd hurt him so much and now i was hurting like a bitch.

Cancer doesn’t just attack your body — it goes straight for your heart, your confidence, your sense of worth.
And when you’re already low…
It hits different. i was losing weight as the part that's spread to my stomach is making it harder to eat, and i cant tone my body due to the chemo and me being tired ,  so my confidence is non existent 

As the minutes dragged, I kept glancing at my lock screen, his picture still there.
Not because I missed him — but because it felt like saying goodbye to a version of myself.

The version who could flirt freely.
The version who felt wanted.
The version who wasn’t hooked up to machines.
The version who wasn’t this tired, hurting, lonely woman in a chemo chair.

And letting go of her?
That hurts almost as much as letting go of him.

The Gentleman Beside Me

The man sitting next to me must’ve sensed I wasn’t okay — you can always tell with fellow patients. We read each other without needing the details.

He just gave me this small nod.
No words.
No pity.
Just a silent, “I get it.”

Funny how strangers can see you clearer than the people you’ve bled for.

It grounded me a bit.
Reminded me I wasn’t alone, even when I felt like I was.

The Tear That Finally Fell

Somewhere between the second bag , a single tear slipped out.
Just one.

Not a breakdown.
Not a sobbing mess.
Just one small tear that held everything:

The chemo.
The cancer.
The trauma.
The breakup that wasn’t a breakup.
The man who hurt me.( not his fault)
The fear.
The exhaustion.
The weight of everything I’ve carried alone.

I wiped it away quickly — habit, really — but it was enough to crack the armour I’ve been wearing for weeks.

Because the truth is:

I’m tired.
I’m scared.
And some days, I feel like I’m disappearing inside myself.

But… I’m Still Here

And yet, through all of that, I’m still fucking here.
Sitting in this chair.
Taking the treatment.
Choosing to live even when everything feels heavy. If this takes me i want it to be fast 

Today wasn’t just week two of chemo.
It was week two of realising I need to grow a pair , 

But for now?
I’ll settle for the small win:

I blocked the wrong man and kept the treatment that might save my life.
Both hurt — but only one of them will keep me here for my kids.