My First Week of Chemo — 17th November, St James Hospital

My first week of chemo started on the 17th of November, and I don’t think I’ll ever forget how that week felt. The fear, the uncertainty, the exhaustion — but also the kindness, the humour, the moments I didn’t expect to matter.

I went to St James’ Hospital in Leeds, and from the minute I walked in, the team there made everything feel a little lighter. I was terrified, but they didn’t let me sit in that fear alone.

The Port — and the nurses who made me laugh

Getting the port put in was the part I dreaded the most.
It felt like the line between “I have cancer” and “I’m officially in treatment.”

I thought it would be cold, clinical, serious.

Then I met Kyle and Jenny.

They didn’t talk to me like I was a patient.
They talked to me like we’d been mates for years.

Jokes.
Silly comments.
Stories.
Comforting reassurance without making it awkward.

They had this easy way of speaking that made me forget — even for a few minutes — that I was there for something as heavy as chemotherapy. They had me laughing at moments where I could’ve easily cried.

Kyle kept saying things like, “Right, let’s get you sorted, love,” as if we were about to do something normal, not put a port into my chest.
And Jenny’s smile alone could calm an entire ward.

It didn’t feel like a medical procedure.
It felt like being looked after by people who genuinely cared.

And honestly? That matters more than anyone realises.

Walking into the chemo ward for the first time

The chemo ward hits you in a strange way.
It’s quiet but busy.
Clinical but warm.
Full of fear but also full of hope.

People sitting in big chairs hooked up to drips.
New faces.
Older faces.
All fighting their own battles.

You can tell who’s been there a while and who’s new.
You can feel the mixture of dread and determination in the room.

But the staff?
They glide through it all with this calm confidence that makes you feel safer just by watching them.

The treatment itself

The drip.
The cold feeling in the vein.
The beeping.
The smell of saline.
The weird taste in your mouth that no one warns you about.

It wasn’t fun — but it wasn’t the horror story I’d built up in my head.

I kept waiting for the dramatic moment.
The pain.
The collapse.
The nausea hitting instantly.

Instead, it was slow.
Quiet.
Almost peaceful in its own strange way.

I sat there, blanket over me, watching the bag drip life-saving poison into my body, trying to hold on to the idea that this is helping me, not hurting me.

Going home — the crash no one sees

When the adrenaline wore off, the fear crept back in.

The aches.
The exhaustion.
The emotions that come out of nowhere.
The waves of sickness.
The cold that gets into your bones.

Chemo doesn’t hit like a punch — it hits like a slow, heavy fog that settles over your whole body. And that first week, I felt every part of it.

But I also felt supported.

The phone calls.
The nurses checking in.
The crisis team helping with the mental side.
The Macmillan team helping with the physical side.

It was a lot — but I wasn’t alone.

Looking back on Week One

I survived it.
Not gracefully.
Not easily.
But I survived it.

I learned that chemo isn’t just medicine — it’s a whole world you step into.
It’s scary, emotional, overwhelming.
But it’s also full of people who carry you when you can’t carry yourself.

Kyle and Jenny made the hardest part of that day bearable.
St James’ made me feel less like a number and more like a person.
And I realised that even though this journey is brutal, there are moments of light tucked in between the pain.

Week One didn’t break me.
It shook me, yes.
But I’m still here.

Still fighting.
Still moving forward.
One week at a time.