I wasn’t sure how to start this one—until my brother reminded me of the classic Mike Tyson quote:

Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.

And Chemo Week One absolutely nailed me.

Here it is:

DAY ONE: Infusion Day –  March 10, 2026
One month and one day post breast surgery

As prepared as I was mentally and physically (as I could be) going into this day, I woke up anxious AF.

Why?

Because chemo is scary, you guys. It just is.

I was ready.

And I was scared.
Two truths. Same time.

The day was… epic.

It started with my first port access and blood draw to make sure I was good to go. (Spoiler alert: I was.) As you may recall, I’m terrified of needles, and I thought a port access would be worse.

It was not! 

Small win.

The nurse who did my port access and blood draw was incredible—a survivor herself, went through treatment while divorced, and coped in part by writing.

Hm. #Besties

Then, my mom – who flew up from SC to be with me for the week – and I headed up to the infusion center, where I met my nurse for the day: Ana. We love Ana. (Honestly, we love everyone in this building. They are extraordinary humans.)

Ana walked me through the plan and kicked things off with Benadryl and a 90-minute iron infusion.

Twenty minutes later, my private room was ready. My mom and I basically moved in and settled in for what would be a seven-hour day.

I won’t give you the full play-by-play, because why go through chemo if you don’t have to go through chemo, so here are the highlights

Best. Team. Ever.

The team wanted to know every single time I felt anything even slightly symptomatic—which, fair, because they are literally pumping poison into my veins and, uh, it’s kinda dangerous?

Any time I pushed the button or casually mentioned a symptom, suddenly there were three people in my room, my meds were paused, vitals checked, fluids flowing, and I was under full investigation.

Even the time I accidentally hit the emergency call button instead of the “just going to the bathroom” one… and had to reassure half the unit I was fine.

Rookie mistake.

My Friend Anne!

Anne works in the building as a PT (and is one of my O2X people), so when I told her I was there she came by at the end of her shift. 

Since I’m only allowed to have one visitor at a time, I said we could kick my mom out when Anne showed up, but Anne is a savvy baddie with a badge and wears scrubs so she just came up, swiped her way in, and walked right up to my private room.

And nurse Ana? She asked no questions. We love Ana.

Anne stayed for almost two hours—including when I started Herceptin and then chemo. Having her there for that moment meant a lot.

Rubber Tires (An Unexpected Culinary Experience)

Chemo comes with approximately 7 billion pre-meds: Benadryl, Zofran, steroids, a billion more, and one that tastes like actual rubber tires.

The nurses counter this by giving you a wint-o-green Lifesaver while they push it—and weirdly, it works.

Also: I forgot I love wint-o-green Lifesavers.

So… win?

Oxaliplatin (aka The Big Guy)

After iron → Herceptin → Leucovorin, it was time.

This is the chemo that causes cold sensitivity, so I made sure I had eaten all my cold snacks, Ana swapped all my drinks to room temp, and I put on ice gloves and booties.

We were ready.

Two hours in, I started to feel… off.

Hot.
Heart racing.
A little shaky.

I told Ana, “I just need you to take my vitals and tell me I’m fine and just having a stress response.”

Turns out my resting HR was 102, my BP was higher than I’ve ever seen it, and my temp had climbed to 99.5.

Within seconds: meds paused, room cooled, fan on, team assembled.

And Ana gave me the look—our first little spar—because I hadn’t reported sooner.

My bad.

Closing Time

Last step: 5-FU.

And yes, one of my chemo drugs is basically called “F-U,” which feels like the vibe of the whole situation.

Ana pushed it slowly while making direct eye contact and talking to me, which is both comforting and slightly terrifying.

I was exhausted. It was time to go home.

Last Step – Ana reviewed my at-home med schedule to combat nausea (including what to avoid for constipation – a legit dangerous medical concern for me – and what could be taken as-needed), hooked me up to my take-home chemo pump (46 hours of carry-out chemo fun), gave me both a shoulder bag and a belt pack because I “look like someone who likes to move a lot” (another point for Ana) and trained me in how to use my pump.

I also learned how to clean up chemo spills.

Which is a lesson worthy of its own blog post, so more on that later.

Home

By the time we got home my energy peaked. Truthfully, I was high AF on steroids, ready to solve all the world’s problems.

I tested cold sensitivity (super minimal!), wrote a list of ten blog posts, posted on IG, texted people, ate, did really cool mindset shit with my pump and chemo, and then slept a whopping four hours.

Thanks, steroids.

DAY TWO

I woke up feeling… good. 

I took the prescribed steroid but no nausea meds because none were needed!

I called family. Texted friends. Wrote. Walked my dog. Sat outside.

I thought:
Wow. I am crushing chemo.

Then came the burping.

Weird, persistent burping spells.

“Oh, I used to get these on boats,” I told my mom. “[My ex husband] used to tell me they were a precursor to seasickness! So I’d take a Dramamine and they’d stop!”

Cool story, Alli.

The burping subsided and then continued about an hour later.

Interesting.

“Eventually we learned I should just take Dramamine before we went out!” I told my mom.

Smart. You’re a really smart woman, Alli.

The burping subsided.

And then it was back.

Delightful!

I heard a soft memory of my nurse Jen from my chemo training whisper in my insides, are you prone to nausea? Oh, you used to get sea sick? That can be an indicator.

But we’re on land! 

I am safe!

Alli.
Alli… you’re a really, really smart woman…

At 5pm I realized:

Oh no.
This is not delightful.

So I took my first anti-nausea med.

DAY THREE

2:00am: woke up and threw up.
4:00am: woke up and threw up again.

My meds were downstairs. I didn’t think I needed them?

There was no world in which I could get downstairs.

Except I had to because unlike throwing up after you’ve been drinking, this time there was absolutely no relief after.

So I had to get downstairs and get meds. 

I made it. Barely.

I took the meds. Passed out.

8:00am: ate a piece of bread, took steroids.
9:30am: threw up again.

And then spent the entire day in bed—unable to eat, drink, or stay awake—while my pump kept delivering chemo with basically no support meds in my system.

And I have never felt so sick in my life.

The only reason I didn’t call the emergency line was because I was scheduled to go in that evening to get unplugged.

That “15-minute unplug appointment” turned into three hours.

The nurses took one look at me, hooked me up to fluids, and loaded me with everything I hadn’t been able to keep down all day.

I managed to keep down six saltines and two tiny cups of apple juice… and a few wint-o-green lifesavers.

…small win?

Also: I ran into my oncologist in the hallway on my way in.

When he asked how I was and I just shook my head “no,” he asked if he could call me later.

At 8pm… he did.

Who does that?!

He prescribed another, stronger, anti-nausea medication for the next round.

I took it that night and slept ten and a half hours.

DAYS FOUR – SEVEN

Mostly:

Mild/Moderate (now controlled) nausea.

Fatigue.

Feeling like absolute ass.

But I could eat very small things, like:

Rice Krispies.
The best shit I’ve consumed in my life.
Michelin star-worthy.
Someone call Carmy Berzatto.

Hydration also came back online.

And then—

That Day 6 turnaround?

Not a lie.

Day 7: I felt like a human again.

In Conclusion: Know Thy Enemy

There’s this idea that you become like the people you spend the most time with.

Over the past year, I’ve spent a lot of time around special operations veterans, extremely high-performers, and people working inside some of our most elite corners of the government.

It has, at times, made me feel a little… intense?

But it’s also given me tools.

And on Day 7, when my brain came back online, this was the first thought that stuck:

Oh.

You did all the preparation.
You had the training.

But this?

This was your first time on the battlefield.

And unlike training, this time you got to look your enemy dead in the eye—

And they kicked your fucking ass.

But you’re not dead.

So now?

You go back to the drawing board.
With your team.
With better intel.

Because now you know how they fight.

And next time—

Well. Honestly?

I’m scared.

But we do it again anyway.
We do it smarter.
We do it more prepared.

Because bravery isn’t the absence of fear.

It’s being scared and doing it anyway.