Today marks immunotherapy treatment number 65.
No massage.
No mimosa.
No cucumbers on the eyes.
No lavender candles.
Just the cold click of the IV stand, the slow drip of Nivolumab, and the warm hum of raw resilience.
I like to call it my spa treatment – because humour is still part of the medicine cabinet.
But let’s be clear: this isn’t a place you go to unwind. It’s a place you go to survive.
- Sixty-five times I’ve walked into this surreal space.
- Sixty-five times I’ve sat down in this familiar chair, knowing exactly what’s coming.
- Sixty-five times I’ve told my body: We do not quit. We go again.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not Instagrammable. It’s not scented with eucalyptus. But it’s where I fight for my life – cell by cell, hour by hour.
There are no badges handed out at the end of these sessions. No medals for showing up. No applause when the drip ends. But I know what it takes just to be here. And I know I’m not the only one. For every person going through this, you get it: the grit, the grind, the quiet war waged inside your veins.
This isn’t a wellness retreat. It’s a grit retreat.
Some days, I joke that my immunotherapy loyalty card must be full by now. Shouldn’t I at least get a free smoothie? A t-shirt? A badge that says “Frequent Infuser”?
No – just more grit. More quiet strength. More internal applause that nobody hears, but that matters all the same.
The truth is, I’m not writing this to be inspirational.
I’m writing it because it’s real. Because I’m still here. Because the act of showing up – again and again and again is worth something. Because I know there are people out there who need to see someone else doing it to believe they can too.
I won’t pretend this is easy. It’s not. Some days, showing up feels like a betrayal of comfort. But I’ve learned that strength doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it just sighs, rolls up a sleeve, and says: Let’s do this again.
And so I ask — not for sympathy, but for support. Share my journey. Share the link:
Because this isn’t just my fight. It’s a collective battle against something that touches too many lives.
I’m not done yet.
There’s still life to live, laughs to laugh, and stubbornness to burn through.
This is treatment 65.
Treatment 66 is coming and I’m already training for it. I’ll be there – same chair, same fight, same unyielding spirit.
Keep going. Keep sharing.
Because hope thrives in numbers.
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