Confessions of Chemo: Beneath The Cold Cap

 Chemotherapy: My First Come-to-Jesus Meeting

I didn’t realize how much I was dreading chemotherapy until the days leading up to it, when I had my first real meltdown of this journey. Normally, I tend to run when I am feeling those emotions, but sometimes they simmer until they finally boil over. In our household, we call these rage-burning, shouting, crying, spewing matches with Jesus my “Come-to-Jesus Meetings." They’re raw, confessional moments when the pent-up energy, anger, and grief that have been lurking beneath the surface finally come spilling out to Him.

This chemo round had already been delayed once due to insurance, which felt like a roller coaster—gearing myself up to be filled with toxic chemicals, only to have it pushed back another week. By the time Monday came around for my labs, I was already stretched thin. What should have been a simple 20-second blood draw turned into 7 hours, 15 phone calls, 4 trips to the lab, 6 emails, and 2 trips to the library to print orders before I finally got two vials of blood taken. The frustration on top of the fear was too much.

That afternoon, I was feeling all the things, and had a “Come to Jesus Meeting.” I screamed, swore and sometimes not even with a bleeped swear word.  I threw my chemo supplies (socks, mole skin, and cottonballs) into the bathtub and dumped them over my shoe rack. I even punched the bed. Afterwards, I cleaned up my shoe rack, reorganized my supplies, and went for a drive. I laid it all out before God. On that drive, I told Him plainly: I can’t carry the weight of both the emotions and the endless logistics. I confessed my anger, my fear, and my exhaustion. I confessed the anger, the unforgiveness lurking in my heart, and the blame I was trying to place somewhere.

Confession is an act of trust. It’s when we strip off our fig leaves and stand bare before Him with our scars and our pain. Jesus doesn’t ask for perfect people—He asks for surrendered ones. As Brennan Manning once wrote: “Anyone God uses significantly is always deeply wounded… On the last day, Jesus will look us over not for medals, diplomas, or honors, but for scars.” It is not our qualifications, but our wounds—and by His wounds, we are healed. 

So I walked back into my house a little lighter that night, freed from what I had confessed.

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The Night Before

Sleep was impossible. Anxiety, steroids for chemo, and adrenaline had me wired. Thanks to the time zones, I spent late hours talking and praying with a dear friend in Alaska and our daughter in Hawaii until about 2 a.m. The rest of the night was filled with frogs croaking outside, laundry, a self-done mani-pedi, and highlighting healing scriptures in my Bible.  By morning, I realized I had been awake for 24 hours, jittery and nauseated with fear.

Headed for Chemo

Gavin and I headed to the appointment with what looked like enough luggage for a three-week trip. Part of my treatment includes extreme cold therapy—wrapping my head, hands, and feet in dry ice packs for 9 hours to reduce neuropathy and the risk of permanent hair loss. Every 20–25 minutes, Gavin swapped the packs out like my own personal pit crew—even pulling over on the highway to change them when needed. He is my steady partner in all of this.

 

Chemo Day

The nurses were incredible. One in particular, who gave me exquisite care, had Isaiah 41:10 tattooed on her arm in memory of her godfather. That verse—Do not fear, for I am with you. Do not be afraid, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, and I will help you, and I will uphold you with my right hand that makes things right”was such a gift in that room.

Pre-chilling

I cried quietly under my blanket, aching to hug and pray with every weary, sickly person hooked up to machines around me. Some sat alone without a pit crew like Gavin by their side. It was humbling and heartbreaking. My head, hands and feet were wrapped in dry ice, and my toes were the most painful part. They felt like they were going to fall off after a bit. The cold pain was all I could use to distract me, as I could not turn pages in a book due to the cold gloves on my hands, the headphones would get too cold under the cap, and I was tethered to a pole. 

My warm prayer shaw knitted by my Mama Gardner and my new hat of cryogenic therapy.

The team used my veins instead of doing surgery for a port, which made the process longer but spared me another surgical procedure. It had to be longer because they had to slow the drip down because it was burning my arm.  The nurses were phenomenal and gave me some medication for nausea and I was able to catch a little sleep between the 20 minute change over in ice baths.

The Day After

I woke up feeling alive this morning. I put on a pretty dress, my signature red lipstick, and fun earrings—small things that made me feel like myself again. Gavin and I went back to the clinic for an injection to boost my bone marrow and help fight infection. Then it was back home for teaching meetings with Anchorage.

Home and working

I’m grateful to have one round down—one quarter of this journey behind me. This first round reminded me that God doesn’t demand composure—He asks for fig-leaf barren honesty. Healing often begins after the meltdown, in the middle of confession. He meets us there, in our tears and our scars. 

I’m learning I must also be intentional: eat, drink fluids, and fuel my body with nutrient valued protein to stay strong. The doctor and nutritionist said protein is what I need to try to get a lot of. And yes, Alaska friends—if anyone has extra salmon, please send it my way. The Mississippi salmon is pale and just not the same!

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