Today marked infusion #5—another long day in the chair, another day hooked up to the IV, watching the familiar slow drip of medications into my body. Even though I’ve done this before, every infusion day still feels like a new mountain to climb.
The morning started with the usual premeds: acetaminophen (Tylenol) and diphenhydramine (Benadryl) at 9:40 a.m., to help prevent reactions. As always, the Benadryl left me drowsy and floating somewhere between sleep and reality. I leaned back, tucked under my blanket, and let the nurses work their magic.
By mid-morning, the infusion lineup began:
- Trastuzumab (Herceptin)
- Pertuzumab (Perjeta)
- Durvalumab—the investigational immunotherapy from my clinical trial.
- And tucked in there was potassium chloride, to try and nudge my potassium levels back up.
During the treatment, the oncology nurse practitioner came by to check on me. It’s something I’ve come to appreciate—the human part of this clinical process. She sat down and went over my progress, looking at labs, asking questions, taking notes.
She told me, “You’re doing well with these infusions.” That simple sentence felt like a tiny gold star sticker on a very difficult test. But we also talked through some lingering challenges. My potassium was low again today. I knew it; I could feel the muscle cramps creeping up. She asked if I wanted to continue taking K-Dur at home, but I admitted I’d rather not—those giant horse pills are brutal. We agreed I’d try to increase electrolytes naturally with diet instead.
We also addressed my facial rash—the stubborn breakout that always flares after treatment. Turns out my clindamycin cream prescription hadn’t been filled yet; the pharmacy was waiting on a pre-authorization. The NP assured me she’d push that through today so I could get some relief.
The good news? I had no nausea, no vomiting, no neuropathy, no mouth sores, no cough, no shortness of breath, no fevers. In the world of chemotherapy, this is a win.
But if I’m being honest, it’s still hard. My body feels heavy. My face itches. My skin burns where the rash blooms across my cheeks. I lose a little more hair each week. My patience wears thin. And yet, on the outside, everyone tells me I’m strong. They see a fighter, but inside, I’m just tired.
Still, I made it through another round. I thanked the nurses, gathered my things, and walked out of the infusion center—another day checked off the list. Every infusion day is a balance: between gratitude and frustration, hope and fear, strength and vulnerability. And today? Today I let myself feel all of it.
Practicing Medicine 
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