Practicing Medicine

One thing they don’t really warn you about with cancer treatment is how it drains you—literally. The very medications used to save me, to target and kill the cancer, are also drying out my entire body. Not just my mouth or my skin, but everything. I’ve been walking around feeling like a raisin in the sun: parched, cracked, depleted.

Today I asked for something I wasn’t sure I could: hydration therapy. I told my team, “I think I just need to be filled back up.” They listened. They scheduled me to come in for IV fluids, and honestly, I was so grateful.

Sitting in the chair today wasn’t like treatment days—it wasn’t about infusions to fight cancer, but infusions to care for me. A simple bag of saline hanging from the pole, dripping steadily into my port. I could almost feel my body sigh with relief as the fluids trickled in, like dry soil soaking up rain after a drought.

I didn’t realize just how dehydrated I had become until the hydration started working. My headache dulled. My lips stopped stinging. Even my energy felt slightly lifted. It’s amazing how something so basic—a bag of fluids—can feel like medicine.

The nurse told me it wasn’t uncommon; many patients on HER2-targeted therapy and immunotherapy experience this deep dryness. I’m not just drinking water to stay hydrated anymore—my body is losing moisture faster than I can replace it. The medication is doing what it’s supposed to do, but it’s also leaving collateral damage in its path.

Today wasn’t about chemo, or immunotherapy, or tumor markers. It was simply about restoring what was lost. It was about pausing the fight to give my body a moment of relief.

As I left the cancer center, I felt a little lighter, a little more whole. The journey continues, but today was a reminder: sometimes healing isn’t just about killing cancer. Sometimes healing is about taking the time to care for the parts of me that feel forgotten along the way, like the restorative moments that don’t look like a battle but are just as vital.