Part Three: The Post-Chemo Panic

When my chemotherapy finally ended, I cried tears of relief. Six months of relentless treatments, side effects, and hospital visits were behind me. I had done it. My doctor confirmed that my tumor had completely responded to the chemo, and I was declared to have a complete clinical response. Surgery and radiation were next, but chemo—the monster I feared most—was now in my rearview mirror. I should have felt unstoppable.

And, for a moment, I did.

But the relief and joy didn’t last. In fact, they quickly turned into something much darker—post-chemo panic. You see, when people hear about a cancer diagnosis, they often think chemo is the hardest part and expect everything to go back to normal after it’s over. But life is never “normal” after chemotherapy. I still had surgery and radiation looming ahead of me. And beneath it all, I knew I hadn’t even begun to face the emotional toll of cancer that weighed so heavily on me. Why hadn’t I felt this level of panic when I was first diagnosed?

During chemo, people reach out all the time. There’s no expectation for you to be anything other than a patient. Your only job is to survive. But now that chemo was over, I couldn’t help but wonder: Would everyone expect me to just get back to life as usual? Would they expect me to go back to work, jump back into routines? How could I do that? I still had so much to process—physically, emotionally, and mentally. The mental health struggles after cancer treatment are often overlooked, but for me, they were just beginning.

Surgery was next, and that scared me more than I could admit. I had never had surgery before, and now I was facing not only the physical challenge but the emotional weight of it all. Would my body ever look or feel the same again? I started reading everything I could about lumpectomies, mastectomies, and reconstruction. I dove deep into recurrence rates, personal stories from other survivors, and all the possible complications. The more I researched, the more questions flooded in. How would radiation after surgery affect me? Everyone seemed to think radiation and surgery were “easier” compared to chemo, but were they? I could barely breathe.

Physically, chemo had been brutal, but now I was facing a new kind of battle—one that was just as mental as it was physical. I didn’t feel ready. I had been off work, and while I knew I wasn’t expected back until the following spring or summer, that now felt like it was coming at me like a freight train. How was I supposed to transition back to life? What is life anyway? What really matters? I wasn’t the same person anymore.

In a strange way, I had grown accustomed to the rhythm of chemo. The appointments, the naps, tracking my bloodwork like some kind of data analyst—there was a strange comfort in that routine. Now, it felt like I was stepping into the unknown again. I knew I had to face it, but I didn’t know how.

To help myself through the anxiety, I started journaling more. I wrote about my fears, my questions, and the feelings of uncertainty. I also reached out to other breast cancer survivors—strangers, really—but the bond between cancer survivors is immediate. These women, who had been through similar experiences, offered me something I couldn’t find in books or research: real, raw stories of survival. With every coffee date and phone call, I felt my post-chemo panic start to ease, even if just a little.

Their stories didn’t erase my fear, but they reminded me that I wasn’t alone. I began to feel more confident in the decisions I had made and in the trust I placed in my surgeon. The fear was still there, but with each conversation, I found a little more courage.

One day at a time—that’s what I kept reminding myself. I didn’t need to have all the answers right now. I just needed to keep moving forward.