What I Think Chemotherapy Must Be Like

Imagine yourself on a beach, standing in waist-high water. A butterfly flutters over the waves and your eyes follow as it soars up into the cloudless sky. When you turn back to the sea, a large wave is rearing at you. You scurry up to dive beneath it, rather than having it crash on you. When you do, you pull a calf, grimace, and flop in the water as the wave crashes on you. While you grab your toes to stretch the knot out of your calf muscle, another wave, a much larger one, ten feet high, comes and crashes on you while you crawl toward the beach, to safety. Put the ocean pulls you further in while another wave builds up, this one even larger than the last. It pummels you, sending you tumbling and rolling out of control in the roiling currents. When the sea pulls back, leaving you coughing on the wet sand, you see another big wave rushing at you. With your tender calf you manage to stand up and limp toward the beach when the wave smacks you, sending you tumbling through the currents again. The ocean, ceaseless and remorseless, pounds you again and again as you lay there helpless, leaving you more exhausted with every wave that seem to grow stronger and darker. After a while, the ocean relents. Though depleted with the breath knocked out of you, you manage to cough and crawl back to dry sand where the ocean cannot beat on you any longer. You lie there, the sound of breaking waves not far behind you, until you’re able to stand and walk away.

This is what I think it will be like (eight sessions minimum, once every two weeks). I'll find out soon how right or wrong I am.