What Chemotherapy Has Taught Me About Being Present

Sometimes I blink just to prove to myself that large gaps of time don't pass in a single blink of an eye.

It's a strange habit I've developed since starting treatment for classical Hodgkin lymphoma. But when you've spent years feeling like time was slipping away without you really living it, you start to need proof that you're actually here - that moments are real and you're present for them.

The Hyper-Present Moments

When I'm conscious and present during treatment, I'm really here - feeling everything, noticing everything, being alive in ways that feel brand new. These moments are so vivid, clear, and precious. I notice details I never paid attention to before: the way light falls through a window, my kids' laughter, the taste of food when my appetite returns between rounds of chemotherapy.

It's like my brain is trying to soak up and catalog everything now that I finally have a future to remember it in.

The Foggy Gaps

But then the fatigue hits or the chemo fog rolls in, and suddenly it's three days later and I don't know where they went. I surface from rest and realize entire days have passed while my body was doing what it needed to do - recovering, healing, fighting cancer cells I can't see.

This is the part that's hardest to accept. After years of feeling like I was missing my own life, losing days to treatment fog feels frustratingly familiar. Where did Tuesday go? What happened on Wednesday? It's Thursday now?

Learning to Accept Both

I'm learning that both experiences are part of this journey. The hyper-present moments where I'm soaking up every detail, and the foggy stretches where time just moves without me fully tracking it. Neither is better or worse - they're just different ways my body and mind are coping with the intensity of cancer treatment.

The present moments feel more vivid than ever before, probably because I spent so long unable to imagine a future. Now that I can see beyond the horizon that used to stop at age 30, every clear moment feels like a gift I almost didn't get to unwrap.

The foggy gaps, while disorienting, are my body's way of protecting itself. Rest isn't wasted time - it's necessary time. My body is working incredibly hard even when I'm not conscious of it.

Numbering Our Days

There's a verse that's been on my mind lately: "Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom." - Psalm 90:12

I've had to literally number my days in a way most people don't think about until much later in life. I couldn't see past 30. Now I'm fighting to see 31, 40, 50, and beyond. This experience is teaching me wisdom about what truly matters - not in an abstract, inspirational-quote kind of way, but in a lived, embodied, sometimes-exhausting kind of way.

I'm learning to hold onto those clear moments when they come, and to be gentle with myself during the quiet gaps. Both are teaching me something about what it means to truly live - not just exist, not just survive, but actually live with intention and presence when I can, and grace for myself when I can't.

Time moves differently now. And maybe that's okay.

💜 Kayla