huh?

There are some days I wake up and think, “Today’s going to be a good day.”

Then I walk into the kitchen, open the refrigerator, and completely forget why I went there.

I laugh.

Most of the time.

Other times, I don’t.

Living with chemobrain is hard to explain because, from the outside, I look perfectly fine. I smile. I laugh. I carry on conversations. But inside my mind, it’s like trying to read a book where someone has randomly torn out pages. I know the story is there. I just can’t always find the next page.

People often say, “Oh, I forget things too.”

I know they mean well.

We all forget where we put our keys once in a while.

We all walk into a room and occasionally forget why we went there.

Chemobrain is different.

It’s forgetting the conversation you had yesterday.

It’s forgetting someone’s name even though you know you know it.

It’s losing your train of thought in the middle of a sentence.

It’s wondering if the memory you’re holding onto is even accurate anymore.

One of the scariest moments for me happened while I was driving home. Not once… but twice… I suddenly forgot where I was and how to get home. Thankfully, it only lasted a short time, and I found my way.

I laugh about it now because sometimes laughter is the only thing that keeps fear from taking over.

But if I’m being honest…

It scared me.

It still does.

There are days when I don’t like driving alone, especially to my appointments in Oklahoma City. For many people, an hour-long drive isn’t a big deal. For me, it’s an hour of wondering, “What if something happens? What if I get confused? What if I don’t remember?”

That’s the part people don’t see.

The fear.

Cancer taught me how precious life is.

A stroke and a seizure taught me how quickly life can change again.

Chemobrain reminds me every single day that my brain doesn’t always cooperate with my heart.

One of my biggest fears is dementia or Alzheimer’s disease. I don’t know what the future holds. I just know that some days, the fog feels so heavy that it’s hard not to wonder.

That’s a frightening place to be.

But here’s what I’ve learned.

I may forget names.

I may lose words.

I may tell the same story twice.

Sometimes three times.

But I haven’t forgotten how to love.

I haven’t forgotten how to laugh.

I haven’t forgotten how to care about people.

Cancer changed my memory.

It didn’t change my heart.

If you’re reading this and you’re living with chemobrain, I want you to know something.

You’re not lazy.

You’re not broken.

You’re not “just getting older.”

What you’re experiencing is real.

And if you’re a caregiver or family member reading this, thank you for trying to understand something you can’t always see.

Sometimes the greatest gift you can give someone living with chemobrain is patience.

Give us a moment.

Sometimes the word comes back.

Sometimes it doesn’t.

Either way, we’re still the same person inside.

Our memories may have changed.

Our hearts haven’t.

So if you ever find yourself sitting across the table from me and I forget your name, or lose my train of thought halfway through a story, just smile.

We’ll figure it out together.

And if I happen to tell you the same story next week…

Well…

Pretend it’s the first time you’ve heard it.

I promise I’ll enjoy telling it just as much.

☕

With love,

Virginia