10 Things to Expect When You Have Cancer

Aug 8

By Cindy Finch, LCSW

Summary: Cancer isn’t just a diagnosis—it’s a full-time job with no map, wild side effects, and a parade of unsolicited advice. If you’ve ever felt like cancer was breaking you—you’re not broken. You’re in the middle of becoming something braver. You’re not crazy. You’re courageous. And you’re definitely not alone. Here are ten gritty, grace-soaked truths to normalize the chaos and offer a little light.

Backstory: After 45 days in in-patient hospital hell, I begged God to let me die. I stayed up all night in a hospital room, IVs in both arms, bargaining with heaven. Other patients less sick than I had died right next to me, but I was still alive—raw, furious, done. I had hit a wall. But then I thought about my children. About their footie pajamas and tiny faces. About our nighttime chant—the one from Love You Forever: “I love you forever, I like you for always, forever and always, my baby you’ll be.” I had always read it as written, but when I became gravely ill, I started changing the words. I needed to make it safe for them. That nightly ritual became our tether. And this list? It’s the map I wish someone had given me when I didn’t know if I’d make it to morning.

1. The Grand Tour of Medical Land

Cancer isn’t treated in one place—it’s a rotating door of waiting rooms. Expect to ping-pong between your oncologist, chemo lounge, primary care doctor, surgery center, lab, pharmacy, ER, and maybe even support groups. It’s exhausting. If you live far away, ask about transportation options. The American Cancer Society maintains a list of volunteer drivers. Yes, people really do that.

2. You Become a Human Pin Cushion

Needles, IVs, ports, PICC lines—welcome to access city. If your care team offers you a port or PICC line, say yes. It spares your veins. Still, inspect it regularly. Redness or pain could mean infection. I had collapsing veins, infected lines that had to be surgically replaced, and even a central line in my neck. One tech once dismissed my complaint about a sore arm—days later, it was a full-blown infection. Grrrrr.

3. Scanxiety: The Dread Before the Scan

It’s real. The night before (week before, month before) your scan, your stomach drops. What if it’s worse? What if it’s better? Two words: medication helps. No meds? Try this reframe—imagine the scanner as a bodyguard, checking for intruders. Scans aren’t punishment—they’re progress checkpoints. Still, I’ve had full-blown panic attacks near anniversaries of chemo, surgery, or a friend’s death. Mental health support is essential. One doctor told me after I described my thrice-daily panic attacks: "Don’t ruin this. If I could just detach your head from your body you’d be fine." What the hell does that even mean? OMG.

4. Welcome to the Flavor of Hell

“Barium: chalky liquid seasoned with despair.”
It’s the liquid you drink before certain scans. Some clinics now use clear, tasteless options—ask. If not, plug your nose and chug. It’s awful. But it helps them help you. If Hell had a flavor it would be barium.

5. Radiation: The Machine, the Metal, the Mic

You lay on a metal table. They tattoo your chest. You’re often partially nude. A cold metal block pins you down. You cry, overwhelmed, and all they say through a mic is, “Hold still.” It’s lonely, clinical, and deeply surreal. I felt stripped of my dignity. But it’s working. And it ends.

6. Body Changes Happen Fast

Hair loss. Weight gain. Facial swelling. Nail discoloration. Scars. Skin tone shifts. Mouth sores inside and out. I lost all my fingernails and toenails. At my weakest, I looked like a ghost. I also went into menopause at 31. Treatments caused long-term damage to my heart, lungs, and chest wall. No one warns you about the long wicked tail of cancer. WTF?

7. Your Personality Might Freak You Out

Steroids like dexamethasone fight inflammation but mess with your mood. Expect rage, insomnia, and appetite explosions. Let loved ones know: this isn’t forever. It’s a chemical storm. Oh lawd!!

8. People Will Say Wild Things

“Oh, my cousin died of that.” “Have you tried turmeric?” “You don’t look sick.” A woman from church said my cancer was from unforgiveness. Another woman told me I wasn’t healed because I hadn’t properly received my healing from God—like it was a missed Amazon delivery or something. Protect your peace. Exit conversations. Boundaries are medicine. Cool, Carol. Should I also chant over a crystal and burn sage in my PICC line?

9. Nothing Tastes Right

Everything tastes like metal. Water tastes wrong. Use plastic utensils. Try lemon, ginger, anything cold. Visit ChemoCarefor tips. And yeah, everyone brings food. It’s sweet, but sometimes it’s just not edible because of CANCER. Ick.

10. You’re Fighting for a Friend Named NED

“No Evidence of Disease doesn’t mean No Evidence of Trauma.”
NED = No Evidence of Disease. He’s invisible, but he’s the goal. I met him. Then five years and one week later, I collapsed—full-blown organ failure. My treatments had quietly destroyed parts of me. That’s cancer’s long wicked tail. It impacted my husband and daughter too—PTSD isn’t just for soldiers.

After NED: The Survivorship Whiplash

“When the noise stops, the silence can be terrifying.”
You made it. So why do you feel lost? Because healing takes longer than anyone says. Join a survivorship group. See a therapist. Start small. This chapter is about restoring what cancer stole.

You’re Not Crazy—You’re Courageous

Cancer tests everything. Your body. Your spirit. Your story. But you’re not losing your mind—you’re surviving something monumental. And you’re doing better than you think.

3 Things I Wish Someone Had Told Me:

It’s okay to hate your body and still fight for it.
Your mental health matters just as much as your lab results.
You’re not weak for breaking down—you’re a human being surviving hell.

If this article helped you feel a little less alone, share it with someone who needs it. Forward it. Post it. Tattoo it on your best friend. Someone out there needs these words today.

Helpful Resources:

About the Author:
Cindy Finch, LCSW, is a therapist, writer, and cancer survivor who trained at the Mayo Clinic. Diagnosed while pregnant, her treatment led to heart, lung, and liver failure—but she lived to tell the tale. She now lives in Southern California and helps others navigate illness, loss, and healing. Her story is featured in the documentary Vincible.

Disclaimer: This article is for informational purposes only and is not a substitute for professional medical advice. If you have a health concern, please consult your provider.

Footnote: For those navigating grief, fear, or survivorship PTSD, visit Cancer Support Community or Mental Health America. You're not alone.

cindy finch