Two months after my final round of oral chemotherapy, I stood on my back patio staring at a completely flooded garden. Five hours earlier, I had turned on the sprinkler for what was supposed to be a "quick soak," only to walk away and forget it entirely.
At first, I laughed. We all have absentminded moments. But then the slips began to stack up. I forgot my phone in the back of an Uber, left a bag of gifts I bought for my family at the boarding gate, and walked away from my wallet at a store checkout. The tipping point arrived late one night when the sharp smell of smoke hit me while I was sitting in the other room; I had left the oven on high heat, completely oblivious to it.
That was the moment the jokes stopped being funny. These were no longer trivial slip-ups; I was making mistakes with serious, dangerous consequences, and I lived in constant dread of the next one. I felt perpetually one step behind my own life, plagued by a deep sense of shame. I started second-guessing things I used to do on autopilot: Did I lock the door? Did I turn off the hair straightener? What was I just doing? Beyond the fear of appearing careless to others lay a much darker worry: What if I am losing my mind?
Eventually, I learned the medical term for my reality: cancer-related cognitive impairment (CRCI), often referred to as "chemo brain." It impacts executive function, processing speed, memory, and attention. Despite the nickname, chemotherapy isn't the sole culprit; the physical trauma of cancer, surgery, radiation, hormone therapy, systemic inflammation, fatigue, and psychological stress all take a toll.
Understanding CRCI shifted my perspective entirely. helped me reframe my struggle from "I am becoming careless" to "My brain is healing from a major trauma" and freed me from viewing forgotten tasks as personal character flaws. Instead of trying to brute-force my memory, I began designing visual and physical systems around myself.
The immediate timer rule: The moment I turn on the oven or tap, I set a phone alarm before taking a step away.
The tactile touch-check: Instead of relying on a visual scan, I physically touch my essentials—phone, keys, wallet, bag—before leaving any location.
Outsourcing retention: I attached Bluetooth trackers to misplaced items and started wearing my phone on a crossbody lanyard, viewing these tools not as symbols of deficit, but as practical support structures.
The transit pause: I deliberately pause before boarding public transportation to verify my ticket against the platform display, giving my processing speed a moment to catch up.
If you find yourself walking into rooms without a purpose, reading the same line three times, or making mistakes that frighten you, hear this: You are not lazy, stupid, or failing. Your brain has survived a massive physical trauma.
Document your symptoms and share them with your oncology team; they can evaluate contributing factors and refer you to cognitive rehabilitation specialist services. Most importantly, recognise that healing does not mean instantly reverting to who you were before diagnosis. Sometimes healing looks like accepting extra support: timers, checklists, and intentional pauses. There is no shame in building scaffolding around your life while your mind finds its way forward. Give yourself grace; your brain has carried a heavy burden.
Comments
Post a Comment