The Battle After the Battle: Life Beyond Cancer Treatment

When my chemo and radiation finally ended, I thought I was done. I pictured this big, victorious moment where I could finally breathe and say, "I made it." But instead of relief, I I was handed a new battle plan, more treatment to keep the cancer from coming back. I nodded along as my oncologist explained the details, but inside, I felt completely overwhelmed.

My cancer thrived on oestrogen, so they had to keep me in menopause, something chemotherapy had already forced on me. For many of us, this part of treatment lasts for years, sometimes even a decade. And because my cancer fed on estrogen, hormone replacement therapy (HRT) wasn’t an option.

Then came the medications, each with its own job and its own list of side effects. I knew they were necessary, but I had no idea how they’d make me feel.

Tamoxifen: One pill a day to block oestrogen and keep the cancer from coming back.

Abemaciclib: Two oral chemotherapy pills a day, morning and night, to stop cancer cells from multiplying.

And then there was Zoladex. Since chemo had already thrown me into a medically induced menopause, this tiny implant, inserted into my stomach every 28 days, made sure I stayed there. It took everything up a notch. My bones felt ancient, sleep became a distant memory, and my body clung to every calorie like it was storing up for a famine.

I wish more people talked about medically induced menopause. We always hear about natural menopause, celebrities like Oprah and Davina McCall openly share their experiences. But when cancer treatment forces menopause on you overnight, that’s a whole different beast.

With natural menopause, hormones drop gradually. With treatment-induced menopause, your body just flips a switch - one day, everything’s normal, and the next, you’re in full-blown menopause. No transition, no easing in - just a crash. The hot flashes, the brain fog, the mood swings, the joint pain… it hit me all at once. And since I wasn’t “supposed” to be in menopause yet, it felt like my body had aged overnight without my permission.

Then came Zometa, six infusions over three years to strengthen my bones and lower the risk of cancer spreading there.

To be honest, at first, I didn’t realize how much was changing. I was too focused on just getting through each day. But little by little, it snuck up on me. I used to be sharp, organized, patient, and always in control. Then one day, I started forgetting simple things. I was drained beyond belief yet couldn’t sleep, which left me irritable and frustrated. I kept telling myself to push through, to be grateful I was alive. But I had nothing left to push with.

The hardest part was the fatigue, the kind of exhaustion that burrows deep into your bones. Not just the usual tiredness, but a crushing fatigue that made even the simplest tasks like getting out of bed, making dinner, replying to a text feel overwhelming. Then there were the relentless hot flashes and night sweats that soaked my clothes even in the dead of winter. My joints throbbed like I had aged overnight. My stomach rebelled against me. And the bruising, I once woke up with a black eye just from scratching my face in my sleep.

Some days, I felt okay. Some days, I even felt strong. But on the days when I had nothing left, I leaned on my people; my family, my friends, my cancer community. They reminded me that even when I felt weak, I was still moving forward.

Regular check-ups became my new normal; blood tests every two weeks, scans every six months, constant physical exams. A never-ending cycle of hope and anxiety. I tried to take care of myself by eating well, moving my body, managing stress. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. And every little “something” helped.

I’ve learned that self-care isn’t about spa days and fancy treatments, it’s survival. It’s the small things like a slow walk with a friend, a meal that doesn’t take too long or make me sick, a quiet moment in my garden reading my book. I’ve learned to listen to my body, to give it what it needs whether that’s movement, rest, or just permission to be.

Whenever I get frustrated, and trust me, it happens often…I remind myself why I’m doing this. Every pill, every injection, every awful side effect; it’s all for something bigger. It’s for more time. More time with the people I love. More time to live.

Adjusting hasn’t been easy. Some days, I grieve the version of myself from before, before cancer, before menopause, before all of this. But I’ve also found strength in ways I never expected. I’ve learned to advocate for myself, to experiment with what helps (spoiler: exercise actually does make a difference, even when I don’t feel like it), and to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

This isn’t the path I would have chosen. But it’s the one I’m on. And step by step, I’m learning how to walk it.