When the Cure Hurts

April 27, 2025

I had another biopsy on Friday. But getting to that point wasn’t easy, my body was already wrecked from a wave of problems that hit hard and fast.

I expected the fatigue. I expected the nausea. I even braced myself for the hair loss and all the weird chemo side effects they warn you about. But what I didn’t see coming, what nobody really talks about, was the bone pain from the Nivestym shots.

It didn’t start right away. The first couple rounds weren’t bad, two shots, then three. Just a few aches here and there, nothing major. I chalked it up to getting older, sleeping funny, maybe just normal wear and tear.

But when they bumped me up to five shots?

Everything changed.

The pain wasn’t gradual. It hit like a wrecking ball, like my bones were being hollowed out from the inside. It started deep in my knees, then worked its way into my pelvis and up my spine. This wasn’t soreness. It wasn’t even the deep muscle pain you get from a brutal workout. It was something else entirely, like my marrow had turned molten. This was a deep ancient level of pain.

Lying in bed at night, it felt like my skeleton was alive, restless, overheating, pissed off. Every time I moved, even a little, the pain flared down my spine and through my hips. Sleep wasn’t an option. Only endurance. Hour by hour. Deep breaths in and out.

If the bone pain wasn’t enough, Shingles decided to join the party. (Yes, I did get the Shingles vaccine in 2024)

I’ve dealt with Shingles before, back in my 30s, after Cat Scratch Fever tanked my immune system. It was brutal then: the rash, the nerve pain, the feeling like my skin was on fire.

This time? It’s worse.

The Shingles hit my left side, my lower back and hip. Not exactly the best place for someone who already can’t find a comfortable way to sleep. Not great for someone who desperately needs rest just to make it through the next day.

Another layer of misery piled onto a body already pushed to its limits.

Still, even with all of it, there’s fight left in me.

There’s that stubborn part that refuses to quit. That still shows up for the scans, the shots, the endless waiting rooms. That still believes healing can happen, even when it feels like everything is broken.

If you’re walking a similar road, if you’re somewhere in the middle of your own fight, hear me when I say this:

It’s brutal.

It’s ugly.

It’s lonely.

But you’re not alone.

Keep pushing forward. Step by step. Even when the cure hurts.