Through the Chemo Fog
Chemo fog left me reaching for answers.
The haze that cancer treatment brings to your brain took me by surprise. Here’s what I did about it.
A day after an infusion, my unwelcome guests started making their appearances.
I sat on the floor helping my 2-year-old daughter, Georgia, put her shoes on. We were late. I wasn’t moving fast that morning, but I insisted on walking my kids to school. My mom stood above me, and I knew she was trying to figure out what the hell was taking so long. I just kept staring at the shoes. I couldn’t figure out which was right or left. My head was buzzing, like the snow you see on TV when the channel doesn’t work right. After what felt like forever, I finally looked up at my mom and said, “I can’t figure out which is right or left.”
I felt so stupid. But even more than that, I was so angry. We learn right and left in preschool and I could not, for the life of me, figure this out at 40 years old. Still, I rationalized. I thought, “It’s active treatment. It’s fine, your brain will function next week. IT’S FINE.” My mom, on the other hand, asked if I needed to go to the hospital.
I honestly thought once active treatment was over, the fog would lift. I didn’t expect it to loiter like the neighborhood kids when they know you have gone on a Costco run. True to its nature, it was mostly thick, sometimes spotty and always inconvenient.
Worse Than Expected
I had heard a little about chemo fog from blogs and cancer groups, and even from my big “all about cancer” binder. But I thought, “Oh, things might be a little fuzzy, no biggie.”
“I didn’t think I would be stopping mid-sentence because I couldn’t find vocabulary words. Or not be able to string thoughts into complete sentences.”
I didn’t think I would be stopping mid-sentence because I couldn’t find vocabulary words. Or not be able to string thoughts into complete sentences. Or not be able to remember literally anything. And if you must know, I am normally a wiz for remembering things that do not pertain to me or help me out in life.
There is really nothing to do in those situations other than look like a deer in headlights, and that only looks somewhat acceptable with the right phone filters. Sometimes you just have to roll out a little line, like, “A little help here. I can’t find the word I need … chemo fog,” and then smile while praying the water works stay at bay. It’s embarrassing. (If you want to make it more fun, watch the other person’s face and see if they feel like an asshole for judging you once you say “chemo fog.”)
Searching for a Plan
Like I said, I’d heard a little about chemo fog, but not enough to know why this happens. I know only that my body had been put through the wringer.
I didn’t know how long it would last and how it would get better. The only thing I could think of was getting this crap from treatment out of my body. I have to trust that the potions did their job, and now it’s time to clean them out.
At the time, I really didn’t know whom to call, so I called on Gina Sirchio my trusted functional medicine doctor and clinical nutritionist. I said, “Gina, WTF are we going to do? I can’t remember anything, I’m so tired, the fatigue is consuming, and I can’t even put a sentence together.”
Luckily for me, Gina, is a massive science nerd and had a plan. We did a nutrient-based blood panel and hormone panel when I was done with treatment and developed a protocol specifically for me. Once we received the results, we worked backwards. That included nutrition for boosting my immune system and taking the grossest-tasting stuff ever, the antioxidant glutathione, to try to get rid of toxins in my body. And, as she told me, there are simple, cheap options anyone can make at home — like the nutrient-rich and easy-to-digest bone broth — to keep your immune system strong when it’s been ravaged by treatment.
But more than anything, I needed to give my body time. Time to rest, time to heal, time to grieve the mental tasks I used to be able to do without even giving them a second thought.
I am now almost 4 years out. I still search for vocabulary words, and my memory is, quite frankly, bad. I still take the gross-tasting shit. And when I get that deer-in-headlights look, I ask others, “Can I still blame chemo fog?” Whomever I am speaking with always says, “Yes!”
What is Chemo Fog?
Call it chemo brain, chemo fog, or any other name, but if you’ve been through cancer treatment, there’s a good chance you’re familiar with it already. Chemo fog is the cognitive effect of chemotherapy, although it can also occur with other treatments such as hormone therapy and radiation, according to the American Cancer Society.
Chemo fog can take the form of memory lapses, trouble conjuring words or thoughts, difficulty with performing everyday tasks or multi-tasking, or other similar symptoms. The effects—and how long they last—may be different for different people. On top of the nutrition route I took, other people treat these symptoms with approaches such as cognitive rehab or even an exercise regimen, since exercise helps improve focus. Groups such as the American Cancer Society also offer links to free, local support options.
