Bianca Catros

Round 6/6 — The Finale

We’ve made it to the finale.

And damn… it hasn’t gone quietly.

Chemo was meant to start Tuesday, but thanks to bed shortages I couldn’t get in until Wednesday. Thursday rolled around and chemo still couldn’t start, now pushed to Friday. Why, you ask?

Two lymph nodes in my throat have decided to play up, causing swelling in my neck and a rather husky voice. On top of that, I’ve apparently started snoring rather comically, which is both severely embarrassing and deeply unenjoyable. I’d very much like whatever is flaring up in my neck to kindly fuck off, so I can resume a normal sleep pattern and stop waking up feeling like I’ve been drained of air overnight.

CT scans of my neck and chest have been done. We’re now waiting on the results.

And I won’t sugarcoat it, it’s absolutely terrifying hearing that the cancer may have returned in my neck. It could just be swelling from chemo. It could be an infection. But until the official results come through, we just don’t know.

That’s the thing with cancer.

You fight your damn hardest, and then you keep getting tested.

You learn patience. You build resilience. You take the negatives and try to find the positives.

Cancer isn’t winning.

I’m fighting this with everything I’ve got! Setbacks and all.

The good news? We’ve been given the go-ahead for the final treatment to start tomorrow. YAY! 

Because I’m dose-adjusted, all the chemo bags had to be recalculated due to the throat swelling, weight changes, and liver function. 

And despite the doctors thinking I secretly drink like a sailor every time I leave hospital… I’m actually the polar opposite. I’m a crisp soda water with a slice of lemon kind of person.

(Though chemo has robbed me of feeling bubbles… so even that tastes whack now.)

Not all of us younger ones are alcoholics who need a cask of wine to end the night. No judgement to those who do. We all have our vices. But this? This is chemo affecting my liver, not alcohol.

So tomorrow the five 24-hour bags begin. They’ll finish Tuesday, and then, pending today’s neck CT results and fingers crossed the PICC line finally comes out.

Stay tuned for the next five days of hospital entries.

And if you’re able to donate, share, or spare a few dollars, it would mean the world. I’m nearly halfway to my $500 goal.

Thank you to everyone following this journey, and to all you beautiful humans who’ve donated so far.

I see you. I feel the love.

B 

One step at a time!

Tonight was my first walk back on our regular route since my diagnosis.

Not going to lie. There was a little PTSD there… but that’s okay.

We took it slow.

3km all up.

The changes were noticeable straight away, less pressure on my heart, and my lungs! Both working so much better than before. That alone felt like a win.

The stairs though… truly terrifying.

But I bloody did it.

My legs feel like jelly, my body is aching, and there’s absolutely no way I could do this every afternoon, sorry doggos ??

Learning my limits is hard, especially because I’m the type to just keep pushing. I have an extremely high pain tolerance — it’s part of why the cancer went undetected for so long. I’m very good at pushing through when my body is asking me not to.

Healing isn’t linear.

It’s going to take time to get back to where I was, if not stronger.

But for tonight, I’m proud of myself.

This is the hardest I’ve pushed my body since early October 2025, and I showed up anyway.

One step at a time. 

Radio Silence Round 5

It’s been a bit of radio silence since leaving hospital after round 5, and there’s a reason for that.

About 24 hours after each chemo cycle finishes, I’m given a pegfilgrastim injection to help boost my blood cells. At the same time, I leave hospital severely immunocompromised. Life outside becomes all about face masks, hand sanitiser, and steering well clear of anyone who’s unwell — because the last thing I want is to end up in ICU.

Once that injection goes into my stomach, the following week is brutal. The pain is immense. Imagine growing pains — but 100 times worse. Every movement feels like a bone might snap. My body is stiff, fragile, and the lightest touch can feel like agony. All I want is to curl up with my love and hold her close, but my body just won’t allow it. It’s mentally exhausting and deeply upsetting. Managing pain becomes the priority. We learnt that after round one, and somehow we’ve made it this far without any ambulance trips back to hospital.

On top of that is the sheer lethargy that comes from five straight days of chemo being pumped through my PICC line — killing the cancer and every other fast-dividing cell in my body. My PICC was inserted before round one and will stay until treatment ends. It sits in my right arm — my dominant arm — with the line running through a vein straight to my heart, where the chemo is circulated through my body.

Sleeping is uncomfortable. You have to be careful with physical activity using that arm. One wrong move or a bad dressing change and the entire line can be pulled out — a genuinely terrifying thought. We’ve also had issues with it not flushing or working properly, which is what delayed round five a little.

Although I’m in complete remission, the masses are still there and need time to shrink and dissolve. Round five has brought noticeable facial swelling from the steroids. Emotionally, that’s been tough. I know it’s part of the process, but it’s hard seeing a different reflection looking back at you.

This hits especially deep for me because facial swelling was the first sign last year that something wasn’t right. My face kept puffing up and it was brushed off as allergies. People commented on it, laughed about it, made jokes — while I was hurting both mentally and physically. I avoided photos. I hated how I looked. I was also on a weight-loss journey at the time, rediscovering myself. People can be cruel. Now I know why it was happening. My body was trying to tell me I had cancer. My heart was working overtime trying to manage the swelling while major arteries were being compressed by the growing mass.

This time, I know the swelling is from steroids and from my body fighting the cancer — but that doesn’t make it easy to process. My weight has gone up and down throughout treatment. I’d rather see healthy weight than look frail, but it’s still confronting to see a version of yourself you don’t recognise.

On top of everything else, home nurses visit twice a week for dressings and observations. Between appointments and recovery, finding time to truly rest feels like a full-time job in itself.

Right now, I’m in a strange in-between space. Healing, but also trying to rediscover what my “new normal” might look like. My life has changed. My entire perspective has changed. I feel grateful and sad at the same time. The emotions are everywhere.

By week two after chemo, my body usually starts to pick up and I feel almost okay — which is frustrating, because the week after that I’m back in hospital for the next round. That’s the cycle of chemo. That’s what my body is enduring. Exhaustion on a level I didn’t know existed.

When the final round ends, I think that’s when the weight of this diagnosis — and everything I’ve been through — will really hit me. 

Right now, I’m operating in fight-or-flight, pure survival mode. I’m braving it. I’m pushing through. I know I’m strong. I know I’m tough.

But wow… this is hard

Five rounds deep, home at last!!

I accidentally skipped day 4 — my bad. It was a rough one. Emotions definitely go up and down through this, and that’s okay. This is a huge thing for anyone to go through, and some days are just about getting through.

But… I made it through day 5 of chemo ?

Finally got home around 9pm — a super late finish thanks to the PICC issues earlier in the week.

Forever grateful to my love for being there, always. No matter what.

Coming home felt extra special. Crashing into our big king bed, uninterrupted. No overnight obs, no bloods, no machines beeping, no being woken by the ward — just rest, peace, and home.

As round 5 came to an end, it really hit me once I walked through the door… I did it. Another massive chapter closed. One more step forward, even on the hardest days.

Chemo Day 3 Update.

Day 3 of the 24-hour infusions and we’re rolling right along. Bag number 3 is about to go up — still running a little behind thanks to some PICC line drama still, but hey… hospital time hits different. 

Bonus win: I’ve somehow scored an entire shared room to myself (for now). Peaceful vibes, window bed secured, mental health = thriving. 

Overnight plot twist: about 90% of my eyelashes packed up and left. 

Eyes are a bit scratchy, so glasses are officially back in action to protect from dust and rogue lashes. It’s just hair — we move. Eyebrows though? Still absolutely slaying thanks to my early-20s tattooed-brow era. 

Also fully embracing the bald head — it’s keeping me cool in this summer heat and honestly… it feels empowering. Might keep a buzz cut after all this for a while. Kinda love it.

A bit of facial swelling this morning, but the team thinks it’s steroid-related and possibly a sign of more shrinking of the masses — which we love. Also maybe a bit of healthy weight gain, which I’m totally okay with. Losing weight was far more stressful.

Funny how the swelling was my very first symptom way back when — brushed off as allergies at the time. Life is wild.

Had a lovely visit from a volunteer today and have been deep in my crafting era. 

Diamond dotting has been keeping my hands busy and my mind active — made a gorgeous tissue box holder and I’m working on a surprise gift for a friend. Highly recommend crafting as chemo-ward survival strategy. Keeps the chemo fog at bay and stops me from sleeping the days away. Life’s too short for that. Smile, laugh, craft, repeat. 

Spirits are high, mindset is strong, and I’ve had all my regular nurses today — which means plenty of chats and laughs (they’re stuck with me now).

Best news? I’ll be out of here by Saturday afternoon, which means date night on Sunday to the Lumineers is still happening. 

I’ve been listening to the setlist on repeat while crafting and manifesting freedom.

Life has definitely changed, but I’ve gotten stronger with every round. Being in complete remission still feels surreal, but hearing it reinforced by the oncology team never gets old — even if it takes time to fully sink in. I’m surrounded by so much love and support, and I feel it every single day.

Endless gratitude for my beautiful partner, who’s been juggling work, hospital visits, and bringing in edible food because hospital meals… whew. 

(The veggies deserve a memorial. Cooked to absolute death.)

Her strength, patience, and gentle love mean everything to me. This journey has turned life upside down, but we’re finding our footing again — together.

Can’t wait to get back to walking with our fur kiddos, sharing life outside these walls, and walking for a good cause. 

Also quietly optimistic that once I’m back out in the real world, I might actually be able to beat Sar up the monstrous stairs that we climb in what used to be our regular walk before all of this for the challenge — instead of stopping every 8 steps pretending I’m “just admiring the view” When the reality was my heart and lungs were struggling with a giant tumour, and I felt like I was going to have a bloody heart attack. 

Although let’s be honest… she’ll probably still beat me. And the dogs? They’ll absolutely smoke us both. 

More updates soon — sending love to you all. Peace and Love. 

Day 2 of the 24-hour chemo bag ?

Zero sleep. Maximum attitude.

PICC line chose chaos overnight, which meant multiple chemo nurses in and out and real concern about a possible clot.

Given the size of the mass on my heart and lungs, ECGs and a heart X-ray were non-negotiable — the last thing I needed was a clot heading anywhere near vital organs. Not cute. Not ideal. Especially at 3am.

But guess what — we made it through.

PICC line is clear. Crisis shut down.

Bag 2 won’t be going up until around 5pm, way later than usual — but that’s okay. We adapt. We move. We keep going.

Did I keep the shared ward awake? Yes. Did I make some of the elderly people in the shared ward grumpy, absolutely. They sleep all day anyway so I see no issues there. 

Sorry… not sorry. Survival isn’t quiet ????

Timing took a hit, but we’ll push the flow and bring it back by Day 5 because I’ve got The Lumineers to see on Sunday night and cancer doesn’t get to cancel my life.

Living still matters.

Date nights with my love keep me grounded.

And after this night? I will sleep so well ?

Still here. Still fighting. Still living. ??

A Pause in the Middle: My Chemo Journey So Far

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