Ornela Freimane, Hornchurch (2026)

13/12/2025

Pump off day.

Oxaliplatin is out, but the body hasn’t quite got the memo yet.
Steroids still mean broken sleep, shaky hands and that wired-but-exhausted feeling when cortisol decides to run the show.
Nausea creeps in as the hospital meds wear off.
The gut slows down, the stomach complains, and for a few days digestion basically goes on strike.

I asked the nurse why the tingling in my hands and feet got stronger even without oxaliplatin.
Answer: the nervous system is still hypersensitive from everything it’s been through.
How long will it last? No one really knows. Bodies don’t follow timetables.

Skin under the dressing is angry again.
That’s another thing to manage — gently, patiently, one plaster at a time.

The small win: my oncologist moved my next chemo from the 24th to the 27th.
So Christmas gets to be calm. I’ll take that.

Today my son is driving me, because my husband had a wisdom tooth removed.
Apparently, wisdom is transferable — we’ll see how much of it ended up in the medical waste bin.
At least tonight he gets his place back in our bed.
The pump has officially been evicted.

This is what treatment looks like when the headline drug is gone, but the work inside the body continues quietly, stubbornly, day by day.

11/12/2025

Thursday. Cycle four.

Packed my chemo bag like other people pack their work lunch — they take quinoa bowls, I take miso broth, seaweed, homemade cottage-cheese yogurt and ginger tea. Priorities.

My nurse today is the one who knows my whole medical history by heart — the explosions, the allergies, the unexpected circus acts. She checks my meds again, calls the doctor again, and I simply trust her. I’m definitely not the person who should be managing my own drug cocktail.

The pre-meds make me sleepy — baby-style sleepy — the kind where you think you’re drifting off but your eyes pop open the moment life touches you. Meanwhile my hands tingle more than they should… steroids, antihistamines and my lovely oxaliplatin souvenir. Lost 10% of treatment effect, gained a pair of unreliable hands. Fair trade? We’ll see.

Today I’m hoping for a boring chemo day. No fireworks, no plot twists. Just drip-drip and home.

While lying there, I asked the nurses:

How does someone really feel when they ring the bell at the end of chemo?

Everyone sees the smile, the tears, the applause.
But inside?

Is it joy?
Or fear — because suddenly you’re your own doctor, nurse, therapist and Google search bar?
During treatment you have a whole team. After that — three scans a year and “Call us if anything changes.”

The note by the bell says: “My treatment is complete and I’m on my way to…”
To what, exactly?

Hope?
Normal life?
Or constant checking whether cancer hasn’t walked back in like that neighbour who never knocks?

The nurse didn’t answer. She just paused and smiled.
Some questions stay in the air.
Some are understood without words.

09/12/2025

Back to the hospital today — blood tests before Thursday’s chemo. My current gym membership is basically Haematology & Oncology. No option to cancel, no “freeze my membership”.

Yesterday I had a long talk with my oncologist and things shifted.
Turns out all the vomiting, chest spasms and dramatic toilet nights weren’t random — I developed hypersensitivity to oxaliplatin, the main drug in my chemo plan.

In simple terms: if they kept giving it, this Christmas I’d be joining those who get an empty plate left for the spirits. Since neither I nor my doctors are excited about that career path — we’re stopping oxali.

What changes?

With full FOLFOX (stage III)
5-year survival: ~65–70%

Without oxali (only 5-FU):
~55–60%

Oxali adds about +10% chance the cancer won’t return. Without it, chemo gives only ~3–5% benefit. Still better than nothing.

Psychologically? I’m practical — emotions into a drawer, and straight to logistics. What else can I do?

No smoking, no alcohol, clean food, fermented stuff, lots of variety — aiming for those ~30 plants a week. And yesterday we ditched all nitrite-containing meats. Even homemade ones.

And yes — house with land is back on the table. Poultry, rabbit, turkey, veal. Ideally one Jersey cow. Not for aesthetics — but to know exactly what goes on my plate.

So that’s my update.

Medicine removed some percentages.
I’ll get them back from the side of food, soil and choices.

06/12/2025

Remember when we were teenagers saying: “I’ll sleep when I’m dead”?
Now it sometimes feels like I might die if I don’t sleep.

When you’re young, sleep feels like wasted time.
When you’re over forty — sleep becomes currency. You beg for six hours and it feels like a teaspoon of water in the desert.

ADHD at night?
Mind spinning like a wind turbine — the OFF button long lost somewhere between DPD depots.

Perimenopause or menopause?
Sleep disappears completely.
Two wake-ups per night with thermal cycles: hot–cold–hot–cold.

And then chemotherapy arrives.
And says: “Sleep waits outside. Not you.”

Before chemo you don’t sleep — body preparing for the “event.”
On chemo day steroids turn you into a power bank with no power.
After chemo body starts a night shift: detoxing, repairing, scanning, restarting.

Sleep becomes “temporarily unavailable”.

Typical night:
22:00–23:30 — sleep or something similar
23:30 — thinking
00:00 — adjusting body parts
00:15 — water
00:22 — nausea
00:40 — renegotiating with pillow
Then blanket arbitration: cover–uncover–cover–uncover.
Cold–hot–cold–hot. SmartHeat 3.0 without instructions.

Nerves firing, weird sensations, body parts not feeling like mine.
Meanwhile brain works overtime like security staff without a badge.

So what helps?

– warm shower (reset mode)
– chamomile tea
– not eating late
– clean pillow
– cooler bedroom

And one actual tip:

Ask your partner to wear long-sleeved pyjamas.

Why?

One night I touched Gražvydas’ hand and thought he was dead — it was ice cold.
I shook him yelling “Are you alive?!”
He woke up yelling “What’s happening?!”
We could’ve died from shock alone.

Now he covers me every night, because apparently I am turning into a frozen vegetable.

That’s chemo romance. No candles, no deep sleep.
Just mornings that still come.
And you still get up.
And you still live.

P.S. Today I’m consulting my chickens.
They sleep without drama — head–tail–head–tail and done.
There is wisdom in that.
Photo attached.

02/12/2025

You know that saying, “It’ll heal before the wedding”?
It’s been over twenty years since mine — and nothing has healed. Sometimes it feels like my body is the one filing for divorce.

Chemo makes that saying even funnier.
My healing process packed its bags, went on holiday, and didn’t leave an address.

Today I’ve got two uninvited guests:
a cold sore that appears the minute my immune system takes a nap,
and tiny cuts healing so slowly you’d think they’ve joined the British railway strikes.

And no — it’s not a new illness or some mystery.
It’s just chemotherapy.
Chemo wipes out white blood cells so badly the body can’t repair anything. So:

– wounds heal twice as slow
– cold sores act like it’s their personal festival
– neuropathy means I can’t use anything cold — one touch feels like old Soviet wiring

Plus my bonus level: an allergy to plasters.
If there’s something to be allergic to, my body will find it first.
So I use skin glue, patience, and my little chemo skincare kit.

What actually helps me:
Zinc paste (simple, cheap, works).
Calendula, if you’re not allergic.
Skin glue instead of plasters — lifesaver.
And my own cream… story for later.

One more thing: slow healing during chemo is NORMAL.
White blood cells are basically “out for a smoke”.
That’s why I avoid aggressive disinfectants — peroxide, iodine, tea tree oil. Doctors say the same.

So this is my reality.
Not glossy magazines — just real life with cold sores that have personality and cuts that heal on their own schedule.

But I manage.
With humour, glue, patience, and the kind of determination you discover only when life throws you into a different league.

healingthroughchemo cancersupport reallifehealing

29/11/2025

This morning I stood in front of the mirror and thought: well, here it is — the real “chemo face”.
The one doctors warn you about so gently with the phrase: “your skin may be more sensitive”.

More sensitive…
Today it looks like I slept on a radiator.
A red forehead like I was steaming cepelinai and the hot steam hit the wrong place.
Cheeks so reactive that one tiny gust of wind could probably blow them away.

This is my third chemotherapy cycle.
And the funniest part?
This time I didn’t even get the full dose — my body decided it had enough circus for the day.
Two days have passed, and my face still has its own opinion about everything.

This is what skin looks like when your whole body is working overtime:
water feels too cold,
creams feel too heavy,
the pillowcase feels too rough,
and the mirror feels a bit too honest.

And you know what?
I realised this might actually be the perfect time to test the cream I’ve been developing for oncology patients — the one quietly waiting to enter clinical trials.
Because honestly, you won’t find a better testing ground than my forehead and neck this week.

But in all seriousness — this is what a fighting body looks like.
And even though some days I’d love to run away from all of this, today I’m simply grateful that I get to recover at home.
Grateful that I’m no longer vomiting day and night.
That I can drink a glass of water.
That today I’m less nauseous than yesterday.
That, to me, is progress.

There will be days when I look like a boiled beetroot.
And days when I look like myself.
Both versions are mine. Both are real.

My skin is healing.
I am healing.
And I’m moving forward.
Slow steps — but forward.

nofilter

27/11/2025

Yesterday my body decided to have its own opinion about chemotherapy.
Not just an opinion — a very loud one.

What was supposed to be a normal chemo day turned into five hours of nonstop vomiting, four different anti-sickness medications (yes, four), extra steroids, an antihistamine, and a whole team of nurses running around me like I was some kind of exploding art installation.

At one point they moved me from the recliner chair into a hospital bed.
If you know, you know — that’s when things get serious.
Chair = “you’ll probably manage.”
Bed = “you’re going nowhere today.”

Eventually the doctors stopped the treatment.
Half of the chemo went in, the rest stayed in the bag.
They didn’t even try to connect the 48-hour pump I normally take home.

I left the hospital around 9pm — exhausted, shaky, empty, but very grateful to be heading home instead of staying between those hospital walls.

This morning I woke up with a sore stomach and throat (no surprise there), a bit nauseous, but hungry.
And hunger, after a day like yesterday, feels like hope.

Some days are messy, some days are calm, some days end with a cardboard bowl next to your pillow… but we keep moving.
One step at a time.
Even if one of those steps slides into a bin.

cancerrecovery
chemoday
reallife
healingjourney

26/11/2025

Today’s chemo through my port, and my body is doing one job while my head is doing another. New anti-sickness meds were supposed to help… instead they spun my head like I’m in a theme park, just without the fun part.
So I’m lying here, letting the room stop moving.

Chemo makes time feel different. Machines hum, nurses buzz around like little bees, and between all that you hear the same stories again and again — cancer myths.
The internet loves them. Reality doesn’t.

So here are 10 myths we laughed about today:
1. “Chemo makes you toxic, don’t touch the patient.”
If I were radioactive, nurses would wear space suits. Hugs are safe. So are pets.
2. “Worm tablets cure cancer.”
A tumour is not a worm. End of story.
3. “Herbs can replace chemo.”
If thyme killed cancer, oncology wards would be empty.
4. “Cancer comes from stress.”
If stress caused cancer, every kindergarten would be Stage 3.
5. “Sugar feeds cancer.”
Your whole body needs glucose to survive — not just cancer cells.
6. “Positive thinking cures cancer.”
Helpful? Yes. A treatment plan? No.
7. “Chemo is worse than cancer.”
If not for chemo, I wouldn’t be here to write this.
8. “Radiotherapy makes you radioactive.”
If I glowed in the dark, trust me — you’d see the photo.
9. “Vitamins can cure cancer.”
Supplements support the body, they don’t shrink tumours.
10. “The internet knows better than doctors.”
The internet also says to put onions in your socks. Enough said.

Chemo isn’t pretty, but it works.
My head is finally stabilising… good timing, because the “run to the bathroom” stage is about to begin…

24/11/2025

Today I’m heading back to the hospital again. Pre-chemo bloods, a quick check-in with the oncologist. At this point it almost feels like a routine: same road, same corridors, same “how are you” from the nurses, even though the answer is never a simple one.

But today I also have my own little “bonus feature”.

These two stitches on my neck.
The ones that were supposed to dissolve two weeks ago.

It’s been three and a half.
And they’re still sitting there like two very committed ticks.

I feel them every time I turn my head.
Every sip of water.
Even when I smile.
Like someone hooked a tiny fishing line into my skin and forgot to come back for it.

And when I look in the mirror, it even looks like they came as a pair. Two stubborn little tenants who decided to extend their lease without asking me.

Today the doctor will decide what to do with them. Whether this is “normal”, or whether my body simply decided that dissolving is optional.

Funny how these tiny things sometimes annoy you more than the big stuff.
Chemo? Fine.
Surgeries? Fine.
Somehow you cope.

But two little stitches on my neck?
That’s today’s drama.

22/11/2025

When herbs stop helping and start causing trouble

Ever since I started chemo, I keep getting messages:
“Drink dandelion root instead of chemotherapy.”
“Wormwood tea will clean everything.”
“Try this, it worked for my cousin.”

I know people mean well.
But sometimes “help” walks very close to “harm”.

There is a line — where herbs stop supporting the body… and start overloading it.
Especially when your liver is working overtime, blood counts are dropping, and your whole system is held together by willpower and warm tea.

Chemotherapy goes through the liver.
Herbs do too.
And we only get one liver.

I grow herbs myself. I love them.
But I don’t play with them.
Every supplement I take is checked with my oncologist, and even then — carefully.

Because herbs are not “just plants”.
They are chemistry.

Here’s what I actually use right now — safe, gentle, not messing with treatment:

• Chamomile — when my stomach flips.
• Peppermint — for nausea and that metal taste.
• Vervain — a tiny pinch when nerves start shaking.
• Valerian root — only in the evening, only a small amount. Not every day.
• Dried cherries, blackcurrants, gooseberries, blackberries — soft, calming tea that doesn’t irritate the gut.
• Elderflower — when I want something warm that won’t stress my liver.
• Nettle — rarely, and only a little.

These won’t work miracles — but they also won’t destroy what chemotherapy is trying to fix.

No self-medication.
One honest conversation with your doctor.
That’s the safest path.

The best medicine is common sense.
Unfortunately, you can’t buy it at the pharmacy — you have to use your own.

Ornela Freimane

13/12/2025

11/12/2025

09/12/2025

06/12/2025

02/12/2025

29/11/2025

27/11/2025

26/11/2025

24/11/2025

22/11/2025

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