The Small Notebook That Changed My Treatment Days
The first time I took a notebook into the infusion suite, I did not have a grand plan. I was trying to remember what the nurse had said about side effects, work, hydration and the strange collection of numbers that seemed to govern my day. My brain felt like it had been replaced with a bowl of overcooked porridge, so I opened a page and wrote down what was happening. Learn more about Murraymeetze.com.
That small act became a quiet anchor. I started journaling in the infusion suite because treatment made time feel slippery, but I never stopped because writing helped me notice the person still living inside all the appointments, blood tests and waiting rooms. The notebook held the practical details, the ugly feelings, the ridiculous observations and the tiny signs that I was still myself.
| Treatment-day writing | Everyday journaling |
|---|---|
| Records medications, symptoms and questions | Captures thoughts, memories and ordinary moments |
| Helps make long infusion hours feel purposeful | Creates a private space away from medical language |
| Can support conversations with the oncology team | Can reveal emotional patterns over time |
| Often starts with a sentence or a list | May grow into letters, reflections or creative writing |
| Focuses on getting through the day | Helps rebuild a sense of life beyond treatment |
The First Pages Were Practical
My earliest entries were hardly literary. They looked more like field notes from a very uncomfortable expedition: cannula in, fluids running, nausea level, food eaten, headache, temperature, questions for the oncologist. I wrote the time medication was given and how I felt afterwards. If I noticed a new symptom, I recorded it rather than relying on my foggy memory later.
That information became useful at appointments. Instead of saying, “I felt awful sometime after the last treatment,” I could point to a date and describe what had happened. A notebook cannot replace medical advice, and it should never become a reason to panic over every ache. It can, however, give a breast cancer patient a clearer record to take into the conversation.
I also wrote down the ordinary instructions that vanished from my head as soon as I left the hospital: drink more water, bring snacks, call if a fever appeared, ask about a prescription, arrange a lift home. In Australia, where treatment might happen through a public hospital, a private oncology clinic or a regional service requiring a long drive, those details mattered. A written record helped me prepare for the next visit instead of starting from zero.
On some days, I filled only half a page. That was enough. A journal did not need to become another task I could fail.
A Private Place Inside A Public Room
Infusion suites can be surprisingly social and strangely lonely. There may be nurses moving efficiently between chairs, televisions murmuring in the corner and someone’s relative offering a packet of Arnott’s biscuits. In a Sydney or Melbourne hospital, the room might be busy from morning until late afternoon. In a smaller Queensland or regional Victorian service, it might feel quieter, but the emotional intensity is still there.
Everyone has their own way of coping. Some people read, stream television, chat with the person beside them or sleep through as much of treatment as possible. I wrote because it gave my attention somewhere gentle to land. The page did not ask me to be brave, positive or reassuring. It did not need an update for family members.
I could write about being frightened without managing anyone else’s feelings. I could admit that I was bored, angry, vain, grateful, jealous or completely over hearing the word “journey”. Those thoughts were not a public statement about survivorship. They were simply true in that moment.
A line might begin with something as plain as, “Today I am tired of being impressive.” Another might describe the fluorescent lights or the nurse with the excellent sense of humour. The value was in telling the truth without polishing it for an audience.
For anyone who prefers typing, a notes app can do the same job. I liked paper because it did not need a password, a charged battery or a reliable hospital Wi-Fi connection. A cheap notebook from Kmart worked perfectly well beside an expensive planner. The page did not care about the brand.
The Feelings Came Later
At first, the journal was mostly logistics because logistics felt safer. I could record a medication more easily than I could write, “I am scared this treatment will change my body and my future.” Eventually, the practical notes made enough room for the emotional ones.
Journaling helped me catch feelings before they became one enormous, unnamed cloud. I could separate fear of recurrence from frustration about a delayed appointment, sadness about my old routine and anger about how much paperwork treatment created. Naming those things did not make them disappear, but it stopped them from blending into a single verdict about my life.
The writing also showed me that two apparently conflicting feelings could sit on the same page. I could be thankful for excellent care and furious about needing it. I could laugh at a ridiculous hospital gown and cry in the car park. I could feel supported while still missing the version of myself who did not know the Medicare item number for a specialist visit.
When I struggled to describe my body, I sometimes wrote around it. An image, a list of colours or a description of the weather could open a door. A useful example of how everyday self-care can become a small ritual is this egg white tip, which reminded me that caring for myself did not have to be grand or medically impressive. Some days, a shower, moisturiser and clean pyjamas counted.
Writing Helped Me Notice My Changing Body
Treatment made my body feel like a place under constant observation. Nurses checked my veins, blood counts, weight and symptoms. I learned to notice changes in my skin, energy, appetite and sleep, although I had to resist turning the notebook into a surveillance report.
I recorded sensations in ordinary language: tight, prickly, hot, tender, itchy, heavy. That was more useful than trying to sound clinical. Later, I could explain the pattern to my healthcare team without pretending I had diagnosed myself. The journal became a bridge between what my body was saying and what I needed to communicate.
Some physical experiences were so odd that writing them down was the only way to make them feel real. Skin changes, altered taste, fatigue and the lingering smells of treatment could be difficult to explain to people who had not experienced them. Nicole’s reflection, What My Radiation Techs Never Told Me About the Smell of My Skin, captures the kind of detail that can sound surprising until you have lived it.
The notebook also gave me permission to record body neutrality. Not every entry had to be about loving my reflection or feeling transformed. Sometimes I wrote that my body had carried me to the appointment, tolerated another treatment and got me home. That was enough praise for the day.
I became more careful with the boundary between observation and worry. A journal can help identify questions, but alarming symptoms need the oncology team, a hospital advice line or emergency care when appropriate. The page is a companion, not a substitute for professional support.
It Changed How I Spoke At Work
One unexpected benefit of journaling was seeing how much energy I spent hiding what was happening. I would draft an email in my head, delete half of it, worry about appearing unreliable and then try to work through exhaustion. The notebook showed me that secrecy was not the same as privacy.
Deciding what to tell an employer is deeply personal. Some people need strong boundaries; others feel safer sharing a diagnosis with a trusted manager or human resources contact. I used my journal to rehearse the conversation, work out what support I needed and separate facts from the shame I had attached to needing flexibility.
That process connected with Why I Finally Told My Boss About My Diagnosis and Why You Should Consider It. The important part was not finding one perfect script. It was recognising that a workplace conversation could be about practical arrangements rather than an invitation for everyone to examine my private life.
In Australia, the working reality can involve annual leave, personal leave, carer’s leave, flexible work requests and the complicated gap between a permanent job and casual employment. Treatment schedules do not always respect office hours, school pick-up or a manager’s roster. Writing down the dates and the support I needed helped me speak more clearly and avoid apologising for every appointment.
I also used the journal to note what worked. A later start after treatment, working from home when possible, keeping meetings short and having one reliable contact person made a difference. These arrangements were not a sign that I lacked commitment. They were part of making treatment and employment fit together as safely as possible.
The Notebook Outlived The Infusions
When active treatment ended, I expected the journaling habit to fade with it. Instead, the empty spaces became noticeable. During treatment, there was always a next appointment, a blood test or a symptom to monitor. Afterwards, I had to make a life that was not organised around the hospital.
The journal helped me mark that transition. I wrote about the strange anticlimax of finishing treatment, the fear that arrived after everyone else celebrated and the pressure to feel grateful on schedule. I wrote about returning to routines, changing friendships, body image, intimacy, money and the Australian healthcare maze that does not end simply because the final infusion has finished.
It also became a place for survivorship planning. I kept questions for follow-up appointments, notes about scans and reminders to ask for help when anxiety became too loud. A page might include the name of a support service, a list of expenses or a note to check whether a health-related cost could be claimed. Another might hold a restaurant review, a joke or a plan for the weekend.
Community became part of that ongoing story. I found comfort in people who understood that survivorship is not a finish line but a shifting collection of ordinary days. The wider story of this space is captured on About, where honesty, humour and connection matter as much as information.
I also learned that journaling does not have to stay solemn. I have written about a good coffee, a terrible wig day, the relief of clean sheets and the particular joy of leaving an appointment without needing to schedule another one. A page can hold grief and silliness side by side. That combination feels more like real life than forced optimism ever did.
The practice is simple enough to carry anywhere: keep a small notebook in the treatment bag, write the date, record what your body is telling you, name one feeling and note one question for the care team. If words are difficult, use dot points, sketches, voice notes or a single sentence. The goal is not beautiful prose. It is creating a little evidence that you were present for your own life.
I started with a pen beside an infusion chair because I needed to remember what was happening. I continued because the pages helped me hear myself beneath the medical noise. The practical takeaway is uncomplicated: choose a format you will actually use, write without editing your feelings, and let the notebook support you through treatment without asking it to perform a miracle.