After three years with stomach cancer, neuropathy stole Aunt Paula's ability to stand long enough to cook from scratch - the thing that defined her. But instead of becoming someone who receives casseroles, she became a kitchen director. Now visitors chop during their stay, cousins cook while they chat. This is about asking for help differently, why caregivers are relieved to skip the errands, and how to keep your identity when your body won't cooperate. Because you're still the cook, you just have sous chefs now.

He could talk politics for hours, chat about news all day - family called him the yapper. Then chemo started stealing his words mid-sentence. The terror of forgetting what comes next, wondering if the cancer spread to his brain, and a 6am call asking "is this normal?" His doctor mentioned "a little brain fog here and there," but didn't explain the panic of losing the thing that makes you YOU. This is about helping your brain when chemo clouds it, why puzzles matter even when you can't finish them, and how mind-body communication works both ways.

They tell you about breast surgery recovery, but nobody mentions trying to shower alone with tubes coming out of your body, or the slicing pain when you accidentally lift your arm to adjust the shower head. Living alone with surgical drains means forced independence when you can barely move without feeling like someone's putting their finger in an open wound. This is about the specific pain they call "mild discomfort" and why you're not being weak when you cry in the bathroom at 3am.

She takes oral chemo every day for stomach cancer and has exactly 45 minutes after eating before the emergency hits. She's drifting into isolation because it's easier than explaining why she can't go to restaurants anymore. This is about the brutal math of planning your social life around bathroom proximity, why she's exhausted from pretending everything's fine, and how to tell friends about your new boundaries without disappearing from your own life. Because choosing isolation doesn't have to be the only option.

Welcome to the space where we talk about what really happens between the medical visits. In this first episode, I explain why I'm here at 2am answering texts about chemo brain, why your doctor's "call with questions" doesn't cover what you actually need to know, and why someone needs to say out loud that yes, you really do smell like chemicals and it's not your imagination. This is for patients, caregivers, and anyone living in that strange territory between Tuesday's treatment and Friday's bloodwork. Come as you are - brain fog, tears, and whatever else - because it's you and me, between appointments.