Chemo has a weird way of making you dread it as much as you look forward to getting it over already. Today, I shared my first day of it with my adoring hubby and mom, a faraway brother who was here in spirit (and on a mug he made with a sweet photo of us together), and a dear friend who's wrapping up her treatment right as I hop on the chemo train. I kept myself warm with a chemo prayer shawl hand-knitted by another friend's Uncle Bernie (that was blessed by his parish priest).

With all the well wishes Team Liz and Team Suzy were channeling toward Group Health Capitol Hill, our infusion room felt WAY more full of love and positive energy than anything that could make me nervous about all the toxins that are now coursing through my veins, having one rager of a party — just trashing the place like a bunch of microscopic frat boys. As my nurse gave me my "red devil" adriamycin and its chemo party co-host cytoxan, I figured I'd take a moment, close my eyes and visualize those drugs as teeny tiny ninjas doing battle throughout my body, wielding their chancer-fighting numchucks fiercely and indiscriminately. But with Suzy and her husband right there with me, Sean and my mom, sharing the same infusion room, we just kept swapping stories and laughing and ... what?! ... I'm all done for the day?! Already?!! Feels like I just got here! So we packed up, I put on the cute-as-a-button hat Suzy gave me (along with some ginger candy), posed for few photos with her (see below), then wished her the best for the end of her last treatment. As I walked away, I could definitely feel something different was going on — hard to put my finger on it. It's sort of like the first blush of a heavy-duty painkiller starting to take effect, or a "buzz" (not like a drunk buzz, like there are a million little jackhammers ever-so-faintly messing with my insides head to toe, or like, "OK ... buckle up, cuz shit's about to slow down.") Hours later, after lunch at a yummy biscuit sandwich joint, tea with my mom (while Sean went to the pharmacy for all my meds — antibiotics, a steroid to prevent an allergic reaction to chemo, anti-nausea meds and an immune system-boosting drug), I was feeling dandy but took it easy in the afternoon, let Mom get dinner on the table as Sean picked up the kids at summer camp — by way of the vet, where he had to grab another batch of antibiotics for our pug Pepper, who's fighting off a relapse of a urinary tract infection, poor girl. I'm over whining, "Again?! Why now?!" about the ill-timed distraction of having a dog with an ailment that makes Sylvia's room stink up the whole place. Learning how to operate a steam-cleaning vacuum wasn't in my game plan for this week, but getting that taken care of made me realize I'm getting some of strength and movement back. Aside from the gentle swim I had last week (owning the slow-poke pace of the slow lane), it was the most exercise I've had in a long time. I've felt no nausea so far and just a hint of fatigue, which I have a hard time distinguishing from my usual can't-keep-up-with-life-and-kids feeling. By dinnertime, Sylvia and Sean noticed I looked a little pale — not unlike after I got a touch of postpartum anemia after Sylvia's birth. If I'm feeling paler and have any other anemia symptoms tomorrow (like dizziness, which I don't quite feel but don't quite not feel either, if that makes sense), I'll check in with my doc and figure out a plan of attack. Here's what I've been told to expect: I'll feel OK on chemo day, not so much the next day, probably worse for a couple/few days after that, then a little better day by day. I hope to ease back into work again early next week. Then by next Thursday, I might feeling "back to normal," able to exercise, etc. My second treatment is in two weeks on September 10. Looking forward to having one of my favorite editors of all time, and a dear friend, Kathy McCarthy, take me to my appointment. Helps to have friends in high places like retirement after an amazing 41-year career in journalism. Then comes September 24, October 7 — at which point I'll switch to eight weekly treatments of taxol. (Less dose-dense, more time-intensive, more effective, so the studies say.) My brother, Frank, who has spent the last 74 days texting me something he loves about his baby sister — a fond memory, some quality about me, some funny or smart or uplifting thing I said or did — sent me a two-part go-get-em text yesterday: "Tomorrow's going to be a horrible day ... " (wait for it ...) "For cancer!" Damn straight it was. I'm glad this second phase of my battle has begun. I'm no fool — I'll weather my share of crappy days in the months ahead. And I'll do it knowing that my doctors and nurses and friends and family are all taking excellent care of me.