Chemo, Cannabis, and Fasting: Fighting Cancer on My Terms

Four infusions in, no steroids, cannabis for support, and fasting for autophagy. This is how I’m managing chemo without losing myself.

Today was infusion number four. Another round, another fight. People talk about “side effects” like they’re optional checkboxes. For me it’s simple: Tuesday I sit in the chair, the pump clicks on, and by Thursday when it comes off I feel like death. The weekend is usually a crawl. Monday I start to climb back out. That’s the rhythm.

But here’s the difference, I’m managing it on my terms.

No Steroids, No Roller Coaster

After my first two infusions, the steroids had to go. They spiked my blood sugar through the roof, sent me into manic episodes, and left my system thrashing. My oncologist had them in the routine by default. I demanded they come out. Steroids might ease nausea for some, but for me they added chaos to an already unstable landscape.

That’s the lesson: not every “standard protocol” is your protocol. Control what you can. Eliminate what makes you weaker. Don’t take unnecessary drugs. Manage the cause not the symptom.

Cannabis: Medicine Without Apology

Cannabis has been the one constant. It softens the edges. Nausea, pain, appetite, anxiety, sleep. It doesn’t just numb; it stabilizes. It gives me back small pieces of normal when chemo strips them away. No debate, no hesitation. This is medicine.

The Press-Pulse Protocol

This isn’t just endurance. It’s strategy. The press-pulse protocol is simple in theory: starve cancer, then strike it. Cancer cells thrive on glucose and glutamine. They’re metabolically inflexible, built to gorge on sugar. By pulling that food source away, I press them, stress them, weaken them. Then the chemo comes in like a hammer, the pulse.

It’s not magic, it’s science. Lower the energy supply, increase the impact of the poison.

Fasting and Autophagy

That’s why I walked into today’s infusion fasted. Thirty-two hours without food. Deep in ketosis. Autophagy switched on. My cells busy recycling junk, burning debris, cleaning house. Healthy cells grow resilient in this state. Cancer cells don’t. They’re left hungry, vulnerable, exposed.

I’ll hold the fast close to 72 more hours. That’s the sweet spot. Long enough to reap the full wave of autophagy, short enough to protect muscle. Past that, you risk breaking down lean tissue.

People ask, “Don’t you feel awful fasting during chemo?” The truth is I feel awful regardless. The poison strips you down. But fasting reframes it. Instead of just being sick, I know my body is in its strongest defensive posture while the chemo runs through my veins. It gives meaning to the misery.

Do I Feel Like Shit?

Yes. For days. No miracle cure here. But what I don’t have are the crushing “side effects” people warned me about. Four infusions in, no mouth sores, no infections, no hospitalizations. Just the rhythm: hit on Tuesday, climb out by Monday.

That’s not luck. That’s the result of stacking the deck, fasting, cannabis, no steroids, press-pulse. Small choices that keep me human in a process designed to grind me down.

More Than Survival

This isn’t just about getting through chemo. It’s about reclaiming agency in a system that often reduces patients to statistics. It’s about saying no when a drug hurts more than it helps. It’s about turning food, fasting, and plant medicine into weapons in the same fight.

Cancer is chaos. Chemo is fire. But strategy, discipline, creates a kind of order in the madness.

Today was round four. The war goes on. But I’m still standing, still shaping the fight on my terms.

I wish I could spit like Jarv. Random thought I know. Thanks ya’ll I appreciate you got this far.