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I'm sure my maiden name—Kurka—predisposed me to cowardice. In Polish, "kurka" means little chicken and the only more appropriate name would be whatever word means big chicken, which is what I have always been when it comes to needles, the sight of blood or pain, especially my own.

The bone marrow biopsy, therefore, terrified me. A needle, 3/16th of an inch in diameter (geez, almost a whole quarter of an inch!), would jackhammer through my hip bone so that marrow could be sucked out. How was that not to be excruciating? And what self-respecting chicken would voluntarily lie on her stomach, mooning everyone in the room, while it happened? Mercifully, the nice folks offered me knock-out drugs and I gladly accepted.

Aside from the bone marrow biopsy, which really wasn't bad, I worked maniacally in the two weeks before chemo began, afraid of how long it might be before I could work again. And after studying the potential side effects, I tried to psych myself up for horrors that I was sure lay ahead. Chemo, I learned, could imperil my veins, my heart, my liver, my lungs, and just about every other organ in my body. Collateral damage could include mouth sores, hair loss, fatigue, insomnia, weight gain, weight loss, gastric ulcers, diabetes, cataracts, glaucoma, high blood pressure, blood clots, constipation, diarrhea, seizures, rapid mood changes from euphoria to depression and, occasionally, psychosis.

See the problem? Even chemo couldn't decide whether to give me insomnia or fatigue, weight gain or weight loss, euphoria or depression. And in exchange for one affliction, I could wind up with several. Who wouldn't be psychotic?

It never occurred to me that chemo might not work, but that possibility did occur to Alex, though he never told me at the time. Like me, he was wrestling with fears of his own, yet when I asked how he was doing, he always answered he was fine. The sadness in his eyes said otherwise, and I felt so responsible for his private agony. I yearned for ways to comfort him, to convince him that everything was going to be OK, but nothing I said or did seemed to comfort him at all. Not even my feeble attempts at humor provided temporary relief. His eyes spoke what neither of us could say, which was that everything we'd ever counted on was slipping away. My health. And our future.

But I wasn't going down without fighting for our future. I'd been telling myself I would tolerate any unpleasant side effects if it meant getting rid of the cancer, but that's much easier to say than to believe, especially when unpleasant side effects are just hours away and you're reminded of them by an ever-practical sister who calls the night before and reminds you to take a plastic bag in the car in case you need it on the way home. Whoa, I hadn't thought of that. Suddenly, all I could see was tossing my cookies in the car on the way home. In front of Alex. In front of passengers in surrounding cars—a client, maybe. How utterly humiliating.

That night, I went to bed trying to think positive thoughts, but fear and sadness superseded every one. I ached for Alex. He hadn't asked for this. And didn't deserve it. A year later, he would tell me that he was fully aware that chemo didn't come with a guarantee. That he hoped that side effects and complications would be minimal but worried that he would not know how to motivate me to keep fighting if they took a great toll. Those what-ifs he'd vowed not to indulge were beginning to penetrate his resolve.

Coming Tuesday: Dope on a rope.

Betsy de Parry is the author of The Roller Coaster Chronicles and host of a series of webcasts about cancer. Find her on Facebook or Twitter or e-mail her.