There are moments in life when the ground feels like it shifts beneath your feet, when even the strongest people suddenly feel small. Starting Ipi-Nivo is one of those moments for me. People talk about it in clinical words — immunotherapy, combinations, cycles, immune activation — but behind all of that is a heartbeat that feels uncertain, scared, hopeful, and desperate all at once.
This treatment is powerful. Everyone says that. “One of the best options.” “Very effective.” And I hold onto those words like a lifeline. But the truth is, I’m anxious. I’m anxious because I know what it means when your immune system is unleashed — not just to fight the melanoma, but to possibly turn inward and attack the rest of me too. It’s strange to brace yourself for a treatment that might save your life and knock you sideways at the same time.
The infusions themselves
Every three weeks I’ll sit in that chair, watching the drugs drip into me — ipilimumab and nivolumab, two names that somehow carry the weight of my future. Two or three hours of hoping, silently, that these medicines find the right targets. People say the infusion isn’t too bad, that you mostly feel tired afterwards. But it’s what comes next that haunts the mind.
The side-effects you can’t ignore
Fatigue.
It sounds so simple, but when you’ve lived with cancer this long, tiredness isn’t just tiredness — it’s fear wrapped in exhaustion. Will I be able to do the things I love? Will I still be able to walk, to climb, to keep raising awareness like I always have?
- Rashes, itchy skin, redness — annoyances, yes, but reminders that the immune system is waking up, for better or worse.
- Bowel changes. Diarrhoea. Cramps.
The kind of symptoms that make you feel vulnerable, that remind you how fragile the human body can be. And behind them is the lurking threat of colitis, something that needs action the moment it appears. Cancer teaches you many things, but the biggest is that waiting never helps.
The uncommon but frightening possibilities
There’s a list that sits quietly in the back of my mind:
I don’t want to dwell on them, but you can’t pretend they don’t exist.
You try to read your body like a detective, wondering if that headache is just a headache or something deeper. If that short breath is because you climbed the stairs too fast or because something’s happening inside your lungs.
It’s a strange kind of hyper-awareness — necessary, but exhausting.
The long-term unknowns
Some side-effects might stay with me. Some might pass. Some might never come. And that uncertainty is its own emotional weight. But you learn to carry these weights, don’t you? You learn because you have to.
Still… there is hope
For all the fears, for all the unknowns, I carry something else: hope. I’ve beaten impossible odds before. I’ve stood on mountains — literally and figuratively. I’ve walked through storms and kept going. I have people I love, people I want to stay for, people I want to keep inspiring.
And deep down, beneath the anxiety, there is a quiet belief that this treatment might just be the next chapter in my survival story. That Ipi-Nivo, with all its risks and challenges, could help keep me NED, help me continue the climb, help me keep shouting about melanoma awareness so someone else might be saved.
What I try to remember
The doctors don’t want heroes — not when it comes to side-effects. They want honesty. They want a phone call for every change, every symptom, every “something’s not right.” And maybe that’s reassuring in its own way. I’m not doing this alone. I never have been.
So yes, I’m anxious. I’m scared. But I’m also ready — ready to trust the science, ready to lean on the people who care about me, and ready to keep fighting for the life I’ve built and the love that gives it meaning.
This is my journey into Ipi-Nivo.
Not perfect. Not fearless.
But human — and hopeful.
