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Rise And Shine Cleaning Reviews from Real Customers
Chemo, Dust Bunnies, and the Kindness of Strangers
Okay. Deep breath.
I never thought I’d be this person. The kind who needs help wiping down their own damn countertops. But here’s the thing about chemo—it doesn’t care about your pride. Or your to-do list. Or the fact that you used to be the kind of person who deep-cleaned the bathroom for fun. (Seriously. I was that annoying.)
Now? Just walking from the couch to the kitchen feels like running a marathon. And Portland’s endless gray drizzle doesn’t help. (Like, cool, universe—let’s add seasonal depression to the mix. Perfect.)
The first time I dropped a spoon and just… left it there? That’s when I knew. My apartment—my sanctuary—was turning into a place where dust settled in like it paid rent. And with my immune system basically nonexistent? Yeah. Not ideal.
My sister (bless her) came over every weekend with groceries and that look—the one that says, “I love you, but holy hell, this place is a biohazard.” She’d start wiping things down, and I’d just sit there, useless, guilt gnawing at me like a stray cat.
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut up,” she’d say, already elbow-deep in my fridge. “You’d do it for me.”
(She’s right. I would. But still. Ugh.)
Then one night, post-treatment, I was lying on the couch watching the neon sign of The Roxy flicker through my window (I live in Old Town—noise, grit, and all), and I realized: I couldn’t remember the last time I’d enjoyed being here. Not just endured it. Between the nausea and the exhaustion, my apartment had become a holding cell.
So I did what any desperate, fatigued human would do—I googled “house cleaning cost calculator” while eating saltines (the only thing that didn’t make me puke). The numbers made me wince at first—I mean, disability checks only stretch so far—but then I thought about how much I was already spending on takeout because cooking felt impossible. And how much time I wasted stressing about the mess instead of, you know, healing.
So I bit the bullet. Hired a cleaning service.
The first time they came, I cried.
Not because they did anything wrong—god no—but because I walked into my bathroom and it sparkled. The grout was white again. The sink didn’t have that weird toothpaste splatter I’d been ignoring for weeks. And the smell—clean linen, not antiseptic. Like a real home.
I didn’t have to scrub. Or bend. Or pretend I wasn’t one rogue dust bunny away from a breakdown.
And the relief—Jesus. It wasn’t just about the mess. It was about control. Or, well, letting go of it. Admitting I couldn’t do it all. That I shouldn’t have to.
Now, do I still feel weird about strangers touching my stuff? A little. (I may have hidden my vibrator in the sock drawer. Priorities.) But when I wake up to a kitchen where the counters aren’t sticky, or when I can actually sit in my living room without staring at a layer of cat hair on the floor (thanks, Mr. Whiskers), it’s… peace. A tiny, precious peace.
Cancer takes so much. But this? This was a gift.
And hey—now when my sister visits, we actually talk instead of her playing Cinderella in my disaster zone.
Worth every damn penny.
— Mara Voss, Portland, OR