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Crescent Walking Away From Cancer Girl…
How long will it be before I stop introducing myself as
“Hi, I’m Pattie, recent cancer patient currently in remission”?

Like it’s my job title.

Like the rest of my personality is temporarily out to lunch.

Or, to put it another way…
How long do I play the cancer card to justify:
- the 50-pound souvenir
- the puffy eyes
- and my gold-medal commitment to sitting on my ass
Asking for a friend. (It’s me.)

In a bold and possibly delusional move toward “rejoining society,” I joined a tai chi class.

And because apparently I cannot help myself, during introductions I blabbed the whole cancer saga.

“Hi, I’m Pattie. I’m a few months out from chemo, in remission.”

WHY.

The sweet southern ladies nodded with sympathy and concern, and I immediately thought: Why is that still my headline?

It’s been ten weeks since my last poisoning, yet I’m still oeprating in Cancer First Mode.

This is not a place I want to linger.

And yet…

So I paid good money for a Tai Chi For Everyone class— IN ADVANCE — because nothing motivates like prepaid shame.

Let’s discuss the bold stupidity of this decision:

What kind of woman lounges on the sofa for eight months and then says, “You know what sounds fun? Coordinated public movement,”

This woman.

Somewhere in my head I must have believed that if I could defeat cancer —TWICE — I could absolutely dominate a slow, gentle, old -people tai chi class.

WRONGWRONGWRONGWRONG.

We started with breathing.

Which I felt strong about, since I’ve been practicing that for 69 years.

Then came something called a “kidney wake-up,” involving sweeping my hands around to my back, down to my feet, and back up again… while continuing to breathe.

Apparently bending cancels breathing.

Who knew.

Then came the “simple” bend-over-hands-flat-on-the-floor-and-hold.

Now. I am 4’10”. The floor is not geographically far away.

But between being short armed, round in the middle and freshly deconditioned, there was no way my hands were going flat.

And HOLD?

Ma’am, please.

This was still the warm-up.

Next came tai chi walking.

Left foot.
Right foot.
Crescent moon.
Heel touch.
Toe touch.

I have already forgotten the sequence.

My thighs have not.

And then…

Cloud hands.

Let me tell you something about cloud hands.

The only cloud I experienced was the one my brain floated off on while everyone else moved in slow, graceful harmony.

By the end, the class looked like synchronized swans.

And I looked like I was trying to land a small aircraft.

Today I am supposed to be practicing cloud hands.

Instead, I will be watching instructional videos.

Possibly fifty.

Possibly from the sofa.

But here’s the part that maters.

I did not join tai chi to become graceful.

I joined because I do not want to be “cancer girl” anymore.

Okay.

“Cancer older woman.”

I don’t want that to be my first descriptor in a room.
Or in my head. Or in my body.

If awkward crescent-moon-walking is what it takes to shift identities, then so be it.

My palms may not be flat on the floor.

But I showed up.

And right now, that counts.

I go back tomorrow.

Wish me lots of luck.

And maybe a laminated cheat sheet.

☁️ 🌈🧘‍♀️☁️
The No-Judgment Gym (Where I Judge Myself First)

Now that I’m no longer physically aching every minute of every day, I made a decision.
A grown-up decision.
A health-oriented, responsible decision.

I decided to go to the gym to rebuild my stamina.

Let me be very clear about something:
I hate the gym.

I am a 4’10”, short, round, senior woman. I do not look like the gym loves me. I do not look like I love the gym. The gym and I have never been in a committed relationship. At best, we are polite acquaintances who actively avoid eye contact.

But decide I did.

So I went to the “NO JUDGMENT” gym.

Have you ever been there? Because I can assure you—people are judging.

Okay. Fine.
It was me.
I am people.

That said, there were quite a few seniors at the No Judgment Gym, which helped. There were also quite a few young people. While I was not judging (I was absolutely observing), I noticed something important:

The young people were in far better physical shape than the seniors.

BUT—and this is key—the seniors were having way more fun.

They stopped and talked to each other. About working out. About hating it. About the weather. Possibly about grandchildren, medications, and who had knee surgery last year. I’m sure they discussed other topics, but that’s what I caught.

I also noticed people with very obvious physical challenges still working out. Again, mostly seniors. And I found myself oddly inspired watching their determination. They weren’t trying to be impressive. They were just… showing up.

The first time I went, I walked on the treadmill for 15 minutes and went home like I’d run a marathon and deserved a parade.

Now?
I’m up to 15 minutes on the recumbent elliptical and 15 minutes on the recumbent bike. That’s a full 30 minutes, which also provides ample time for people-watching and internal commentary.

I plan to do more equipment and maybe even free weights. Eventually.
But the poison of chemo still lives rent-free in my muscles and back, so we’re negotiating.

Here’s the truth:
I am slow.
I sweat a LOT.
I have zero speed on any machine.
No one has spoken to me yet.

I know. Shocking.

To be fair, I don’t always give off a “Hi! Please chat with me while I gasp for oxygen!” vibe.

Still—it’s helping. I feel more confident. More relaxed. I might even lose some weight. Or at least earn the right to eat snacks without guilt.

So despite my many misgivings, my official judgment is this:

JUST. DO. IT. (Ooops, don’t tell Nike I said that!)

Slowly. Sweaty. Judging quietly.
But do it anyway.
Congratulations, You’re Cancer-Free. Now Go Figure It Out.

When you’re in active cancer treatment, you have a whole damn professional posse.

A cancer treatment team.
Oncologist. Nurses. Techs.
Dieticians. Counselors. Social workers.
People who actually answer the phone at 2 a.m.

Feel a little warm? Call.
Feel weird? Call.
Feel like your toe might fall off or your brain might be melting? Call.

They’ve got you. Constantly. Comfortingly. Competently.

And then one day you ring the bell, get your all-clear PET scan, and—SURPRISE!—they send you home with a smile, a pat on the head, and instructions to “come back in three months.”

Three.
Whole.
Months.

No one says, “Hey, by the way, we’re still here.”
No one says, “Call us if your brain loses its damn mind.”
The oncologist doesn’t say, “Questions? Anxiety? Existential dread?”
The dietician does not check in.
The team doesn’t disappear… but they sure stop waving you back in.

Meanwhile, your friends and family are THRILLED.
You’re cured! You won! You should be HAPPY!
Grateful!
Sparkly!
Full of bubbles and light and inspirational Instagram captions!

Except… you’re not.

Because you just spent six months—or years—fighting a war in hell.
You survived.
But your brain and emotions are still in the foxhole.

So you cry.
You worry.
You spiral.
You do not feel happy happy joy joy. Instead, you feel guilty.

The first time I landed in this weird no-WOman’s-land, I developed a crippling fear of going outside. Anywhere. Ever. I couldn’t walk out my apartment door without a full-blown anxiety attack.

I lived like that until my first three-month checkup. I finally told my oncologist.

He said, “Don’t worry. It’ll go away.”
(Oncologists are very chill about things that are not life or death – to them.)

But the nurse?
She leaned in and said, “You still have access to the team. Let me set you up with a counselor who will COME TO YOU.” (No virtual reality in 2003.)

And she did.
For a month, we worked through it.
The fear faded—just like the doctor said it would.

But here’s the thing: how long would it have taken without the team?
How much unnecessary suffering happens because no one tells you that you’re allowed to keep asking for help?

This time around, I’m doing better—because I knew this part was coming.
Some days I’m genuinely happy.
Some days I’m absolutely not.

And that is VERY confusing for the people who love me.

Let’s get one thing straight:
I am a KICK-ASS WARRIOR.
And if you’re standing where I’m standing right now—so are YOU.

But even warriors get tired.
And scared.
And emotionally wrecked.

So don’t beat yourself up.

Celebrate when you can.
Cry when you need to.
Sleep.
Be sad.
Do nothing at all if that’s all you’ve got.

This part will pass.

And when it does—
you will still be a
KICK. ASS. WARRIOR. 💥

Sun on the water,
sparkling like diamonds—
I wish I could make them
the thoughts in my head.

I don’t remember
when my mind was unburdened,
when nothing pressed in
or demanded to stay.

Once there was only
the shine of what’s coming,
sparkling water ahead—
a future of light.

So I sit with the water,
borrow its quiet persistence,
letting each small sparkle
remind me how to look forward again.
Third Time’s the Charm (Or: I’m Too Tired to Be a Hero)

Do you ever think about what you’d do differently with your life if you were given a second chance?
Or a third?

Because let me tell you, cancer recovery gives you plenty of time to design your imaginary TED Talk about How You Became a Better Human.

The first time around, I had plans. Big ones.
I was going to help everyone.
I would join cancer support groups.
I would mentor.
I would inspire.
I would claw my way back up the career ladder like a woman possessed.
I would be wonderful. I would be awesome. I would be in great shape and radiate purpose and gratitude and probably some kind of soft glow.

I was going to be worthy of my second chance.

And honestly? I did some of that.
But then I went back to work.
And had bills.
And needed groceries.
And liked sleeping.
And eventually realized that being alive and paying your mortgage takes up a shocking amount of time.

So I settled into regular life.
Not heroic life.
Just… life.
And I was happy enough to be breathing and functional without needing to save the world before lunch.

Fast forward 22 years.

Here we are again.
Another chance.
My third chance.

Only now I’m 69, not 47, and I can say with confidence that I no longer wish to conquer anything—especially the business world. I do not want to climb ladders. I do not want to mentor (no offense). And I definitely do not want to be wonderful and awesome in any way that requires pants with buttons or sustained enthusiasm.

This time around, my definition of wonderful has… evolved.

I want to be wonderful in the low-energy, high-peace way.
The sit-down-frequently way.
The spreads calm instead of ambition way.

I want to visit family and friends.
I want to swim with manatees and dolphins (both of whom seem to have life figured out).
I want to walk through nature and marvel—marvel—at how beautiful and quiet it can be.
I want to sit on my dock, watch the geese do whatever judgmental thing geese do, listen to birds, and feel at peace.

No glow.
No mission statement.
No inspirational hashtag.

Just… peace.

And I honestly don’t know if this shift is because I’m older, or wiser, or finally learned that rest is not a moral failure.

Or maybe I’m just tired.

But if this is what my third chance looks like, I think I’ll take it.

Normal

Am I normal now
or just less afraid?
Was I ever normal,
or merely well-behaved?

Is normal a place
or a story we tell,
a line we pretend
we haven’t crossed yet—or fell?

Does normal expire
the moment it’s named?
If I touch it once,
will it ever be the same?

What is normal, really—
a cure or a lie?
Something you keep,
or something that keeps slipping by?

Normal (After Cancer Packs Up and Leaves… For Now)

I haven’t thought about cancer much in the last three days.
And apparently that makes me feel guilty.

Is that normal?

Hell if I know.

Was I normal while I was going through chemotherapy — when cancer occupied every waking thought, every appointment, every nap, every Google search at 2 a.m.?
And now that I haven’t thought about it much for a few days, am I suddenly not normal?

Or… am I now normal because I’m not actively right now being poisoned by modern medicine in an effort to save my life?

See how I slipped in right now?

That little phrase is doing a lot of emotional heavy lifting.

Because right now quietly implies this could change.
Which means not thinking about cancer might be suspicious.
But thinking it might come back is also exhausting.
So which one is normal — not thinking about it, or thinking about it lurking around the corner like an uninvited guest who knows where you live?

Honestly, cancer messes with your internal compass.
When it’s gone, you don’t get a clean handoff to “regular life.”
There’s no exit ramp labeled WELCOME BACK TO NORMAL.
It’s more like you wander around asking, “Am I allowed to enjoy this?” and “Should I be more afraid right now?”

And here’s the thing: I’ve never been normal normal anyway.

As the saying goes, “Normal” is just a setting on the washing machine.
(Which isn’t even a thing anymore, but I remember when it was. Right next to Permanent Press and Whatever This Fabric Is.)

So maybe this is normal now — forgetting for a few days.
Laughing.
Living.
Feeling weird about not feeling terrified.

Maybe normal after cancer isn’t peace or fear — it’s the awkward, clumsy space in between, where you’re alive, suspicious of calm, and learning how to exist without an enemy to fight every minute of the day.

If that’s normal… I guess I’ll take it.
The Bell, the Mood, and the Great Treat Injustice

By Sassy (obviously)

Something weird is happening at my house.

The air is lighter. People are laughing more. Mama hums while she walks around instead of sighing like a broken accordion. Daddy smiles like he knows a secret. And—this is important—we are no longer sitting around staring at each other like sad houseplants.

Instead… Mama keeps ringing a doggone bell.

I don’t know what the bell officially means, but every time it rings, everyone gets all emotional and happy. Mama says it’s a celebration bell. I say it’s loud, unnecessary, and should probably dispense treats. (It does not. Rude.)

Now here’s where things take a turn.

Mama looked at me the other day, put her hands on her hips, and said,

“Sassy… you’re getting a little chunky.”

EXCUSE ME.

First of all, I prefer the term “well-loved.”
Second of all, she immediately followed that up with,

“We’re cutting back on treats.”

We.

Reader, allow me to be very clear: she did not cut back on her treats.

I have personally witnessed her enjoying snacks while announcing my new dietary journey. She eats. I watch. This feels legally questionable.

So now I get fewer treats, more walks (which I do enjoy, thank you very much), and a front-row seat to Mama celebrating life with bells and snacks and joy and zero accountability.

But… here’s the thing.

Even with the injustice.
Even with the treat betrayal.
Even with my kibble-only future.

The house feels good again.

Mama laughs. Daddy relaxes. The bell rings. We move, we go places, we live instead of waiting. And honestly? I’d trade a few treats for that any day.

(But not all the treats. Let’s not get crazy.)

Love,
Sassy 🐕
Still fabulous. Slightly less fed. Very hopeful.
Ringing the Bell Is a BIG DAMN DEAL

Let me start by saying this: ringing the bell is a BIG DAMN DEAL in the cancer world.

I did not believe this.
At all.

Twenty-one years ago, I didn’t get to ring a bell. I was in the hospital, chemo just… stopped happening one day, and there was no grand finale. No ding-ding, no applause, no “Congratulations, you survived.” Just Okay, good luck out there. So when I heard about bell-ringing later, I filed it neatly under Cheesy Sentimental Woo Woo Designed to Make People Feel Better.

And listen, I’m not anti–woo woo. I just don’t like tempting the cancer goddesses. Those bitches have excellent hearing and questionable senses of humor.

So when I finished chemo this time and they offered me the bell, I said no. Not because I didn’t want joy—but because I wasn’t about to celebrate prematurely. I wanted to sneak quietly into remission, make no sudden movements, and wait until cancer was fully distracted by someone else.

But then… this week happened.

I was offered the bell again.
And I rang the HELL out of it.

I mean rang it. With enthusiasm. With purpose. With the kind of vigor usually reserved for emergency fire alarms and last-call announcements. And OH. MY. GOSH. The relief.

Turns out that dumb, symbolic, woo-woo bell is magic.
Plop plop, fizz fizz—who knew emotional antacids were audible?

The moment it rang, something shifted. Like my brain finally accepted the memo that this might actually be over. Not “over for now,” not “let’s not jinx it,” but really really over. The kind of over where you’re allowed to dream again. Where you can scheme, plan, and casually assume you’ll still be alive for future events.

I swear I dropped ten pounds of worry in that moment. And I’m pretty sure Luke did too, just standing there watching me ring like a lunatic.

So here we are.
Done with chemo.
Done holding our breath.
About to get busy living and planning for the future again.

Turns out, ringing the bell isn’t cheesy at all.

It’s a BIG DAMN DEAL.
Do Not Ever Contact Me AGAIN!

Friday morning, my phone rang.

Caller ID said it was my oncologist’s office.

Now — I already had an appointment scheduled for Monday, so my first thought was, maybe they’re calling to reschedule because of the weather.
My second thought was, or maybe they’re calling to ruin my entire day, week, and remaining sanity.

So I did what any seasoned cancer veteran does:
I stared at the ringing phone like it was a live grenade.

I watched it ring.
And ring.
And ring.

Because once you’ve had cancer, you learn this important life skill: never answer a medical call unless you’re emotionally prepared to spiral.

Finally, I picked it up.

I released the breath I’d apparently been holding since 2024 and squeaked out,
“Th-this is Pattie.”

On the other end came a voice I now refer to as Ms. Spill-the-Tea from the C-A-N-C-E-R doctor’s office.

Yes. She spelled it in my head. Slowly. With dramatic pauses.

I swear I almost stopped breathing, which would have been bad because I really needed to hear the rest.

Because the tea was this:

My PET scan was completely clear.

Completely.
Clear.

That’s right.

Cancer?
Gone.

Bye bye, cancer.
Do not pass Go.
Do not collect $200.
Do not ever contact me again.

I immediately called Luke and told him, and for a few glorious minutes we were both flying high — the kind of high that comes from hearing the words you’ve been begging the universe for six long months to say out loud.

But when I hung up the phone…

Reality showed up.

Not the happy kind.

The sneaky kind.

Because here’s the part nobody warns you about: when you finally hear the good news, your brain doesn’t throw confetti.

It squints at it.

Suspiciously.

I didn’t think, I’m free!
I thought, …are we sure though?

That’s the curse cancer leaves behind.
It doesn’t just attack your body — it rents space in your mind and refuses to move out.

Last time, it took me 20 years to stop worrying.

And then it came back in year twenty-one.

So yes — joy came first.
And then fear crept in wearing sensible shoes and carrying a clipboard.

So now what?

Now this:

No fear. I will not allow fear to drive me!
No regrets. I will do anything and everything I can to enjoy my life!

I’m starting fresh — again — but this time with more wisdom, more gratitude, and absolutely zero patience for bullshit.

I have a whole lot more life to live.

And ohhhh…
the adventures coming our way.

Cancer may have tried to write my ending —
but I’m still holding the pen. ✨💪
33 Days Post Poisoning

It has been 33 days since my last official poisoning by chemotherapy.
Yes, poisoning. Let’s not sugarcoat it — this was not a spa treatment.

And yet… the effects are still hanging around like an unwanted houseguest who “just needs one more night” and has now been here a month.

Exhaustion, I have learned, is not just being tired.

No no.

Exhaustion is a personality.

Some days I wake up feeling like a fully functioning human. I do all the things.
Laundry? Done.
Errands? Conquered.
Cooking? Look at me being domestic.

This energetic miracle can last for several days and I start thinking wildly optimistic thoughts like:

“Well hell, maybe I’m fine now.”

That is when the reckoning arrives.

For the next day or two, I am emotionally and physically paralyzed — like every energetic molecule has been vacuumed straight out of my body. The only known treatment is full vegetation on the couch.

Not resting.
Not relaxing.

Vegetating.

My brain refuses to form orderly thoughts, so I watch television shows I’ve already seen. Not because they’re good — but because they require absolutely no participation. I cannot handle plot twists. I cannot meet new characters. I cannot commit.

I need television that says,
“Don’t worry. You already know how this ends.”

Looking back, this happened the last time too. I just assumed it was because I had an open wound trying to kill me from the inside. Reasonable conclusion.

This time, though, there’s no open wound.
There is, however, the minor detail that I am 21 years older.

So naturally I thought,
“Oh. This must just be because I’m 69.”

But no.

Turns out it’s not age.
It’s chemo — still swinging long after the bell rang.

If history repeats itself (and cancer does love consistency), this phase will pass too.

Which brings me to my current burning question:

What the hell comes after this?

Do I get energy?
Brain cells?
Motivation?
A complimentary tote bag?

No idea.

But for now, I will remain on the couch, staring blankly at familiar TV characters who ask absolutely nothing of me — and waiting for my body to remember how to be human again.

One day at a time.
Preferably with snacks.