Second Battle, Same Me

Author: pattiegrogg

  • Run

    The smells and sounds take you back to when you were someone else. Someone scared who fought this once already. And so you ask yourself: who will I be this time? Older and wiser? Or older and scarier—and more fucking scared? Can I use what I know to get me through, or will what I know break me down?

    When you get to the chemo room the smells assault you, it’s instant. The sharp sting of antiseptic, the metallic tang of IV poles, the faint sweetness of plastic tubing—it all slams into you. And your body screams: Run. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to do any part of this. You want to run like you’ve never run before, away from everything you know is coming.

    And then you sit in the hateful chair. You look around and see the others—some right where you are, some who’ve been where you are, some heading where you’ve already been. Their faces are tired, their blankets pulled close, their eyes telling truths you don’t want to hear. And it still scares the shit out of you. Run, your mind says. Run like you’ve never run before.

    And then the Beep,Beep, Beep, of the grim metronome. You can’t help but think: if it stops, do I stop? The thought coils around your spine. But then you remember—you’ve been here before. You’ve met the beeping before. You’ve beaten the beeping before.

    And still—still—
    you want to run.
    Run like you’ve never run before.

    But you don’t.
    You stay.
    Because running isn’t who you are.

    You’re here.
    You’re scared as hell.
    But you’re still in the fucking chair.

    And that? That’s the fight. Stay!

  • Partners

    Photo by Cem Gizep on Pexels.com

    I wrote this for my husband, who carries a copy in his pocket. I love this man!

    I'm grateful for his love and support,
    But love isn't proven by easy words.
    It's tested in the mess - 
    When I throw up, will he help me clean?
    When I awake, soaked in sweat, 
    will he stay close or walk away?
    Will he carry some of the chaos
    so I don't bear it all? 

    I don't want pity.
    I want a partner.
    Someone who can hold my truth
    without breaking in half.
    Someone who can face my fear
    without turning away.

    I've battled alone before.
    I can fight again.
    But partnership means sharing the weight -
    not protecting each other with silence. 
    If I reveal the storm inside me,
    will he still stand tall beside me?
    Can he fight this fight with me,
    not just watch from the edges?

    Some days I will not rise from bed.
    Other days, I'll insist on living hard,
    pushing through exhaustion,
    chasing pieces of the life we had.
    And yes, people will stare.
    Yes, the world will feel too heavy.
    But I refuse to shrink.

    So I won't hide and I won't pretend.
    I'll speak my truth, even when it shakes.
    And if he is truly my partner, 
    he'll grow with me through the fire.
    Because is not just my battle, 
    it's ours.

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  • Cancer again

    Cancer again

    Hi, I’m Pattie—and yep, I’ve got cancer. Again.

    Not the polite, slow-growing Stage I small-cell, “sorry-to-bother-you” non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma I had 21 years ago. Oh, hell no. This time it’s the loud, obnoxious asshole cousin: Diffuse Large B-cell non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Can we say here comes trouble? This dumb jock of a cancer is sprinting through my body, knocking over furniture, spilling beer on the carpet, and generally trashing the place. I’m calling him Biff Tannen, because of course I am. Extra points if you can name the movie from which I stole this name.   

    People ask if I’m okay, and I tell them, “Don’t worry. It’s just two little lymph nodes—way smaller than the apologetic baseball-sized lump I had way back then.” And I am okay. I mean… what the hell else am I going to be? This is where I live now.

    But seriously—twenty-one years later? Are you kidding me? I’m 68, just retired, and ready to live the good life: sleeping in, days on the water, learning new things, going on adventures. And now? Well… that plan’s been shot to hell.

    Or… maybe not. I’m still here. I’m still me. I’m learning plenty—granted, mostly about cancer right now, but still. I can still sleep in (the meds are great for that). The water’s still there, whether I’m floating on it or just watching from the deck. And adventures? They still await. They might not look exactly like I’d pictured, but they’re mine, and I’m still living them.

    So, follow my blog. Let’s see where this road through cancersucksland takes us—as we attempt to leave Biff in the dust. Screw you, Biff!

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