Three days after long chemo is a weird neighborhood to live in.
You don’t quite exist so much as melt slowly into the recliner. Exhaustion hits like a drunk elephant — you can’t stay awake, but you’re also too wired (and too achy) to sleep.
The poison’s doing its sacred little dance — burn, heal, destroy, rebuild — all at once. My stomach’s auditioning for a horror movie: hungry but disgusted by every option. If it smells good, it’s probably coming back up. So I sip, nibble, and call that “fine dining.”
The world spins a little, my eyelids weigh a ton, and focusing on anything longer than thirty seconds feels like graduate-level concentration.
But still — under all the blur and ache — there’s the whisper of hope. That fierce, stubborn little spark that keeps saying,
“Better days are coming. Hang on. The poison’s working.”
And that’s enough to make me smile… before my next nap
Two days ago, I got the happiest kind of news: the chemo is working!
Cue the confetti cannons, lime-green ribbons, and one happy little red bird doing loop-de-loops over my head. After weeks of wondering, worrying, and silently negotiating with the universe, I finally got the word that things are shrinking. Me! Shrinking things!
The celebration continued with a long but surprisingly pleasant day in the always-entertaining chemo room — that magical land of heated chairs, cold IV poles, and nurses who could moonlight as comedians. All was well in my soul.
Luke and I drove home talking about the future again, like normal people do. I could actually breathe again. I swear I felt my shoulders drop three inches from relief. For the first time in months, we weren’t just surviving the moment — we were daring to plan what comes next.
And then came yesterday.
Apparently my brain didn’t get the “we’re okay now” memo. Between the pre-programmed crazy in my head, the toxic cocktail dripping through my veins, and the endless wisecracks from that internal smart-aleck I call Chemo Boy, peace didn’t last long.
My “quick nap” turned into a full-blown horror flick. Somewhere between hour two and four, I dreamed I was being attacked from the inside — an Invasion of the Body Snatchers situation starring… wait for it… cherries and almonds.
Yep. In my subconscious, the once-monstrous “cancer nodes” became produce aisle invaders. They multiplied, pressed, and squeezed until I thought I’d explode into a fruit salad. I don’t do horror movies. And now, apparently, I don’t do long naps either.
When I woke up, sweating and slightly homicidal toward Chemo Boy, I did what every rational cancer fighter does: I reread the PET scan report and the doctor’s notes. Twice. Okay, maybe three times.
And here’s the reassuring truth: I am no longer invaded by cherries and almonds. The latest scan says it’s down to a pinto bean and a pea.
That’s right — my invaders have been demoted to side-dish size.
So I can stop holding my breath again.
Because here’s what I know for sure: I am in this battle until the very end. I’m going to beat this cancer. And one of these days, I’m going to silence that sarcastic little Chemo Boy once and for all.
Minions, Mama’s Chair, and the Great Heater Debate
Today was a great day! After the great PET scan news, I skipped down to the Chemo Room. Even though it was long chemo day. It was the first Chemo of the last of the protocol. Five more sessions in the plan!
Entering the chemo room, my main concern was making sure that my chair was NOT under the heat. It was hot as hell in there to me. And I stayed hot. In fact, I eventually took off my shoes and socks. Three or four of the chairs under the heater had people with sweaters, heated blankets, and caps. I am sure they were almost cooked before they left.
All the nurses were dressed for Halloween. They were all Minions. It was so cute. But of course, since I can’t remember anything, including faces, I couldn’t tell them apart.
There was lots of action in the chemo room today. Off and on it was a full room, then emptied out to just me, tjrm a full room again.
Once again somebody took Mama’s chair. It was a young man. She sat right next to him and spread out her stuff, and then fell fast asleep –maybe with her mouth open. I bet he won’t do that again. Why can’t these people learn – the minions should just put a taken sign on that chair.
All in all, a long 7 hour day, but a good one. Minions, heaters, naps, and all — just another episode in the ongoing adventure of Chemo Chronicles.
It’s not the news I wanted, but it’s the closest it can be — which, in this world, counts as awesome.
Thank you all for your crossed fingers and toes, your thoughts and prayers, and your pleas to Mother Earth. I appreciate every single effort on my behalf.
Luke and I waited in that small little room for what seemed like hours (but was probably fifteen minutes). Me — my usual version of “calm,” meaning foot pumping, standing, sitting, standing again, stomping, sighing, repeat. And Luke — sitting perfectly still with his trademark Starfighter calm.
Finally, the doctor came in — and her radiant smile told it all before she even spoke.
I won’t bore you with the doctor/scientist version, but here’s the simple truth: I had two affected lymph nodes, and they are now much smaller. And much less bright.
PET scans use an isotope that “lights up” the cancer — and where I once glowed like a neon sign at 14, I now barely shimmer at 3.
Hallelujah.
So, when you look at the photo — the left side is the first PET scan and the right side is the new one. A cherry became a pinto bean. An almond became a little English pea.
Normally, I hate peas. But I love this one.
As for brightness — the first scan could shine in full sunlight, and the new one? You’d barely spot it under a quarter moon.
So here we are — halfway done, and if all goes as planned, it should be over by Christmas.
🎃 Happy Halloween to all — from your half-lit, pea-loving, halfway warrior. 💚
I’m still feeling great — even heading out today to vote and grab a coffee with a friend. I refuse to ruin a day where I feel good by worrying about things I cannot change. I’m assuming this “feeling good” is for great reasons (not just because I’ve been chemo-free for two weeks).
I believe in good things. I believe in healing. At least today, I do.
Tomorrow I’ll head to oncology, ready for what’s supposed to be a long chemo day — and ready to hear the results of the PET scan. My hope? That the conversation goes something like:
“We didn’t see anything, but let’s finish this course to make sure we get anything that thinks it might be trying to change cell type.”
That’s the script I’m holding onto.
Because today, I refuse to consider any other option. Why borrow trouble? (As our grandmothers would say.) Why speak that into the universe? (As our Gen Z family would say.) Why the hell think about it on your last feel-good day for a few weeks? (As every cancer patient would say.)
It’s been a few days since I posted, and I hope you weren’t worried that I was feeling awful — because I wasn’t! From Saturday through right now, I’ve felt surprisingly great. No pain pills, no nausea meds, no reason for nausea meds. It’s been a fabulous stretch — almost enough to make me forget I’m fighting Cancer Boy. Almost.
But when you’re in this battle, even the good days come with a shadow. No matter how great you feel, that little voice in your head never quite shuts up: “Is this working?” “Am I getting better?” “Will I have to ditch this chemo and start all over again?” It’s always there, quietly humming along in the background of every moment.
Today is PET scan day — the big one. The test that tells us if things are getting better, holding steady, or spreading. It should feel exciting, but honestly? It’s terrifying. More terrifying than a haunted house.
So after a few blissful days “off,” I’m suiting up again — lucky shirt on, battle mind engaged, and (in theory) my best poker face in place. (In reality, I’m about as unreadable as a Hallmark card.)
Cross your fingers. Cross your toes. Whisper to Mother Earth or pray to your God — I’ll take all the good vibes you can send. And know that I’m deeply grateful for every single one of you who cares. 💚
One would think the obvious answer is that the cancer—or the treatment—could kill you. But for me, that’s not it. Not yet, anyway. The possibility of death, even with the diagnosis and the poison, still feels far away. Which is, frankly, my preference.
It’s not the constant sickness or nausea. It’s not the hours of shivering and chills, or the sliding-down-a-razor-blade thrill of eliminating bodily waste.
It’s not the isolation—both physical and internal. It’s not that most food tastes like metal, or that eating and drinking enough each day sends you right back to that razor-blade ride.
It’s not even the endless naps, the half-conscious fog, the 8 p.m. bedtime, or the sense that life’s fun is happening somewhere else without you.
But I digress. The question was: what is the worst part of having cancer?
Your hair is gone. Your face looks puffier. Your body changes. You tell yourself those are just shallow things—but then you start forgetting words, and where you were going, and why. You can’t recall names you’ve known for years. You sit in the dark and cry for any reason—or no reason at all.
And the biggest thing you lose? Your common sense.
Take a few days ago, for example. A fine case study in cognitive chaos.
I got up early, determined to leave by 8 a.m. because Sassy the Wonder Dog had a 9 o’clock grooming appointment. (Sassy’s favorite hobby is rolling in the stinkiest piles imaginable.) With Luke’s help, I loaded the car and finally got dressed—only to realize my diamond ring was missing.
Common sense immediately exited the premises.
I went to grab my phone to call Luke—only to discover that it, too, was missing. Lost ring. Lost phone. Obviously Luke’s fault.
So I ran outside and started tearing apart everything he had just loaded into the car. Found the phone, not the ring. Maybe not Luke’s fault after all. But I called him hysterical anyway, and he promised to rush home.
Meanwhile, I ransacked the house: dishwasher, clean sheets, folded blankets—nothing. Luke arrived, calm and logical (as usual), and asked where I was when I first noticed it was gone. He checked the dressers while I tore apart the blankets on my side of the bed—still mid-meltdown, crying about how useless I am, how I keep losing everything, how I’m losing my brain, and what if I never get back to—
And then I looked under the bed.
“FOUND IT!” I shouted, with what can only be described as a psychotic smile.
Luke looked up. “Found what?”
“My ring!” I chirped.
He didn’t actually say this, but I swear I heard:
“Hm. Thought maybe you found your senses.”
It was only 8 a.m., and I was already crazy. Sad to say, the crazy lasted all day.
And let’s be honest—it’ll be back tomorrow. Because common sense is not a product of chemotherapy.
What do you call a room with four women and no talking?
I’ve been thinking about it. It’s clearly the chemo room, but that doesn’t begin to cover it.
It might be a nap salon — where no one asked for a blow-out but we all left a little lighter.
Or maybe a spa for the terminally exhausted, featuring the latest in drip-infused “glow from within” technology.
Some days it feels like the quiet car on the Cancer Express — no loud talking, no snacks, and you’re not sure where you’ll end up, but everyone’s ticket cost too much.
The Waiting Room for the Brave, perhaps, except there’s no waiting. We’re doing the thing. Just quietly.
This week there were four of us. All women. All lined up in our recliners like power stations plugged into perseverance. Within minutes of the “pre-drug” drip, every single one of us was out cold. No chatter. No reality TV. Not even the usual IV-pole squeaks. Just four warriors in soft socks, drifting off under fluorescent halos.
I had about ten minutes before my own eyelids surrendered, so I took inventory: – Chair 4 had really good hair and shoes. Definitely winning chemo couture. – Chair 3 was already asleep—basically a blanket with a pulse. – Chair 6 chatted with the nurse, then disappeared under her pillow. Relatable.
And then silence. The kind of deep, unbothered quiet you don’t get anywhere else.
When it was over, we rose like polite zombies—unplugged, gathered our stuff, and shuffled out with the reverence of churchgoers leaving midnight mass. No words necessary. We knew.
Whatever this room is—a sanctuary, a spa, a silent sorority—it’s ours.
Until next time—may your drips be steady, your naps restorative, and your IV poles never squeak at the wrong moment.
It could be said that when you’re fighting cancer, every day is a self-care day — you know, since you’re literally ingesting poison to stay alive. Cute concept, but no. That’s not my idea of self-care.
Real self-care is what I’ve been doing these last few days: sitting on the deck, watching the geese, and soaking up the warm sunshine like a lizard on vacation.
Today’s agenda? Massage. Because sometimes “healing” looks less like IV poles and more like someone working the knots out of your shoulders while your soul exhales.
So… no post today. Unless you count this one. Which, honestly, you should.
Second Battle, Same Me 