It’s five days before Christmas, and today I am doing something wonderfully ordinary. Or at least my version of ordinary.
For decades, my granddaughter and I had a tradition: a little Christmas shopping on the Saturday before Christmas, followed by a movie. No rushing. No pressure. Just wandering, laughing, and then sitting in the dark with popcorn while the world paused for a couple of hours.
Life grew up, as it tends to do. She became an adult. Schedules filled. Responsibilities shifted. This year, she even took over my major Christmas shopping — a gift I didn’t know I needed, but one I’m forever grateful for.
Today, though, we’re bringing a piece of that old tradition back.
We’re heading out into the hustle and bustle. We’ll shop a bit, soak in the Christmas energy, and then do the best part — sit down at a movie. Maybe squeeze in some lunch if the stars align and the universe behaves.
I don’t know how this “normal” day will go. I don’t know how long I’ll last, or how much energy I’ll have, or what my body will decide to do halfway through. But what I do know is this:
I’m excited.
Excited to step outside. Excited to reach for normal. Excited to live inside a small, beautiful moment that feels like Christmas used to — and still can.
Happy five days before Christmas. Today, hope looks a lot like a movie ticket and time with someone I love. 🎄✨
Do you have an ordinary holiday tradition? Share it with me, please, I need more ordinary!!!
As I approach my last chemotherapy treatment, I have finally figured out the cycle of how chemo affects me.
Only took me five months. Clearly, I am a genius.
Here’s the thing no one really prepares you for: along with my chemo IV cocktails come some lovely liquid steroids. And when I have the long chemo days, I also get to take a whole lot of steroid pills.
One hundred and twenty mgs a day.
Hence the transformation into Punkinhead Squarepants, combined with Crying Witch Woman, mixed with Can’t Sleep for a Week, topped off with Bitchy Bitchy Bitchy.
It’s a stunning look. Truly.
Tomorrow I take my last steroids. Which leads me to wonder… How long does bitchy bitchy take to go away? Asking for myself. And for everyone who loves me.
Another thing I’ve finally figured out: after the steroids pile on, the exhaustion and misery pile on too. Enter the deep, deep hole.
Now, are you supposed to quit steroids cold turkey? No. But that’s exactly what happens every long chemo week.
And every time, the hole gobbles me up.
This week—because it’s the week before Christmas and not a single decoration is up—I am trying very hard to stay outside the hole. I’m allowing myself to look into it, but not climb in and unpack.
Next week should be my last chemo treatment.
But it’s not the end.
Anyone who has ever been through this knows that it never really ends. The side effects linger. The fear lingers. You become a person who questions every symptom:
My ear hurts — cancer.
My nose is running — cancer.
I stubbed my toe — must be brain cancer.
It takes a toll. And it never completely goes away.
I was almost there once. Twenty-one years since my last cancer. I was almost at the place where cancer was no longer my go-to diagnosis.
And then I found a lump on my back.
And it all fell apart.
So here I am again, with my old go-to firmly back in place.
None of this is to say that I am not grateful—because I am. Grateful to God. To family. To friends. To Sassy. To sunshine. To the universe.
Grateful for another chance to remember just how precious life is.
Reporting live from the Chemo Room, folks, where the IV poles sway and the recliners are almost comfortable. It’s 10:30 a.m., and this joint is hopping — every single chair taken. That’s right, the chemo lounge is standing-room-only (well, reclining-room-only). I haven’t seen this kind of turnout in eleven visits. Clearly, today’s the day everyone got the “Let’s poison cancer!” memo.
To my far right sits a young lady with all her hair. All of it. Long, shiny, shampoo-commercial hair. Naturally, I had to investigate (journalistic integrity, people). Turns out she’s here for an iron infusion. Bless her. May her iron rise and her hair remain glorious.
Meanwhile, I stepped away to the restroom and came back to find the man to my immediate right completely covered by a blanket. Like, entirely. Head completely covered, a human burrito of concern. And you know in this room, we don’t talk about dead people — it’s bad mojo. So yes, I stared until I saw his chest rise and fall. Whew. Crisis averted. No grim reaper sightings today.
Now, on my left sits a woman who clearly did not get the chemo memo about looking half-dead. She looks fabulous. Black shiny hair (real — I checked, again, reporter skills), perfect makeup, and an outfit that screams “Cougar Christmas Chic”: black sweater, leopard-print pants, and matching boots. I want to be her when I grow up.
Across the room, two elderly gentlemen (okay fine, probably my age, damn it) are having the time of their lives chatting about everything under the sun. I’ve seen both of them here before, alone and quiet, but today? They’re laughing, talking about old times. (Sadly, I remembered a lot of it myself.) But it’s nice. It feels like a tiny bit of joy snuck in with the saline drip.
Somebody’s in Mama’s old chair today. I haven’t seen her in weeks. Maybe she’s cured. God, I hope she’s cured!
And in the far corner? A little gaggle of women talking about Christmas crafts they’ve made. Glitter, glue guns, and garland galore. I wish I could join that table, but a reporter’s got to stay on her beat.
Fast-forward to 2:30 p.m. The chemo crowd has thinned out, leaving just me and the two gents — still solving the world’s problems and condemning the evils of some drug or another. The room hums quietly now. I can see the sunshine pouring through the window, a soft reminder that there’s life happening outside these IV poles.
It’s been a good day in the chemo room. No deaths. Some laughs. A little envy. A little sunshine. And me — still here, still reporting.
Chemo Chronicles: signing off until next drip.
Breaking News
The gentlemen just told their age. I am AT LEAST 10 years younger. Boy, I feel even better now!
It’s been a great week — and I’m as shocked as you are. Five whole days of sunshine, and I finally crawled out of that dark, muddy hole I’d been sulking in. And let me tell you, it was fantabulous!!
Sorry to be AWOL from the blog, but honestly? It felt too good to feel good. I didn’t want to think about cancer, chemo, or any of that. AT. ALL.
Instead, I did totally normal, boring, glorious things. I cleaned my house – well some of it. I made spaghetti sauce from scratch. I sat in the sunshine — at home and by the lake. I even caught myself smiling like some Hallmark movie extra.
But (and there’s always a “but” in Chemo Land), today is chemo day. The damn hole is waiting with its arms wide open. I can almost hear it whispering, “Come on back, sweetheart.”
And I don’t want to go. Not to chemo. Not to the hole. Even though there’s only ONE MORE left after today — I still don’t want to. Because the hole will be waiting, and the body and mind both know it. That’s just how chemo works: cumulative exhaustion and a side of psychological warfare.
But I’m doing it. Because sunshine weeks are worth crawling out for. And after this… there will be only one.
Last weekend was a very important Christmas party/Retirement Party — one of those annual, can’t-miss gatherings with a special twist. So I made a promise to myself that I would do everything possible to go.
Let me tell you — this was no small feat. I am deep in the chemo weeds right now. The cumulative effect (plus the rain and dreariness) has been chewing on my sanity like Sassy on a leftover dog toy. For the first time in my later years, I can honestly say I hate the way I look.
Between the steroids, the sitting, and the snacks that mysteriously keep finding their way into my hands, my face has turned into a full-blown pumpkin, and my body into SpongeBob SquarePants — complete with square legs and all. Nothing fits. The round-faced lady in the mirror doesn’t look like me… she looks like she swallowed me. Yes, I know I’ve whined about this before. It is a minor problem to be sure – but apparently I am a petty petty girl these days!
But I’d promised. So off we went.
The Great Wardrobe Expedition
Enter Makenzie, my beautiful 25-year-old granddaughter and personal fashion therapist. She could tell I was about to cancel before I’d even started trying on clothes. So she stepped in — part stylist, part nurse, part therapist — helping me find something I could stand to be seen in public wearing. Pettiness, I know – I am fortunate to be able to go out in public, I know! And yet, I whine!!
We finally landed on a flowing top, soft slacks (the only pair that fit), a fluffy scarf that doubled as both festive accessory and emergency warmth (since my jackets are all in witness protection) and sneakers. No slipping and falling on my Squarepants for this Punkinhead.
Arrival of the Square-Bodied Elf
It was cold that night, and by the time we walked to the door, I was already wheezing like a 90-year-old accordion. The place was decked out to the heavens — twinkling lights, poinsettias, and one of those towering trees that looks like it came straight from a Hallmark movie budget.
We found a table in the corner (prime real estate for introverts and chemo warriors alike) and settled in. I smiled, chatted, and tried my best to remember what it felt like to be the life of the party.
The food was amazing. There was laughter, music, the sound of high heels clicking across hardwood, and a few questionable renditions of “Jingle Bell Rock.”
The Great Escape
After an hour or two, the energy — and my stamina — ran low. Makenzie and I slipped out to the car for a quiet break, both of us just sitting in silence, watching our breath fog up the windows. No words, just a peaceful truce between exhaustion and effort.
Then we went back in.
My Early December Christmas Miracle
And by then, the dance floor was alive. Everyone twirling, laughing, glowing in the warmth of the season. I stood on the sidelines, watching them move — the old me itching to join, the current me just grateful to feel the want again, a true Christmas Miracle for me.
As I watched them dance, I made myself a quiet little vow: Next time, if there’s music playing and I have half the energy — I’m not sitting out.
I may be Punkinhead SquarePants for now, or forever, but this ol’ square body still remembers how to move and be alive and kicking – okay maybe not actual kicking.
And when I finally do — you can bet your mistletoe I’ll be celebrating the blessing of living!!!!
🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁
Oh, and today the sun is SHINING!!!! Happy Holidays!!!
Hey Everyone — I’ve been in a hole with Mama for a few days. And let me tell you, she has no idea how to appreciate a good hole.
At first, she just lay there crying in the dirt. I mean, seriously? You get a whole hole — prime digging territory — and you don’t even sniff around or toss a little dirt for fun?
I tried to show her how it’s done — scratch a little, paw a little, maybe wag while you’re at it — but noooo, she just sat there looking all sad and “deep.” (Whatever that means. I’m deep every time I nap under the blanket.)
Apparently, Mama’s hole wasn’t a digging hole, it was a “people feelings” hole. She says she had to “work her way out” like it was some kind of mission from the People Council. Honestly, I will never understand humans. Why can’t they just bark it out and chase a squirrel?
Anyway, she finally started digging — with the tiniest little spoon you ever saw. It was pitiful, but I wagged and supervised. And you know what? Bit by bit, spoon by spoon, she’s climbing out.
So I guess that’s what “healing” looks like for humans. Slow, messy, confusing… but at least we’re headed back toward the sunshine.
And me? I’m just glad she’s finally learning the true art of a good dig.
So, you haven’t heard from me for a while. But trust me, I’ve been thinking about you.
I’ve been down in a deep, dark hole — the kind that swallows up your days, your plans, and your sense of humor. Pain took the wheel for a while, and confusion rode shotgun. It wasn’t pretty.
But here’s the thing about holes: if you can’t climb out, you can at least start digging toward the light. And thanks to some pain meds that actually work, I’m doing just that — one shaky, stubborn scoop at a time.
You’d think that being this close to finishing chemo (only two more on the schedule!) would have me doing cartwheels down the hallway. Spoiler: it doesn’t. Instead, I’m more afraid now than I was at the start. Because what happens after? What will the next PET scan show? Will this be the end of treatment — forever, for now, or not at all?
So many questions, none with clear answers. And when you’re tired, those questions echo louder.
I’ll be honest: I look like I’ve been through a war zone — round-faced, square-bodied, and about seventy-five years older than my birth certificate says. Nothing fits, not my jeans, not my energy, not even my reflection some days. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe this version of me — the one with no eyelashes, no patience, and no filters — is exactly who I’m supposed to be right now.
Because here’s what I’ve learned in the dark: Hope doesn’t live on the surface. It hides deep down in the cracks of you, where the light can reach only when you’re still enough to notice.
And I think — just maybe — I’m starting to see a glimmer again.
So if you’re in your own hole right now, hold on. Take the meds. Ask for help. Complain loudly. Laugh when you can. And when the light starts to peek through, even just a little — don’t question it. Just climb toward it.
Hi everyone, it’s been a rough week. The cumulative effect of chemo is taking its’ toll. I wrote this last week at chemo and saved it for today. I hope you find love, hope, and gratitude at Thanksgiving.
Sitting here in the chemo room — hour five — and I am tired. Tired of sitting. Tired of waiting. Tired of watching the faces around me — some blank, some worried, some so quiet you can almost hear their thoughts.
There’s a look that settles over this room sometimes. It’s the “Will I still be here next Thanksgiving?” look. And some, bless them, are already convinced they won’t.
But the truth is, none of us really know. Not even those of you who aren’t sitting in recliners hooked up to IV poles. Life doesn’t come with guarantees, not even with the turkey and dressing.
What I do know is this — hope is sneaky. It slips into the room in the form of a grandchild’s text, a photo from a friend, or a nurse who calls you “sweetheart” like she means it. It sits in the corner, humming softly, waiting for you to notice it again.
Maybe this year, we can all — every one of us — choose to be grateful. Grateful for still being here, for one more laugh that turns into a snort, for one more hug that lingers, for one more text or phone call that starts with, “Just checking on you.”
Whether you spend Thanksgiving surrounded by family or curled up quietly with your own thoughts, I hope you feel love reaching toward you.
Because it’s out there — in every friend who calls or texts, every family member who worries, every person still fighting their way through another long day.
So here’s to being here. Here’s to love that holds steady. Here’s to hope that won’t quit. And here’s to many more Thanksgivings — together!
It’s been a while since I’ve felt like writing. Halfway through treatment felt like a victory lap — confetti, trumpets, maybe even a parade float with me waving from the top. I had a few good days and thought, well, maybe I’ve got this chemo thing down.
Ha. Rookie mistake.
Because then came treatment number “just past halfway,” and it marched in like a mean girl with a grudge. It ripped through my veins like it was late for a meeting in hell — leaving pain, misery, and a new appreciation for modern pharmaceuticals.
That one was Friday. Today — finally — is the first morning I woke up without the chemo fog. You know the one — that fuzzy-brained nonsense where you wake up asking, Where am I? What day is it? And why does everything taste like pennies and regret?
So, as the sacred chemo cycle goes, I’ll start feeling a little better each day until the next treatment rolls around and knocks me flat again. Then we rinse, repeat, and call it progress.
But here’s the thing: each round means I’m that much closer to the end of this part of the ride. Closer to breathing without that fog. Closer to tasting coffee that actually tastes like coffee. Closer to being done.
Halfway there — still standing, still snarky, and still me.
One minute I’m cold. One minute I’m hot. The next minute I’m absolutely burning up. And then—because my body likes to keep things interesting—I’m right back to cold again.
It’s got to be the drugs running through me, because when I had cancer 21 years ago, they treated me to the delightful combo-platter of treatment plus “going through the change.” Nothing like night sweats and hot flashes tag-teaming you at 3 a.m.
So honestly? This time is better. I’m not going through the change, and I’ve only had a little night-sweat nonsense.
And I am absolutely certain that Don Williams’ “It Must Be Love” has nothing to do with it — no matter how much the universe tries to convince me otherwise.
Just last night—because life loves a well-timed coincidence—I stepped out the restaurant door with my takeout order (I do not eat inside anymore; the service is too slow, and my patience has officially filed for retirement – Not to mention they won’t let me take off any clothes). The moment that fresh, cool breeze hit my face, I let out the happiest little sigh.
A woman sitting nearby looked over and said, “Oh, I remember that… needing cool air, then blankets, then cool air again.”
We both laughed the kind of laugh only people on this strange path understand. Two chemo sisters, bonded instantly by the universal language of temperature chaos.
Second Battle, Same Me 