Second Battle, Same Me

Category: Same Me

  • 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.

  • The Scanxiety Olympics

    The most dreaded and most welcomed test for someone who has completed their course of chemo happens tomorrow.

    The PET scan.

    Also known as:
    “Please tell me the chemo actually did what it was supposed to do.”

    This magical little test should determine whether chemotherapy killed off the cancer.

    If YES — I celebrate. Possibly loudly. Probably with inappropriate language.
    If NO — I dissolve into a small emotional puddle on the floor and may need to be mopped up with paper towels and grace.

    The fun part?
    I don’t even get the results right away.

    No, no. That would be far too humane – or not.

    I get the scan…
    and then I wait five long days to get the results – from the Dr. of course. No PET Scan tech deserved the melt down (if it comes).

    Which means I will spend the days in between riding the emotional roller coaster from hell.

    Let me introduce you to the schedule:

    • Morning: I feel hopeful. Strong. Optimistic. A survivor.
    • Late morning: Mild dread creeps in.
    • Afternoon: I am convinced the cancer is hiding like a tiny evil ninja.
    • Evening: I am absolutely certain there is cancer in every single cell of my body and I will not survive the week.
    • 2:17 a.m.: I have never had cancer at all and these bitches are just trying to mess with me.

    Up.
    Down.
    Middle.
    Then WAY WAY OUT into left field where logic goes to die.

    That’s the thing about cancer.

    You can get rid of the cancer —
    but the mental trauma sticks around for years. Sometimes decades.

    Your body may heal, but your brain keeps receipts.

    Every scan becomes a psychological event.
    Every appointment feels like a pop quiz you didn’t study for.
    Every “we’ll know more after the test” sounds suspiciously like a threat.

    So if I seem a little off this week —
    a little quiet, a little emotional, a little extra —
    please know I’m just riding the scanxiety roller coaster.

    I’m doing my best to stay positive.
    I’m doing my best not to spiral.
    And I’m doing my best to remember that right now, in this moment, I am here.

    So y’all be patient with me this week.

    I’ll be the one strapped into the front seat of the emotional carnival ride,
    white-knuckling the bar,
    trying not to scream…

    …but probably screaming anyway.

    🎢💪

  • 🐶 Sassy the Wonder Dog Goes to Camp

    By now you’ve probably read all about Mama’s adventures.
    But excuse me — what about MY adventures??

    Whenever Mama and Daddy go out of town, they take me to the best farm ever.
    It’s called Serenity K9, and oh my bone… it is a four-legged wonderland.

    We stay in a real house.
    And inside the house we have our own houses (crates)
    And — this is the best part — we get breakfast in bed every single morning.

    Yes.
    IN.
    BED.

    After breakfast, we go outside and play with so many friends. Big ones. Little ones. Fast ones. Loud ones. Everyone smells so interesting.

    Sometimes, when we’re lucky, they let us help teach the new guys.
    I love that part. I get to show off how much I’ve learned and say things like:

    “See? You sit. Place means you can move around a bit but you can’t move around if they say down.”

    It feels good being a role model.

    We also get free time, which is excellent because this time something very strange happened.

    ❄️ Snow.

    I did not know what that was.

    At first, I tried to lay down in it — bad idea.
    Then I tried to run really fast — also a bad idea.
    I slid… and slid… and slid some more.

    A very long way.

    Everyone was very kind while I figured out that snow is cold, slippery, and absolutely not for dramatic laying.

    Also, I also got to celebrate my birthday there with all my friends.
    I am now four years old — in people years, of course.
    In dog years, I am clearly wise, experienced, and deserving of extra treats.

    In the evenings, we get fed in bed too.
    Which is wonderful, because none of the others are trying to steal my food.

    Mama says I’m a picky eater.
    I say I have standards.

    Some four legged people eat anything and if they could, they would absolutely eat my dinner before I could finish inspecting it properly.

    I just love staying at the farm.
    I mean, yes — I miss Mama and Daddy.

    But there is nothing quite like hanging out with other four-legged friends…
    learning new things…
    playing all day…

    and getting breakfast in bed.

    Honestly, I could get used to this.

    — Sassy 🐾💖

    We think Serenity K9 has the best trainers and boarding in middle Georgia. To learn more about Serenity K9, Lauren, and the pack, go to https://www.serenityk9.org/

  • Getting Away (Wheelchairs, Wind, and Unexpected Victories)

    Getting away from home is always fun.
    Getting away from home with great friends is even better.

    So we met some friends in Key West — because apparently my post-chemo self still believes in optimism and ocean breezes.

    When I left home, my stamina was kaput — as my mother would have said. Completely gone. Missing in action. Possibly hiding under the bed.

    I even agreed to a wheelchair ride through the Atlanta airport.

    Now let’s be clear: the wheelchair was hard, uncomfortable, and absolutely not what you’d call luxurious.
    BUT — being whisked through crowds like airport royalty and taking the elevator instead of the escalator?

    Well. For once, the last six months offered a perk.

    The Key West airport is MUCH smaller, so I walked out on my own two feet.

    I didn’t realize it at the time, but that little walk turned out to be a metaphor.

    The first day the weather was beautiful. Luke and I enjoyed the resort, met up with friends, ate, drank, laughed, and had one of those rare days where cancer didn’t get an invitation.

    The next morning was even better.
    We rented a golf cart and spent three glorious hours touring the island — which is now officially my favorite form of transportation. Minimal exertion. Maximum joy.

    We returned around three and did what mature adults with medical trauma do.

    We took a nap.

    Around five, we heard what sounded like a pack of wild children racing through the hallway. As we opened the door to head to an outdoor reception and dinner on the beach, the wind hit me so hard I thought:

    “Well. This might be it. Blown clean into the Atlantic.”

    And that wind?
    It stayed.
    All week. And brought temperatures in the fifties! In Key West!
    Relentless. Rude. Completely unimpressed by my beachy dreams.

    That did not stop us from walking and playing and enjoying ourselves!

    Naturally, the day we were leaving was perfect.

    Of course it was.

    But here’s the thing — despite the wind and the cold, we had a fabulous time.

    Luke and I spent real time together.
    We laughed with friends.
    We lived instead of just enduring.

    And when we returned home, I walked through the Atlanta airport on my own two feet.

    No wheelchair.
    No escort.
    Just me — stronger than when I left.

    Sometimes the miracle isn’t sunshine or calm seas.
    Sometimes it’s realizing you’re walking forward again — even when the wind is trying to knock you over.

    And that made it a wonderful time. ❤️

  • Leaving on a Jet Plane – Again!

    This week I’m heading to a place that is supposed to be warm and sunny, with clear blue water and all that vacation brochure nonsense.
    Naturally, the forecast did not get the memo.

    WDNC that it might be cool.
    WDNC that the ocean may be for looking at, not swimming in.
    WDC that we get time together—actual, uninterrupted, no-agenda time—with each other and with friends.

    Sunshine is optional.
    That part is not.

  • The View From Right Now

    It’s been almost three weeks since my last chemotherapy treatment, and I am feeling… so many feels.
    Like, Costco-sized feelings. In bulk.

    On the bright side, I haven’t had a night sweat in five whole days. FIVE.
    That alone deserves a parade. Or at least fresh sheets that don’t feel like they were wrung out by a lifeguard.
    I feel better. My mind is a little clearer. I’ve even started tiptoeing into that dangerous mental neighborhood called “Life After Cancer.”
    You know—the place where people make plans. And assumptions. And maybe even buy concert tickets more than a month out.

    But then there’s the other hand.
    I’m still tired. A lot.
    Like, do one thing and need a lie-down tired.
    My motivation seems to have a strict one-activity-per-day policy, and my brain shuts down the moment exhaustion shows up—which is often and without notice. Concentration just packs up its little suitcase and says, “Nope. I’m out.”

    And then there’s the third hand.
    Which I don’t technically have, but my anxiety has graciously supplied.

    This hand is busy worrying.
    Worrying that I’m not cancer-free yet.
    Worrying while I wait for a test that hasn’t even been scheduled because insurance is apparently on a scenic route.
    Worrying that even if I am cancer-free now, what about next year?
    This was my second round—does that mean I get a punch card? A loyalty program? Do I do this forever?
    Will it be a long life?
    A shortened one?
    Is all this mental ping-pong the reason I sometimes feel completely frozen, like my body just hits the pause button?

    Probably.

    The truth is, the view from right now keeps changing.
    Sometimes it’s hopeful.
    Sometimes it’s foggy.
    Sometimes it’s downright scary as hell.

    But here’s the thing I’m trying to hold onto: right now is not the whole story.
    Right now includes dry sheets, a clearer mind, and small signs that my body is still trying—still healing.
    Right now doesn’t require me to solve next year, or the rest of my life, or every possible outcome.

    Right now just asks me to sit here.
    Breathe.
    Do one thing.
    And trust that the view will change again.

    And maybe—just maybe—the next version will be even better.

  • Night Sweats

    I am sick and tired of night sweats. Sick. Sick. Sick. There, I’ve said it out loud.

    And no, I am not talking about menopausal night sweats.
    I conquered those decades ago like the warrior woman I am.

    I am talking about the clothes-drenching, sheet-drowning, middle-of-the-night baptismal pool night sweats caused by lymphoma and chemotherapy.
    The double whammy.
    The overachiever of bodily betrayal.

    Three, four, sometimes five times a night.
    Every night.
    For weeks.
    Every. Single. Night.

    Bedtime is no longer bedtime. It is logistics.

    Before bed, I line up five sets of pajamas like I’m staging a quick-change Broadway show. Each stack is carefully oriented so when I grab it half-asleep, the front is actually the front. This is not my first rodeo.

    Next: towels. Five or six of them.
    Last time I used sheets and realized this time… I don’t care that much anymore.

    You fall asleep hopeful (rookie mistake), having turned the air down because surely this will be the night it doesn’t happen.
    Spoiler alert: it happens.

    You wake up drenched. Absolutely soaked.
    And somehow also freezing, because the air is blasting and your body has turned itself into a swamp.

    So you sneak out of bed, shaking and shivering, and stumble over to the stash.
    You peel off the wet clothes.
    Put on the dry ones.
    Repeat this process while trying very hard not to wake up too much or fully question your life choices.

    First towel: hair.
    Fortunately—thanks to chemo—I don’t have much hair, so that’s efficient at least. That towel goes back with the stack.

    Second towel: to the bed.
    It gets laid over the bottom sheet.
    You flip the pillow.
    Then you wad up the wet top sheet and shove it to the foot of the bed under the covers.

    I’m short. I don’t need that part anyway.

    Two hours later… you do it all again.
    And then again.
    And then again.

    Eventually it’s after 4 a.m., and anything after that is officially get-up time, whether you like it or not.

    The interesting thing—at least for me—is that this doesn’t start at the beginning, when the cancer is at its strongest.
    It starts later.
    With the cumulative effect of the chemo.
    Like a delayed punchline no one asked for.

    I am very grateful the chemo is over.

    And I will be extra glad—borderline celebratory—when the night sweats finally decide to pack up their towels and leave.

    Until then, I’ll be over here, running a one-woman overnight laundry service, wondering how it’s possible to be both soaked and freezing at the same time.

    Again.

  • On the Edge of a New Year

    As I sit on the precipice of a new year, I’m having trouble letting the last one go.
    I’m also having trouble being completely honest.

    So here it is.

    I spent the last six months of 2025 terrified. Sick. Lost. Unable to imagine a life that didn’t revolve around chemotherapy schedules and side effects and fear.

    People, as people do, eventually grew tired of the constant ups and downs. Life went on for them. I, as I often do, withdrew further and further into myself—quietly convincing myself that I didn’t want to be a burden, while simultaneously wondering why I felt so alone.

    On the days when it all became too much, I cried in the solitude of my own making, telling myself I had no one—despite knowing that wasn’t entirely true.

    I wanted to leave 2025 with a victory lap.
    With a clear test result.
    With a doctor saying, Yes, you’re in remission.

    Chemo is over, but that one final test hasn’t happened yet. And because of that, I brooded. I whined. I pouted privately. I obsessed over the ending I didn’t get instead of honoring the story I survived.

    And honestly? I disgusted myself a little for that.

    Because here’s what I did get in 2025.

    I got a cancer caught so early it didn’t even show up in my regular bloodwork.
    I got a chance to fight before it had time to take more from me.

    I was never alone.

    My husband—my partner—did not miss a single doctor’s visit or chemotherapy session. Not one. He showed up every day, steady and unflinching, even when I couldn’t be.

    My granddaughter kept me anchored to life itself—reminding me that I was still here and still needed to live.

    Family members and friends checked in, called, texted, cared. One friend made it her personal mission to send me an encouraging message every single day.

    And Sassy—sweet, intuitive Sassy—took it upon herself to care for me daily, in all the quiet ways only a dog can.

    So yes, I didn’t get the final word in 2025.

    But I got something far greater.

    I got love.
    I got presence.
    I got another chance at living.

    And now, I’m ready.

    Ready to put the last six months behind me.
    Ready to step into 2026 with gratitude—for life, for family, for friends, and for Sassy.

    Whatever happens in 2026, I will meet it knowing this:

    I am still here.
    And that matters more than any test result ever could.

    And as I step into 2026, I do so believing that healing doesn’t always arrive with certainty—but it always begins with hope.

  • 🐾 Sassy the Wonder Dog Walks Again 🐾

    Hello everyone.
    It’s me. Sassy. The Wonder Dog.
    Since Mama has been suspiciously quiet for about a week, I have taken over communications. You’re welcome.

    Here’s the scoop.

    That last chemo?
    Yeah. It flattened Mama like a pancake you accidentally sat on. Since then, it’s been an up-down-up-down situation. Christmas was… not normal. But Daddy? Oh my dog. Daddy WORKED that kitchen like he was auditioning for a Food Network special. Mama noticed. I noticed. I supervised closely from floor level. We really appreciate Daddy.

    I do keep seeing Mama try to write sometimes. She sits down, types a bit… and then suddenly runs off to that horrible room where they attempt to drown me with soap and water and where she sits on a strange white throne. I do not approve of this room. AT ALL. I try not to even look in there.

    Now we are up at the lake, Mama’s Happy Place, and let me tell you—Mama is slowly getting her mojo back. She sits on the deck soaking up sunshine (excellent life choice), and I lay nearby pretending I am a decorative rug but watching her every move. She walks around the property a little, tries to be “normal” going up the stairs, and then immediately remembers that breathing is still optional but highly recommended.

    BUT THEN.
    YESTERDAY HAPPENED.

    Mama let ME take HER for a walk.

    We walked all the way around the yard.
    AND up the driveway.
    AND all the way to the community mailboxes.

    People, this was BIG.
    She was exhausted afterward and took a two-hour nap. Naturally, I napped with her to ensure survival. It’s called being responsible.

    Now she says later today we might walk all the way to “the green thing.”
    I don’t know what that is.
    I don’t care what that is.
    What I know is Mama is determined, and when she decides to do something, she usually does it—even if she has to stop and huff and puff and lean on me (which is fine, I am very sturdy).

    So until Mama gets her writing brain fully rebooted, here’s the official Sassy Update:

    ✔️ Mama is okay
    ✔️ Mama is getting stronger
    ✔️ Mama is walking again
    ✔️ Mama is even talking about cooking food someday (Daddy is VERY excited).

    Stick with us.
    We’re walking forward—one mailbox, one green thing, and one nap at a time.

    Love,
    🐾 Sassy the Wonder Dog
    Head of Walks, Naps, and Mama Supervision