It’s dark thirty o’clock here, and I am up and half-assed ready to face the day. Taking in my poison to kill cancer boy and fluids to flush him out. I just wanted to thank all of you who are reading and following this journey. Please continue to share your comments if you have any. It’s going to be a beautiful day!
This is Pattie Presswoman, reporting live for the first time from the tranquil trenches of Recliner Row.
Breaking News: the recliners are fully occupied, the blankets are scarce, and Chair 3 has been officially declared the coziest corner of the room. Patients across the row are—prepare yourselves—all asleep. The synchronized snoring is bordering on “barbershop quartet” levels, though the harmony is nearly drowned out by the steady hum of infusion pumps.
Meanwhile, the nurses glide between IV poles like (dare I say? Yes.)pole dancers in sensible shoes—armed with blood pressure cuffs, vinyl gloves, and bags filled with solutions both innocuous and deadly. Their mission: keep everyone calm and breathing while handing out poison like peppermints.
In Summary: spirits are stable, vitals are good, and the only drama today is whether the sweet lady in Chair 4 will wake up before her drip is done. And she DID!
This is Pattie Presswoman, bringing you the news you didn’t know you needed—from the quiet frontlines of Day One chemo. This is Pattie Presswoman saying “Good day, and may the good news be yours”.
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!
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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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!
If you’d like to know whenever I post new blog content, please add your e-mail below and click the subscribe button to receive email notification. I truly appreciate your interest!
Second Battle, Same Me 