From a cherry to a pinto bean,
From an almond to a pea—
I watch the numbers fall,
the nodules fade,
the poison do its sacred burn.
Shrink.
Dissolve.
Disappear.
Your're disssolving,
Youu should never have thought that I play.
Go Away
And don’t come back
another day.
Yesterday, tired to the bone, I slept in.
I took a shower.
I cooked some breakfast.
Tired to the bone, I rested.
I changed the sheets on the bed.
I washed and folded clothes.
Tired to the bone, I rested.
I prepared and cooked supper.
And by the end of it, I felt like I’d spent 24 hours digging a trench with a spoon.
I used to do all these things without thinking—without effort, without stopping.
But that was before Cancer Boy moved in and Chemo showed up to kill him.
Today is Chemo Day.
And tired to the bone, I’ll fight.
✨ Because even when my bones are heavy and my body says “no,” my soul still says “bring it.”
Every morning starts the same. I wake up at 5 a.m., it’s still dark in my room. The house is quiet, the world hasn’t decided what kind of day it’s going to be yet, and for a few precious minutes, I’m not that me.
I’m not “cancer me.”
I’m not “chemo me.”
I’m not “strong me.” (Lord, I get tired of that one.)
For a little while, I’m just… me.
Just me with an aching back, because apparently that’s the 68-year-old starter kit. Just me with a stiff neck from sleeping in some pretzel position I’ll never admit to. Just me thinking about whether today is a kayak day—paddling hard against the current until my arms protest, then surrendering and letting the water carry me back while I spy on turtles sunbathing and birds plotting their next dive-bomb.
In those quiet morning moments, cancer doesn’t exist. There are no side effects to anticipate, no gnawing questions about whether the chemo is fast enough, strong enough, brutal enough to keep pace with whatever is lurking inside me. “Just me” doesn’t carry that weight. She gets to dream about the river instead.
But of course, the memory always shows up. It knocks, then barges in. And suddenly I’m not just me—I’m cancer-fighting me. So I reach for my mental armor, adjust it until it fits, and swing my legs out of bed. Because meds don’t take themselves, and battles don’t wait for daydreams.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I go to bed early—so I can squeeze in more hours of “just me.”
And honestly? She’s my favorite version anyway.
Cancer—
a word,
so many words,
once heard,
they resonate,
percolate,
like kernels bursting
in a fire too hot,
like gum balls shattering
against the teeth.
And still they circle,
but I stand steady.
They press in,
I press back.
Stronger, louder,
my heartbeat insists—
I am here,
I am more
than any word.
I had some music playing in the background while I worked on this blog, and suddenly this little ditty popped into my head. I am nothing if not honest: I can’t draw, paint, or even color inside the damn lines—and now we can officially add “songwriter” to the list of ways I will never make any money. If it sounds suspiciously like something you’ve heard before, just credit the fabulous Beatles. They’ve been renting space in my brain for five decades, and frankly, I am grateful for all the earworms!
When I get sick and losing my hair
Just a month from now
Will you still see me, want to be with me
Take me with you everywhere?
If I throw up and cry until three
Will you still want to be in bed and see.
Will you still see me, want to be with me
When nothing is easy like we?
When I'm so tired and the end I can't see
And we're too scared to know what to do
If you still see me, want to be with me
I'll keep on fighting to stay with you.
If you still me, want to be with me,
Our love grows stronger, the life we can weave.
I'll give you my heart, you'll always be mine,
Together, my love, till we're ninety-nine!
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Second Battle, Same Me 