The day after: the poison comes back to visit like an unwanted in-law. It wades where it pleases — stabs, jabs, puddles of outrage in my bones. The shoulder cedes first, a tiny drill bit burrowing in until it’s bored its way to the middle of my back. My head’s a foggy TV zone and all I want is a long nap, but then the hips join the pity party.
Is there a silver lining? Sure — it’s passing through. Slowly. Like a moving train that refuses to be quiet. Nausea tags along like a bad joke. Dry mouth, too. The more I drink, the more my stomach stages a protest. I don’t want to sleep away the days I still own. I don’t want chemo to be the weather report for my life.
No Tylenol, no Motrin, no miracle dime-store fix. The pain pools and pounds and nobody gets to leave early. But here’s the part I keep repeating until I believe it: I am stronger than the fear in my head. I can fight harder than my doubts allow. I am more than a count on a lab sheet. More than nausea. More than a chair in an infusion room.
I want to live — not someday, not after the list of “ifs” — today. I will live. And if the poison thinks it can make me quiet about that, it can try.
Remember how I once reported that some folks draw the lucky short straw for chemo—zip in, zip out—and others get the long version? Well, folks, yours truly drew the very, very, very long straw. I arrived bright-eyed (okay, half-eyed) at 9 a.m. and was still there when the lights dimmed at 5 p.m.. Yes, I closed the joint down. (Closing the joint down sure brings different memories!)
But here’s the breaking news: it all went smoothly. No adverse reactions. Just hours and hours of people-watching, chair-swapping, and enough drowsy naps to qualify as a full-blown slumber party.
Morning Beat
When I arrived, chairs were 80% full (give or take, I don’t actually count). I parked myself on the TV-off side. Snoozing in front of me was a woman clearly shorter than me—a clear sign the universe was sending things in the right direction.
Within minutes, the room was its usual scene: patients knocked out cold from the pre-drugs, myself included. I lost the first two hours without even trying.
Midday Shuffle
By the time I woke, the cast had rotated. The self-appointed Chair 11 Lady was back in position, keeping silent watch over the room and the halllway. A few men had joined the section—both out like lights.
And then—finally—real entertainment. One nurse strutted in wearing head-to-toe yellow scrubs with matching socks, topped off with a black jacket and black shoes. She proudly declared herself a “bumble bee.” Who was I to argue? For all I know, that’s the official undercover bee uniform. 🐝 She buzzed around until—wait for it—her twin-in-disguise arrived: a regal patient escorted by her husband/guardian/possibly fellow bee agent. I dubbed her the Queen Bee—weary but still dignified. The nurse buzzed, the husband checked charts, the transfusion wrapped, and the hive emptied out.
For a moment I wasn’t sure if I was in a chemo chair, a bee convention, or halfway down the Yellow Brick Road with Dorothy. Either way, I was definitely not in Kansas anymore.
Evening Edition
As the afternoon crawled on, the chairs emptied. Patients left. Nurses clocked out. Until—just me. And three nurses. They never abandon ship, even when they’re itching to go home. By then, I was cranky and this close to bawling like a toddler denied her juice box.
Finally, my husband was called back, the finish line in sight. I jumped out of that chair faster than a short woman whose feet don’t reach the floor should be able to.
Tears waited until I got home. Then they came fast, like Biff the Cancer Boy himself screaming “I’m dying!”—melting like the Wicked Witch of the West.
Closing Statement
This is Pattie Presswoman, reporting live from the frontlines of chemo. The day was long, the straw longer, but the news? Still good.
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 now and then, my friends and I manage to pull off a miracle—we get together. Not the everyday friends you bump into at the grocery store. Nope. These are the women I see maybe three times a year, if the planets align and nobody’s kids, grandkids, or husbands derail the schedule. We missed some friends this time, but we will catch up next time.
But here’s the thing: they are my friends. The kind that, when you finally sit down together, it feels like no time has passed at all. This time, we even had a new lady join us—and boom, instant friend. That’s how women work. We don’t need a blood oath or a secret handshake. Just pass the coffee, and welcome to the circle.
We started with breakfast, and when the sun hit us full in the face, we moved tables. When the sun found us again (because apparently it was stalking us), we moved again. And we just kept talking—about life, kids, grandkids, husbands, hopes, frustrations, the whole messy, beautiful pile. I never really thought much about cancer at all that day.
There’s something magical about these kinds of conversations. They flow so naturally with women who care, who understand, who aren’t afraid to be real. You don’t need warm-up questions or polite small talk—you just jump right in. And somehow, even though we don’t see each other all the time, there’s always too much to say and never enough time.
Because here’s the truth: women need other women. And I need these women.
So thank you, my friends, for the laughter, the honesty, the tears, the shifting tables, and the reminder that I’m not doing this life , or in this battle, alone.
This was technically a business trip for my husband (you remember, my own personal Luke Skywalker—the legendary snack saver). That meant we only had one full day to play tourist. Lucky for me, Denver’s sports teams were nowhere around, so we were spared from being swallowed up in a sea of jerseys and face paint. Instead, we got to do the average touristy stuff—which, for once, was actually perfect.
We strolled through a gorgeous part of the city. The foliage and flowers were showing off like they’d been waiting just for us, the sky was obnoxiously blue with Instagram-ready puffy white clouds, and the sun drenched us in actual warmth. Nothing I expected, but exactly what I needed. (For the record, “sun-drenched” sounds fancy, but it really means “I should’ve brought sunscreen.”)
Lunch was at True Food Kitchen, where I got brave and ordered something called the “Bright Eyes” refresher. Ingredients: pineapple, carrot, organic apple, ginger, turmeric, beet, and lemon. Basically, a liquid garden. It wasn’t love at first sip—more like, “huh?”—but by the end I was convinced I could run a marathon. (Don’t worry, I didn’t. Sitting was still on the schedule.)
Then came the highlight: the International Church of Cannabis. Calm down—no one was passing around brownies or handing out gummies at the door. It’s an old church that’s been turned into a space for meditation and relaxation. Think groovy 70s furniture (the kind you swore you’d never see again outside of your aunt’s basement) and a meditation garden that practically whispered “chill out.”
The real show, though, was a 30-minute light-and-sound experience. Imagine lying on a church pew with your head on a pillow while swirling lights and fantastic music transport you somewhere between Woodstock and Star Wars. It was that good. All four of us walked out saying, “Yeah, we’d do that again.” And you know that never happens.
Pro tip: if you want to experience this “elevated meditation” the way it was intended, you’ll need to, um, pre-elevate. The Church doesn’t sell cannabis on site, so it’s a bring-your-own-vibe situation. Locals can even join as members for non-public elevated sessions.
All in all, Denver gave us one heck of a memory-filled day. Gorgeous skies, questionable drinks, psychedelic pews, great friends, and my hero Luke at my side. Not bad for 24 hours in the Mile High City.
Sitting on the plane, mask strapped tight, sounding like Darth Vader just for the luxury of chasing a normal life.
Exhaustion hit. I was out cold— missed the food, missed the snacks, missed most of the flight.
But here’s where the story flips. While I was passed out in my personal cloud of exhaustion, my own personal Luke Skywalker was on guard. Not for the galaxy. Not for the greater good. For my snacks.
He saved them. Protected them. Like the Rebel Alliance depended on it.
So sure, Denver was waiting outside the window. But the real view? The reminder that even when I’m down for the count, my own personal Luke has my back.
That’s not sappy. That’s survival. That’s love in our language. And that’s why Luke is my hero!
Got up at 6, left the house at 7, dropped Sassy at the farm by 8:30. She about beat my leg red with that happy tail of hers—dog joy is a full-contact sport.
Then it was Atlanta Airport time. Biggest and busiest airport in the world . And because I’m apparently allergic to common sense, I refused Delta assistance. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. So my poor husband shuffled along at turtle pace, pushing both our suitcases and our bookbags, while I trudged like I was reenacting the Oregon Trail.
We don’t check bags. Don’t ask me why—WE just don’t.
TSA: Tales of Suspicion and Attitude
We have this fancy TSA Pre-Check Touchless thing where your driver’s license photo matches your real-time picture. Except mine didn’t. Cue the angry TSA man glaring at me like I was trying to sneak through in a Groucho Marx disguise.
“Why haven’t you updated your ID?” he barked. “Well, my hair was just cut…before it falls out. My numbers were low. I just found out yesterday I could even come.” Translation: zero sympathy, double lecture.
When he finally waved me through, I tossed a snark grenade: “Only my hair changed—the face is the same.” My husband, ever the helpful peanut gallery, asks, “Did you take your mask off?” No, my darling, I did not assume my license photo included a pandemic mask. Bless his heart.
Then came the security shuffle. Pockets emptied, bins filled, walk this way. I flashed my “I have a port” card like it was a backstage pass, got sent through the full-body scanner, endured the pat-down, and had my suitcase searched because prescription powder apparently = suspicious contraband. Never a dull moment.
Socks of Doom
Doctor’s orders: wear compression socks on the plane. Problem: my legs are 11 inches from knee to ankle and my calves are, let’s say, generous. Walmart and Walgreens had nothing. Husband’s compression socks? Way too long. Solution? Scissors. Cut those suckers down to size and made myself some footless Franken-socks.
I hated them. So I waited until almost time to board to wrestle them on in a bathroom stall. At one point my bare foot was sticking out into the neighbor’s stall while I grunted, groaned, and fought with fabric. Every time I bent over, the toilet flushed. I was basically starring in my own airport bathroom comedy show. Got them on, but never again. (Okay, once more on the flight home. Then never again.)
Sleeping Beauty, Airline Edition
Finally boarded, slapped on my hat, headphones, and neck wrap, and was asleep in less than five minutes. I honestly have no memory of taking off. Two glorious hours gone in a blink. Woke up just in time to find a bathroom and prepare for landing, only to find my husband had scored me two of the best cookies in the world. Keeper, that one.
Reverse and Repeat
Off the plane we did the reverse struggle—restrooms, escalators, trains, restrooms again—until we finally made it to the hotel. The room was perfect. I napped. We ate downstairs instead of prowling the streets, and miracle of miracles, the food was fantastic.
Bonus entertainment: a bridal party taking pictures and friends we came to see. By 6:00 local time (aka 9 past-my-bedtime o’clock), I was tucked back in bed. Asleep within the hour, no regrets.
Worth Every Awkward Moment
As Vegan Coach Naomi nailed it after a mountain-biking crash: “Doing shit you want to do is totally worth it—even if you fall.”
So yes, oncologist, I followed the rules. And yes, friends, the whole chaotic, exhausting, ridiculous day was worth every second (my shamelessly stolen motto). Even if it did end with my bare foot in a stranger’s bathroom stall.
P.S. I swear I did not wear those crocks! Or short pants. Imagine if the franken-socks were visible. Oh hell no!!
Guess what, folks? The numbers were great. Like, “pack your bag and go live a little” great. And let me just brag for a second: for the first time ever, I packed in an hour. An HOUR. And everything actually fit in the carry-on. (Airline baggage fees, you will not be getting me this round.)
I’m giddy to meet up with friends and see new scenery. The thought of laughing, eating, and soaking up joy that doesn’t involve a hospital chair feels downright luxurious. Sometimes, life throws you a bone—or in my case, a boarding pass—and I’m running with it.
Thank you for all the prayers, good vibes, and cosmic wishes you keep sending my way. I swear the universe must be listening, because occasionally things actually line up just the way you want them to.
Now, don’t get it twisted—the battle’s not over. Chemo comes calling again next Friday, the long-haul kind. But until I get back? I’m going to play hard, laugh loud, and live like I never got acquainted with the uninvited houseguest we’ll just call “You-Know-Who.” (And no, not Voldemort—though frankly, cancer’s got the same level of evil.)
For those of you are wondering, Sassy did not get to go. She is going to her favorite home away from home at Serenity K9 where the best people take the best care of her. And teach her things too. If you are interested in learning more about Lauren and Serenity K)9. https://www.serenityk9.org/
Twenty-four years ago, on September 11, 2001, I sat glued to the TV, watching in shock as the first tower burned and the second plane hit. Like everyone else, I thought, this cannot be happening in the United States. But it did. And nearly 3,000 lives were gone in a single morning.
These were people just doing what we all do—heading to work, starting their day, drinking coffee, planning lunch. Firefighters, police officers, EMTs—heroes who ran into the chaos while everyone else was trying to get out. Ordinary people who turned extraordinary in a heartbeat, helping strangers down smoke-filled stairwells. None of them woke up expecting it to be their last day. But it was.
And it didn’t end there. The recovery stretched on for months. Brave men and women worked in the rubble, many of them later getting sick, many of them dying because of what they breathed in down there. Families were shattered—spouses left without their person, kids growing up without a mom or dad, parents burying children they should never have had to bury. The grief didn’t leave when the news cameras did. It still sits heavy for so many.
So today, I just want to say thank you. Thank you to the heroes of that day. Thank you to the ones who stayed and dug and carried and comforted. And my heart is with every family who had their world ripped apart.
We don’t move on from something like this. We move forward with it.
At this time of year, many of us find ourselves wanting to five back to the people and communities so deeply affected by this tragedy.
In the spirit of giving back to the 9/11 community and beyond, many 9/11 family members and first responders began charities, providing everything from mental health support to financial assistance.
I have chosen VOICES Center for Resilience (Formerly Voice of September 11th), founded by 9/11 family members Mary Fetchet and Beverly Eckert This charity began as an organization to help other family members, first responders, and recovery workers navigate complex processes to find health-related and financial resources. Drawing on lessons learned and expertise, VOICES has evolved to assist countless other communities impacted by mass violence and natural disasters. If you would like to research this charity, or donate, following is a link.
Second Battle, Same Me 