Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: #Blood Cancer United

  • Becoming, Again

    You ever wake up and wonder where you went?
    Because I do. Every damn day lately.

    When I started this blog — Second Battle, Same Me — I really believed that.
    That I could go through cancer again and still come out the same woman.
    But lately I’m not so sure.

    Twenty-one years ago, I fought this battle once before.
    Back then, I don’t remember if I became someone else —
    or if I just put on a stronger version of myself to survive it.
    But now, walking through it again, I can feel the shift happening all over.

    Chemo is stealing things from me.
    My ability to stand up for myself.
    My ability not to cry at every damn thing.
    My ability not to apologize for not being superwoman.
    I used to be strong.
    I used to be in charge.
    I used to juggle ten things at once and still have enough left to carry someone else’s load too.

    Did I become that woman after the first battle?
    Or was she always in there — the warrior, the doer, the fixer?
    And if she was, does losing her now mean I’m losing me… or just becoming something new?

    Because right now, I feel like a shell of her.
    I cry too easily.
    I apologize too much.
    I’m angry enough to break glass.
    And some days, I want to lie on the floor, blanket over my head,
    and just stop being brave for a minute.

    Yeah, that’s where I am.
    Chemo stole my personality — or maybe it’s stripping me down to what’s left underneath it.
    The parts I never had time to meet when I was too busy being “fine.”

    Here’s the thing no one tells you:
    When everything that made you you gets blasted away,
    you find out who’s hiding underneath the noise.
    And maybe that’s the quiet kind of hope —
    not in the old me, or the strong me, or the version that looked like she had it all together —
    but in the woman who’s still standing here anyway.
    Still showing up.
    Still writing.
    Still trying.

    Maybe chemo didn’t steal everything after all.
    Maybe it just peeled me back to real.

    And that woman — broken, teary, tired, messy —
    she’s still here.
    She’s still me.
    And I think she might be becoming someone even stronger than before.

    I wonder who she’ll be next.
    But for once, I’m not afraid to find out. 💚

  • Sassy the Wonder Dog Goes to Work

    Oh my gosh, you guys — LOOK what my Uncle Bobby and Aunt Beth made just for me! 🦸‍♀️
    A Super Cape for Sassy the Wonder Dog! 💚💜 I mean, seriously — could there be better humans in the whole wide world? If you see them, tell them how awesome they are.

    As soon as it arrived, Mom took me up to Dad’s office to show me off. Everyone needs to see a superhero at work, right? I strutted across that shiny white tile floor like I owned the place. The cape even matches Mom’s cancer colors — bright lime green and purple — which makes me an official sidekick in the battle.

    It was good for Mom to go, too. She doesn’t like going there much anymore. She says she “looks like crap” because her hair is falling out. (I don’t get that part — mine falls out every day and nobody panics about it. Humans are weird.) She also says she’s gotten fatter (and shhh, that part might be true), but it’s the medicine, and she can’t help it. I still think she’s perfect.

    Last time I wrote, I had a plan to get Mom walking more. Well, as she likes to say — chemo turns plans to poop! 💩
    You probably read her blogs — she’s been feeling rough. But she’s getting stronger again, and today we’re going to take short walks up at the lake. It’s our favorite place. I’ll be wearing my Wonder Dog cape proudly — maybe she’ll feel better being seen with such a stylish sidekick.

    Taking care of Mom is my full-time job. That means making sure she rests, too. Yesterday was a big day (wonder dogging is hard work), so we went to bed early — 8 p.m. sharp. I curled up beside her all night to keep watch. She was pretty restless… probably still excited about the cape I think.

    Thank you again to the bestest Uncle Bobby and Aunt Beth in the whole wide world! 💚
    You made this Wonder Dog feel truly super.

  • And Then the Sun Comes Out

    There’s this moment — sometimes it’s an hour, sometimes it’s just a breath — when the dark starts to loosen its grip.
    It’s quiet at first, just a small flicker. A reminder that the flame inside me never really went out, it was just waiting for air.

    And then the sun comes out.
    And everything changes.

    I can see the flame again.
    I can feel the power I thought I’d lost start to stretch, yawn, and whisper, “Hey girl, I’m still here.”

    Isn’t it crazy how the dark can hide your will and confuse your heart?
    It convinces you you’re out of fight, when really you’re just out of light.

    But a little light — just a crack through the blinds, a kind word, a wagging tail, a red bird on a branch — is all it takes.
    And suddenly, you’re not sinking. You’re rising.
    You can see yourself take flight.

    Because even after the longest night, the sun still shows up.
    And so do I. 💚

  • 🌙 Nothing Feels Right

    It’s the middle of the night,
    and nothing feels right.
    I’m awake. I’m asleep.
    I’m cold—then sweating through the sheets.

    The body can’t decide which crisis to lead with.
    The mind keeps score.
    The stomach’s staging a riot.
    And somewhere deep inside,
    the question whispers again:

    “The poison is poisoning… but is it winning?”

    I shift, stretch, ache, repeat.
    Get up, sit down, open the laptop,
    search for answers I already know aren’t there.
    The clock blinks 3:17 a.m.—mocking me in neon red.

    Middle of the night.
    Middle of the cycle.
    Middle of the fight.

    The poison does what it does.
    And I do what I do—
    stay, breathe, endure,
    and keep asking the question,
    even when I already know the answer.

    Because I’m still here.
    Still fighting. Still standing.
    Still winning.

  • Sassy Walks V4 – Halfway There (and Dragging Mama with Me)

    Hey y’all — it’s me, Sassy the Wonder Dog, checking in with breaking news from the home front.

    Mama is almost halfway through her chemo protocol!
    Which is amazing, but let me tell you — the woman looks really, really tired. Like, couch-is-now-her-best-friend tired.

    I’ve had to get creative with my motivation tactics. My favorite trick? Barking like there’s a stranger at the door until she hauls herself up to go check. Hey, a motivation dog’s gotta do what a motivation dog’s gotta do. 💪🐶

    Now, about last night — when they came home from chemo, I jumped in Mama’s lap and gave her the full deluxe lick-down package. That’s when I noticed something, she’s losing more hair. Not bald yet, but I can see some shiny spots starting to peek through. I tried to ask Dad if we’re supposed to act cool about it, but he doesn’t speak fluent Dog. So I said nothing.

    This morning, I spotted more hair on her pillow. So I did what any loyal companion would do — I rubbed all over it. If Mama’s hair is going anywhere, I’m taking some with me. ❤️

    Anyway, the real story is my mission to get her moving again. Lately, her walks are shorter and her breathing’s shallower. I know humans like rewards just like dogs, but apparently not bones (weird, right?). I heard they like stickers on a calendar — which, if you ask me, sounds like a rip-off. Not even edible! 🍖

    So I’m planning to make Mama a Sassy Sticker Chart — one paw print for every time she takes me outside. I’m starting my data collection today. When she lets me out for my morning business, I’m gonna pull out my best acting — big eyes, tail wag, full drama — and beg her to walk down the street. She’ll cave. She always does. She loves seeing what’s going on in the neighborhood. (I call it “people-watching.” She calls it “getting fresh air.” Tomato, tomahto.)

    So keep wagging your tails and sending those good thoughts and prayers. Mama says I can’t ask for licks again — apparently it’s “unsanitary.” Whatever that means.

    Until next time —
    Sassy the Wonder Dog, signing off. 🐾💚

  • Sleeping Is Hard Work (and Apparently, So Am I)

    Sleeping all day is a lot of work.
    I mean really. No one actually wants to spend all day in bed. Or all day asleep on the couch. It’s not glamorous. There are no trophies for “Most Consecutive Hours Horizontal,” though at this point I’d probably win that one — by medical recommendation, no less.

    But apparently, this is what my body needs. Rest to restore. Recharge. Rebuild. Yada yada yada.
    Meanwhile, my brain — the same brain that still thinks it’s 35 and capable of running errands, writing blogs, and alphabetizing the spice rack — has a fit every time I even consider a nap.

    Because let’s face it: sleeping feels like giving in. Like waving the white flag and whispering, “Okay cancer, you win this round.”
    But here’s the twist — it’s actually the opposite. Sleeping is fighting. It’s strategic rest. It’s a battle tactic. My body is rebuilding cells like a factory on night shift.

    So when I’m under the covers at noon, drooling on my pillow and surrounded by snack wrappers, don’t pity me.
    Applaud me.
    I am not lazy — I am regenerating.
    I’m resting my way to rebellion.

    And when I finally wake up, eyes crusted, what hair I have left at full scarecrow level, I’ll be ready for the next round — fully armed with coffee, sarcasm, and just enough energy to yell,
    “Take that, chemo boy!”

  • Too Tired to Lift a Blanket, But Still Fighting the Battle

    When was the last time you slept in and still woke up so tired that even pulling the blanket off felt like a full-body workout? I’m talking Olympic-level fatigue here. The kind where you just lie there negotiating with gravity like, “Listen, I’ll move if you move first.”

    So there I was, having a full-blown hostage situation with my comforter. The only reason I didn’t stay trapped under it forever was because my bladder started yelling like a toddler in a grocery store. I tried to ignore it, but biology always wins. So I turned sideways, feet to the floor, and slid out like a slow-motion seal escaping a sand trap. It wasn’t pretty, but it was effective.

    After surviving that adventure, I scrubbed my hands for the required 20 seconds (because apparently 19 seconds is where all the germs party), and fully intended to crawl back into bed. But then I looked down. My blanket mountain had avalanched to the floor. There was no freaking way I was lifting that mess.

    So, off I wobbled to my sacred recovery spot—the couch. My couch never lets me down. It knows my shape. It cradles me. It always has that one blanket ready for action. But before I could collapse into its loving embrace, I stumbled into the kitchen to pour myself a cup of ambition. 🎶 (Yes, that’s a Dolly Parton lyric. Yes, my brain just sings now. No, there’s no off switch.)

    Today’s ambition doesn’t involve board meetings or productivity charts. Nope. My ambition is to mix the perfect recipe of rest, healing foods, hydration, determination, and pure, unfiltered fierceness.

    So, what’s the moral of this story? I’m too tired to pick up a blanket—but not too tired to keep showing up for the fight. I’m weary, yes. But I’m not out.

    Now if someone could just invent self-folding covers, I might finally win a round.

  • The Cost of Cancer vs. The Currency of Compassion”

    Have you ever stopped to think about the actual cost of fighting cancer? Not the emotional toll — we all know that part is priceless — but the real dollars and cents.

    When I first began this journey, I had no idea how expensive staying alive could be. The surgery to remove the lump that started it all: $1,700. Not terrible, right? That’s what I thought too.

    Then came the PET scan — the big one that lights up your insides like a Christmas tree to find out where the cancer might be hiding. Price tag? $14,000. (And yes, it found something glowing.)

    Next up: the regular oncology visits. I’ve stopped trying to calculate every single one, but let’s just say each appointment includes a series of blood tests— about $4,000 a pop.

    And finally, chemotherapy. The heavy hitter. Average cost: $54,000.

    Those are the numbers when everything goes well.

    Now, before you panic, here’s the good news: I am incredibly fortunate to have a Medicare gap plan through AARP. My out-of-pocket costs are less than $1,000 a year. It’s not free — it’s actually a bit pricey upfront — but that plan has been worth every penny for the peace of mind it brings.

    I’m not sharing this to scare anyone. I’m sharing it to prepare you. Because one of the biggest lessons cancer has taught me is that being informed is a form of self-care.

    If you don’t have coverage that will protect you in a crisis — start asking questions now. And if you’re already in the middle of the fight and feeling overwhelmed, don’t hesitate to ask for help. Every cancer center has a social worker who can help you navigate the maze of costs, grants, and support programs. There are even organizations that will send volunteers to clean your house for free.

    Yes — free. Sparkling kitchen, courtesy of kindness.

    And to those of you who are fortunate enough to have extra, please donate to a cancer cause. There are so many worthy causes – find one and donate. Even $20 helps.

    The truth is, no one fights cancer alone. And no one should have to.

    If you ever find yourself sitting on hold trying to sort out insurance, bills, or assistance — call me. I’ve practically earned a Ph.D. in waiting on hold. 😊

    Because helping each other through this is the real currency of healing. 💚

    As stated many times, I cannot draw and I rely on AI to draw the pictures as I describe them. I did not describe two phones – or at least I did not think I did. But they are awesome anyway!

  • Dizziness, Diagnosis, and Dumb Google Holes

    It’s funny — when you don’t have a serious illness, you can hop out of bed a little dizzy and think, “must’ve stood up too fast.”

    If you’re me, and you do have cancer, your immediate response is: clearly the cancer has gone to my brain. Or — because I never miss a chance to overachieve — maybe it’s a brand-new cancer. Or possibly a brain-eating worm brought on by sneaking too many M&Ms.

    Either way, it calls for hours of internet research to confirm my impending doom.

    So this morning, that’s exactly how I woke up — dizzy, dramatic, and ready to self-diagnose. I opened my laptop to “write a blog” and two hours later, I was somewhere deep in the Google hole, no closer to a definitive answer but 100% sure I was dying.

    Exhausted from all that medical detective work, I did what any rational adult would do: I pulled one of my mother’s old tricks and went back to bed.

    And wouldn’t you know — when I woke up again, there on my nightstand were two medicine bottles, the same ones I’d taken before bed. I picked one up and read the fine print: “May cause drowsiness or dizziness.”

    Well, damn. Turns out it wasn’t a brain-eating worm or a rare, one-in-a-billion cancer after all. It was the damn medicine.

    Welcome to my every day. 💚

  • 🎮 Level 68 Fn Fantabulous

    Later this month, I’ll zone up to Level 69 (which doesn’t sound right, since you start life at Level Zero, but I don’t make the rules — I just play this weird game called Life).

    Now that I’ve almost completed Level 68, I’ve learned something important: I apparently prefer struggling through things by myself over simply asking for help. Somewhere along the way, that became a mental defect — or maybe it’s written into the game rules none of us have access to. Either way, I seem to be a solo-quest kind of girl.

    And when you add in my ongoing battle with Chemo Boy, well, asking for help feels like handing him bonus points. He feeds off weakness. I’m convinced if I ask for help, he levels up somewhere in the background, unlocking an “Extra Pain” weapon pack. And I am not giving him that satisfaction.

    The Quest for Light

    So this morning’s solo mission? Find light.
    I woke up early to write, the house was dark, and I thought to myself — “Self,” (and I knew it was me because I recognized my voice — I love that old joke, and yes, full credit to whoever first wrote it).

    Anyway. Back to the quest.

    I thought, I need a lighted keyboard. Do I have one? Hmm. I Google it. Google tells me to grab a flashlight and look for a “keyboard with lines through it” symbol. So I go on an actual flashlight hunt — in the dark — to look for a symbol that literally means “light.” You can’t make this stuff up.

    Of course, there’s no symbol. Then Google says, press the Fn key and the wiggly keyboard key.

    Excuse me — the what key? The Fn key?
    I swear I had never seen such a thing in my life. Level 68 or Chemo Brain — take your pick. But after a small archaeological dig across my keyboard, I found it! Because I am nothing if not determined not to ask for help.

    The Magic Combo

    Back to Google (which doesn’t count as asking for help — that’s a resource, like a library for the socially stubborn).

    Turns out I just needed to press Fn + Space Bar.
    I do it. And — miracle of miracles — my keyboard lights up like Times Square.

    Fn-tastic. Fn-bulous. Fn-nomenal.

    I was so proud of myself… until the mouse died.

    The Mouse That Mocked Me

    No joke, the mouse that was working five minutes ago suddenly decided to retire. My first thought: batteries. Nope. I toggled the power switch back and forth like a maniac — nothing.

    Finally, I realized the little Bluetooth light was off. Because of course it was. After a few rounds of trial, error, and mild cursing, I managed to reconnect it. Success! Mouse revived. Chemo Boy zero.

    Wait… What Was I Doing Again?

    There was just one more small problem.
    I have no idea what I originally got up to write about.

    So here we are:

    • The sun’s coming up over the lake.
    • I’m feeling good.
    • Sassy has already informed me that she’s scheduling three walks today because, quote, “Mama, you’re making me fat.”
      Her words, not mine.

    So, that’s today’s adventure: backlit victory, Bluetooth betrayal, and total topic amnesia.

    Moral of the story:
    Never give up, never give in — and don’t underestimate the power of the Fn key.