Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: #Blood Cancer United

  • Leaving On a Jet Plane…

    Yes, With a Carry-on or Two

    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/

  • Live Life or Stay

    Photo by Jenny Uhling on Pexels.com

    Today is the day.
    What will the numbers say?
    Do I pack my bag for a trip,
    Or do I, once again, stay?

    Plans were made—
    Before he arrived.
    Plans for living life,
    Not just fighting for it.

    If the numbers are good,
    I’m going.
    Because life is too short.

    If the numbers are bad,
    I’m staying put,
    Gearing up,
    And fighting for life.

    So y’all—say a prayer,
    Send a wish to the universe.
    This girl needs to get out and live.
    Because life is too short.

  • Sassy Walks: V2

    Turtle Edition 🐾🐢

    Hi y’all, Sassy here—your faithful reporter on all things Mama. And doggone it, I’ve got a tale to tell.

    Mama is not exactly burning up the sidewalks these days. I spent the whole weekend trying to talk her into a walk, and today she finally caved. Honestly? I think she just wanted me to quit bugging her. Because let me tell you—this woman was moving slower than a turtle on vacation. (Which, come to think of it, explains why the turtle is totally her spirit animal. Mystery solved.)

    And the soundtrack? Lord help me. She huffed and puffed like a herd of elephants stomping through the Sahara. I know chemo makes her tired, but nobody warned me it would be that embarrassing to walk her in public.

    But I stuck with her. We managed to make it all the way to the street and back. Sure, I’ve got four legs and she’s only got two—but even if I crawled on my belly, I’d still have lapped her. (And trust me, three weeks ago she could’ve belly-crawled faster than she walked today!)

    Don’t worry, I didn’t tease her. Nope, I was a good girl. I stopped to sniff and pee on every single blade of grass I could find, just to give her a breather. Between us, I faked a few of those stops—but hey, she never suspected. The highlight of the whole trip? My big ol’ poop. Mama was oddly proud, like I’d just won a medal. You’re welcome.

    Before we got back inside, she promised we’d do it again tomorrow. And I’m holding her to it. Taking care of Mama is my job—even if she still can’t speak fluent Dog. Maybe tomorrow I’ll convince her to cross the street. Baby steps, right?

    Here’s to four legs, endless patience, and dragging Turtle Mama along one block at a time. 🐕💚

  • Morning Me

    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 Food

    The Not-So-Gourmet Guide

    You’d think that when you get diagnosed with cancer, the rules of eating would go right out the window. Like, “Congrats—you’ve got cancer! Please enjoy your unlimited pass to nachos, milkshakes, and midnight drive-thru feasts.” Sadly, no. Apparently, I still have to care about what goes into my mouth.

    It’s the same logic as the chain-smoker who says, “The damage is already done,” except my version involves cookies and french fries. And let’s be real: I’ve been chubby/fat/obese-all-my-life. I know my way around a snack aisle like it’s a second home. I’ve dieted enough to lose at least three entire humans along the way, but the chart still says I’m not “normal.” (Oh Honey, in so many ways! That’s a whole ‘nother blog!)

    So no, this is not the time to “diet.” If I couldn’t do it when my biggest stress was whether to order cake or pie, I’m sure as hell not doing it while juggling cancer and chemo.

    Here’s the thing, though: food really does matter. Not in the Pinterest-perfect “green smoothie in a mason jar” way, but in the “your body is being poisoned, so maybe give it a fighting chance” kind of way. My granddaughter calls me daily, demands pictures of my meals, and lectures me about vitamins. She’s basically my own personal food parole officer.

    So I’ve made a deal with myself. Every time I look at food (and I use that word loosely—Oreos count in my world), I ask: “Will this hurt me or heal me?” Sometimes I actually listen and grab salmon and broccoli, or fruit. Other times? The cake wins. I’m aiming for balance—lots of vegetables and protein at meals, fruit for snacks, and yes, an occasional cookie to keep me from becoming a menace to society. Or less of a menace, my sharp tongue has been particularly slicing these days.

    Am I perfect? Absolutely not. Do I sneak junk? You bet your Dairy Queen I do. But here’s the truth: eating well gives me energy, helps me feel less like a zombie, and maybe—just maybe—helps the chemo do its dirty work.

    So yeah, I’m trying. And if anyone asks, I’ll tell them: I’m basically a spinach smoothie away from sainthood. (But don’t you dare touch my Oreos—I’m not that holy.)

    If you have any suggestions or healing recipes you’d like to share, I’d love to see them!

  • Finding the Light

    I’m fighting an enemy
    I cannot see.
    It whispers in shadows
    and lingers in me.

    I wonder if I can trust myself,
    to remember it’s real,
    when it feels like a dream
    yet threatens to steal.

    The rules stay steady:
    rest when I can,
    nourish my body,
    walk when I’m able,
    hold hope in my hand.

    Today it is quiet,
    just me and my thoughts,
    wandering in circles,
    searching for ground.

    Still, I ask:
    Will I stand?
    Will I fight?
    If the light fades,
    can I find it again?

    Yes—
    because I have before,
    and because I am still here.

  • Chemo Chronicles -V2

    Dateline: Infusion Center. Chair 4—my lucky spot, my turf, my assigned recliner throne.

    This visit was a little different. But that’s the thing with cancer—you can’t trust it. Just when you think you’ve got the routine down, it switches things up.

    Fridays appear to be the “Quick Lane” days. (It’s a Ford thing, IYKYK). Folks breeze in for one-and-done infusions or quick little shots. It’s basically the drive-thru menu version of cancer treatment. And surprise—this week I landed in the quick lane too! (Who knew this disease had an express option? Now if only they handed out fries with that stuff…)

    Of course, I managed to put my papers in the wrong place—again. I was gently “re-instructed” on proper sign-in performance, because apparently there’s a choreography to this. Reminder: pole dancers do not play!

    The People of Recliner Row

    • Chair 2 was occupied by a shot-and-go pro. She brought her own blanket, clocked in under 30 minutes, and left with the efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew.
    • Chair 7 hosted a gentleman who nodded off before his bag was even hooked up. Snoring achieved decibel levels impressive enough to drown out an infusion pump alarm.
    • Chair 11 is the only chair that faces the hallway. I would never sit there. But as an older lady (okay, my age) was wheeled into that chair, her daughter loudly announced that Mama loves this chair so she can see all the comings and goings. Hmmmm. Maybe I would sit there after all.
    • The Nurses: still pirouetting between poles, juggling syringes, and keeping everyone moving through the lanes. Gold medals, every one of them.

    Meanwhile, I picked up a lot of new info this visit. Same me, just older me—learning the ropes all over again, taking more naps, heading to bed earlier, and laughing at my own clumsy lack of sign-in etiquette.

    Chair 4, quick lane, and still me. Cancer may not be trustworthy, but my stubborn streak is rock solid.

  • Second Battle Same ME

    Not gonna lie: I tried every filter I could find.
    When “they” were done, the pic didn’t even look like me.

    All I really wanted? Eyes a little more open. Neck a little less wrinkled. But apparently “they” saw so much more that needed to be blurred, smoothed, and fixed.

    And it made me wonder: is this what happens when we sign up for surgery to erase a bump in the nose, or a little tweak here and there? Do we walk out feeling less like ourselves?

    For me, this photo is staying real. The only edit here is a solid background.

    Because wrinkles, tired eyes, and all… it’s still me.

    And speaking of staying real—today is chemo day for me. So expect a report from Pattie Presswoman soon, straight from the trenches of Recliner Row.

  • Rapunzel, Rapunzel… Buzz Off

    So, it’s time for the hair talk.

    How much of my self-esteem is wrapped up in my hair? When I was a young woman, I had long red hair all the way to my bottom. (It was the 70s—every woman had long, long hair. It was practically in the dress code.)

    The first time cancer boy came for me, 21 years ago, the thought of losing my hair was devastating. Hair meant youth, beauty, identity. I tried being Rapunzel with a chemo drip – not a good look.

    But now? Not so much.

    After my first chemo battle, when my hair grew back, I reveled in it. I grew it as long as I could stand it… which, it turned out, wasn’t much past my neckline. Something surprising happened during that phase: I realized how glorious it was to not have hair. No routine. No products. No hours wasted with hot rollers or blow dryers. Except for that brief, ridiculous love affair with my hair’s comeback tour, I’ve been perfectly happy with “trouble-free” hair ever since.

    But trouble-free hair is not the same as no hair. And here I am again, standing at the edge of the cliff. Which would I hate more:

    a) the actual baldness, or
    b) enduring people’s sympathy, their pitying looks, and their unsolicited “it will grow back” pep talks while I shed like a mangy dog in public?

    Knowing me? It’s a strong, emphatic B. The comments and clucking would make me go full crazy-bitch mode, and nobody needs that.

    So, this afternoon I’m taking control. I’m buzzing this older-lady short hair down to a tidy buzz cut. Yes, that will fall out too, but it’s easier to manage and—most importantly—my choice.

    How do I know it’s time? Easy. Two days ago I wore my buff (you know, the all-purpose “Survivor” headband/armband/head covering/halter top if you’re braver and skinnier than me). When I went to nap, I laid it on the nightstand. The entire nap was a continous dream with me lifting up the buff and watching all my hair come with it.

    Dream logic or not, I woke up knowing: it’s time.

    Because let’s be real—nobody in this house needs me shedding more than Sassy the Wonder Dog.

    So today, Rapunzel’s letting her hair down one last time. And tomorrow? She’s rocking the buzz.

    ✨ Have you gone through the hair-loss rollercoaster yourself—or stood beside someone who has? How did you handle the first buzz, the first scarf, the first bald-glare reflection in the mirror? Drop your story in the comments. Let’s trade survival tips, snark, or even just solidarity.

  • My Unreliable, Occasionally Brilliant, Totally Necessary Battle Plan”

    Weaponized Words

    Cancer.
    Lymphoma.
    Diffuse. Large. B. Cell.

    To me, it sounds less like a diagnosis and more like a bad Scrabble hand—or the world’s worst Wi-Fi password. The doctors say it like it’s just another Tuesday. I hear it and wonder if I need a translator, a medical degree, or maybe just a stiff drink.

    Knowledge: Comfort or Chaos?

    Do I need more knowledge? Less? Enough to build a binder with color-coded tabs?

    Here’s the problem: information cuts both ways. Too little, and I feel like I’m strapped in the backseat of my own life. Too much, and I’m wide awake at 2 a.m., Googling things that I cannot unsee.

    So I aim for the middle ground. Learn enough to ask smart questions. Enough to push back when I need to. Enough to carry a flashlight in the dark without blinding myself with every grim statistic.

    Structured Uncertainty

    Every day hits reset like a game I didn’t sign up to play.
    One round: emotions bouncing from high to low like a malfunctioning carnival ride.
    Next round: nausea (front-row seat), then suddenly—no nausea (intermission!).
    Add in a generous sprinkle of worry, repeat as needed.

    So how do I structure uncertainty? I can’t tame it—it’s like trying to leash a tornado. But I can give it boundaries. And I’ve learned that structure doesn’t fix everything, but it keeps me from completely unraveling. Less “perfect schedule” and more “duct tape and bubblegum holding the day together.”

    Here’s what I try to do:

    • Morning: a few stretches (bonus points if I don’t fall over).
    • Hydration: gallons of water cheered on by a cartoon llama. (Yes, it’s silly. But it’s working.)
    • Movement: multiple swalks outside with Sassy, the wonder dog!
    • Social Rule: only one possible encounter with strangers a day. I don’t have the energy for small talk and cancer.
    • Evening: rant, write, laugh, cry. Hit publish.

    Does it erase the nausea, the brain fog, or the exhaustion? Nope. But it gives my days shape. And shape means I’m trudging instead of free-falling. Trudging may not sound glamorous, but it’s still forward.

    Fighting the Battle

    So how do I fight cancer? Not with perfect pronunciation of “diffuse large B-cell lymphoma.” Not with toxic positivity or “good vibes only.”

    I fight by being stubborn. By giving uncertainty limits. By letting others hold me up when I can’t. By laughing when everything sucks. By crying when I need to. By stretching myself just enough to remind myself I’m still here, still moving, still me.

    In a battle where the finish line moves every day – This is how I win.