Did you know September is #BloodAwarenessMonth? This is our chance to shine a light on lymphoma and raise awareness about this rare cancer. I’m getting involved by [customize what you’re doing]—join me in helping spread the word! Learn how you can make an impact: lymphoma.org/BCAM💜
Join me in advancing lymphoma research, education, and support services by donating or fundraising for the @LymphomaCommunity this #BloodAwarenessMonth! Your contribution makes a difference in the fight against lymphoma. Together, we can create a world without lymphoma. Learn more here: lymphoma.org/BCAM💜
Today is #WorldLymphomaAwarenessDay, a time to come together in support of the more than one million people worldwide living or in remission from lymphoma. I’m helping raise awareness today to advance lymphoma research, education, and our search for a cure. Please join me in supporting the @lymphomacommunity and sharing this message. Together, we can create a world without lymphoma. 💜
Make a Commitment to the Cure
If the link above does not work, don’t give up. I’ll find another link.
It’s been a week since I sat back down in the chemo chair after 21 years away. A lot has changed in my life since then — and yes, a lot has changed in me too. Here’s what this first week has taught me.
The Mouth Situation
Chemo and mouths don’t get along, and mine is proof. My taste buds have left the building. Everything tastes like pennies or cardboard, which makes eating more of a chore than a comfort. Even chocolate cake — which I hated before — is still useless. I’d give anything for a piece of toast that doesn’t taste like I’m chewing tinfoil.
Old, Cranky, and Tired
The last time I did this, I was 48 and thought I was old. Now, at nearly 69, I actually am old — and cranky to match. My body aches, my energy is on permanent low, and most days I’m too tired to do much beyond shuffling between the bed and the recliner. I’m hoping that part changes soon, because right now my world feels very small.
The Strange Gift of New Hours
Fatigue has its own rules. I crash in the middle of the day and then find myself wide awake at 3 a.m. It’s not ideal, but sometimes there’s a gift in those hours — quiet, stillness, even a sunrise I wouldn’t normally see. I wouldn’t have chosen this new schedule, but it’s reminding me that life doesn’t stop just because mine has slowed down.
Gratitude, Even from a Grouch
And here’s the part I didn’t expect: gratitude still sneaks in. I’m grateful for naps that give me a little reset. I’m grateful for friends who reach out, who show up, who keep me connected even when I feel like hibernating. I’m deeply grateful for my husband, whose steady support is a constant in all of this — helping, encouraging, and reminding me I’m not doing this alone. And I’m grateful for the odd, quiet moments that remind me there’s still light in the middle of all this mess.
One Week Down
So that’s one week in. My mouth is a disaster, my energy is unreliable, and my mood is… let’s just say “salty.” But I’ve also got support, humor, and small reasons to be thankful. And maybe that’s what I’ve learned most this week: it’s not about pretending to be positive — it’s about noticing what’s still here, even when so much feels hard.
If you’ve read this far, maybe take a moment and think about the small things keeping you going right now — the unexpected comforts, the quiet gifts, the people who show up. Those are worth holding onto.
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I’m what you’d call a dog of many cultures (and questionable ancestry), weighing in at 26 pounds—prime size for “emotional support bestie,” “fitness trainer,” and “professional poop-bag logistics manager.”
But let me tell you—this last week hasn’t been a walk in the park. Mama is back in chemo-land. Two months shy of 69 and wrestling lymphoma again. She says she’s “been badder and gooder, thinner and fatter, younger but never this old before.” To me? She mostly smells like hand sanitizer, Band-Aids, and pure stubborn.
Now, Mama’s on this kick about “flushing the poison out.” She downloaded an app with a cartoon llama that cheers every time she drinks water. A llama. As if my tail wagging isn’t motivation enough! Anyway, she’s guzzling 100 ounces a day—which means I’ve now memorized every bathroom within a two-mile radius.
But apparently water isn’t enough. Studies show (insert Mama’s dramatic eye roll here) that exercise helps. And that’s where I come in. She straps on her shoes, clips on my leash, and declares we’re going on “short walks of torture and exhaustion.”
I call them SWALKS—Sassy Walks. And here’s how they go:
Minute 1: Mama is all business. I’m busy sniffing the grass like it’s a fine wine tasting.
Minute 5: Mama is huffing, cussing at “fucking studies.” I’m still auditioning pee spots.
Minute 10: Mama looks like she’s negotiating with Death. I’m prancing like a show pony.
Minute 20: Mama is swaying like a drunk flamingo, but don’t worry—I know the way home.
Chemo is rough. My Mama feels awful. But she’s still out here—sweating, swearing, stumbling forward. And I’m her furry sidekick: sniffing, peeing, cheerleading, making sure she doesn’t face-plant on the neighbor’s driveway.
So, if you see us out there on a SASSY WALK, give Mama a honk, a wave—or, better yet, toss me a chicken-flavored treat. We’ll take all the encouragement we can get.
Because adventures aren’t always mountain hikes or big vacations. Sometimes they’re just a stubborn woman and her determined little dog, trudging through the Georgia heat, refusing to quit.
And don’t worry—I’ve got more stories. Next time I steal the keyboard, I’ll tell you about the killer mosquitos the size of Labradors.
So here’s the deal: I’ve had exactly one chemo treatment so far. One. And already I’m asking myself—do I get to blame my senior moments on chemo brain?
I vote yes.
Honestly, I’d much rather believe it’s the poison coursing through my veins than the slow, depressing rot of my aging corpus. Chemo brain sounds quirky. Aging brain sounds tragic. And I’m sticking with quirky.
Case in point: the great Salt and Baking Soda Debacle.
The Plan (So Simple. Too Simple.)
Every cancer veteran knows the drill—mouth rinse with salt + baking soda + water. Prevents sores, keeps your mouth from turning into a war zone. Easy peasy.
So I head to the store. The list? Just two items: salt and baking soda. That’s it. Nothing fancy.
The Execution (Or Lack Thereof)
Twenty minutes later, I’m wandering the aisles like a confused raccoon. Suddenly I’ve got a buggy (that’s southern for “cart,” by the way) full of groceries I didn’t mean to buy.
Fine. No big deal. I drag myself to self-checkout. Don’t even get me started on that circus. The “attendant” was a cute blonde who thought her actual job was ignoring crotchety old ladies while gossiping with her co-workers.
But whatever—I scan my stuff, wrangle my bags, and haul everything home. Victory!
The Punchline (Guess What’s Missing)
SALT And BAKING SODA.
Not in the bags. Not in the car. Not in the house. I even gave the dog the side-eye like, “Did you eat it?” Nope.
Did the cute blonde steal them for margarita night? Did I hallucinate them into my buggy? Did the universe just decide, “Nope, sweetheart, we want your mouth to suffer”? Who knows.
The Moral (Or Excuse)
It will be a cold day in hell before I march back into that store with my receipt and admit I forgot to pick up the only two things I came to the store to purchase. Not happening.
So yes—chemo brain gets the blame. Because “the poison stole my salt” sounds way better than “grandma forgot her stuff.”
💡 Stay tuned for the next thrilling episode of “What Did Chemo Brain Steal This Week?”
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Today, Patricia “Patti” Harned Probst would’ve turned 90. She was 95 lbs of dynamite, tough as nails and soft as a hug, rolled into one. Cancer came for her three times. Each time she said: “Not without a fight.”
Her Battles: • Breast cancer. She white-knuckled through surgery and scars, the cancer rattled her body but couldn’t touch her sass. • Tongue cancer. Talking, eating, smiling — all harder. Did she quit? Nope. She still showed up at the table and kept talking, even if shorter and sharper. Cancer didn’t shut her up. • Throat cancer. The cruel one. It took her breath, then her life. But it never took her dignity. She still laughed, forgave, and loved on her own terms — even when the terms sucked.
What She Taught Me: Now it’s my turn. I’m in the chemo chair, on my “second battle.” Same smells, same fear, same exhaustion. But I’ve also got her grit — and a sharper tongue. Every time I think I can’t, I remember: she did. Three times. With humor, grace, and definitely with swear words. Her lesson? Don’t just survive cancer. Live anyway. Laugh. Love. Show up. And if all else fails — pour a drink, roll your eyes, and flip cancer the bird.
So today, Mom, on your birthday: I raise my glass. To your strength, your sass, and your love that still carries me. Happy Birthday. Keep teaching me how to live loud, laugh hard, and fight dirty when I need to!
Second Battle, Same Me 