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.
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. 🐾💚
Hi everyone — Pattie Presswoman here, reporting live from the glamorous chemo room, where the IVs drip, the chairs spin, the nurses pole dance (for the cause, obviously), and the drama unfolds one infusion at a time.
I arrived bright and early — 8:30 a.m. — because apparently, I enjoy pretending punctuality matters when chemo runs on its own cosmic schedule. Spoiler: it doesn’t. It’s now late afternoon and, once again, I’m closing down the chemo lounge like it’s last call at Club Infusion.
I started the day in what looked like the perfect corner chair. Big mistake. Within an hour, I was sweating like I’d run a half-marathon in South Georgia in August — which, for the record, I have (and yes, I kept the participation medal because I survived humidity that could melt eyelashes). Maybe it would be easier now with no eyelashes.
Naturally, because I was sweating and he was not currently suffering with me, I texted my husband — a.k.a. Luke Skywalker — for sympathy. His very Jedi response? “Say something.” Ugh. Fine. I complained. Ten seconds later, I was told where the “cool kids” sit, and now I’m parked directly under the arctic vent, cool as a cucumber in full IV couture.
Remember that friend from way-back-when who reappeared a few weeks ago? She and her son are here again. He remembered me. She half did, half didn’t — which honestly makes us even because chemo brain has me forgetting my own name some days. Still, we laughed, caught up, and for a few minutes it felt like old times (minus the poison drip, of course).
Chair 4 was chatty today — first-timer nerves, bless her. She said asked me if all food tastes like metal. Been there, chewed that. I told her the only thing that tasted right during my first chemo rodeo was pork chops and watermelon. (Yes, together. Don’t judge. It was delicious.) She’s going to give it a try. If it works, I expect credit and maybe a Food Network deal.
Then The Mama arrived — Queen of Chair 11. Except someone had the audacity to sit in her throne. Cue the silent standoff. Her daughter, clearly a seasoned diplomat, negotiated a peaceful one-chair-over relocation. The Mama dozed off soon after, and as I passed on my way to the restroom, I whispered to her daughter, “How dare someone steal Mama’s chair?” She nodded like we were co-conspirators in a Hallmark movie about chemo justice.
A little later I woke up from my name to see in the chair directly across from me sat the tiniest little lady — shorter than me (and I’m 4’10” with hair). She reminded me of my own tiny little sweet-but-salty Mama. My Mama always said dynamite came in small packages. It was true for her. Anyway when the new little lady fell asleep, her head flopped over, and of course I started bugging each nursed that passed by and each one assured me she always sleeps that way, which I’m 99% sure was nurse-speak for, “Mind your own damn business, Presswoman.”
Now here I am, half done with my third treatment regiment – which is half-way through the entire treatment schedule — cue confetti, and maybe a victory nap. A PET scan is next to see if we’re winning or if I get to pick another poison card from the deck. Either way, I’m ready.
Because Mama didn’t raise a quitter — she raised a woman who sweats, snacks, and reports live from the chemo front lines. With sarcasm as my sidekick and hope as my headline, I’ll keep showing up — cool under the vent, pork chop in spirit, and always ready for the next round.
Just a warning, being cool as a cucumber may have put way too many words in my fingers. My apologies for the long read. I hope it was at least entertaining!
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!”
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.
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.
This morning I sat in the almost-dark and watched the sky split itself open. Every day really is a blank canvas, but let’s be honest—most of the strokes are thrown on by things I’ll never control. Life doesn’t exactly wait for my approval before it slaps paint around.
So I start where I can: ordering the little pieces that actually belong to me. Call it self-care, call it survival, call it refusing to let the day turn beige.
As the sky softened into light, I decided—resolved, even—that I’d throw some light of my own around today. Maybe for myself, maybe for anyone who crosses my path. The geese flew overhead in their messy V, reminding me that forward is the only direction that counts. And the blue heron strutted across the water like it owned the place, reminding me to stay exactly where I am, no apologies.
So here’s the palette I’m grabbing: joy.
Joy in the fact that I woke up vertical.
Joy in feeling well enough to move, not just moan.
Joy in time with my granddaughter—even at 25, when she’s not giggling but building her own damn life and still making me proud.
Joy in collapsing for a nap without guilt.
Joy in dancing if the music insists, even if it looks like a medical emergency.
That’s today’s order. Joy, bold strokes, no beige allowed. Maybe you should order some too.
There is no blog post today because, at this very minute, I’m enjoying the most relaxing massage — a gift from a very dear friend.
After listening to my heart, I realized I need more of this: more quiet moments, more relaxing adventures, and more time with dear friends who remind me to pause. 💚
Today, a friend I haven’t seen in a long while reached out. She didn’t know my cancer was back. She didn’t know I was in treatment again. She just said, “I would love to hear your heart.”
That line stopped me cold. Not “let’s catch up.” Not “tell me what’s been going on.” She wanted to hear my heart.
And that got me thinking: what kind of peace, what kind of love does a person carry when they care less about your circumstances and more about your heart?
Do I even listen to mine? Sure, when it comes to the big-ticket items—marriage, kids, family, love. Those are the moments when you’re “supposed” to listen to your heart.
But do I listen to it daily? When I wake up bone-tired. When the chemo wall hits and knocks me flat. When Sassy drags me down the driveway like a reluctant sled dog. Do I stop and check in?
Truth: most days, my head is way louder than my heart. My head is bossy. It says:
Take the meds.
Keep walking.
Don’t puke in public.
Try to be funny about this so people aren’t uncomfortable.
Meanwhile, my heart whispers. And I ignore it. Because sometimes, my heart says stuff I don’t want to hear—like “rest” when I’d rather power through, or “cry” when I’d rather throw up a sarcastic one-liner. Or, “it’s ok to be mad about this” when I don’t want to think about that.
But my friend’s words have been simmering all day. Maybe what she really offered me was permission. Permission to pause. Permission to tune in. Permission to let my heart speak, even if it doesn’t have the right words, even if it stutters.
So I asked myself: what does my heart say right now?
And here’s the messy, beautiful, unfinished truth:
I’m still here, even if this is not what I planned to do this year.
I’m still fighting, and will not stop.
I still love, and need to show myself a little more of that.
I still have stories to tell.
That’s my heart. Maybe small. Maybe quiet. Maybe shaky. But it’s still beating. And today, someone wanted to hear it.
Within 24 hours of slamming face-first into The Wall, it retreated. I give full credit to the tiny (yet monstrous) contraption known as the Udenyca On-Body Injector—a device slapped onto my arm right after chemo. Supposedly, it waits 18 hours before releasing its magical (and slightly terrifying) payload of medicine. If you’d like the medical mumbo-jumbo, you can check the official site here: udenyca.com.
But if you’d rather hear it the way it really went down, buckle up.
How It Works (According to Me)
On Friday, they stuck this little white box on the fatty part of my arm (nurse’s words, not mine). Imagine half a computer mouse, only bulkier, and now imagine me banging it into every wall, chair, or doorframe in my house. Chemo makes me clumsy; add a plastic box to my arm and I become a human demolition derby.
The device waits. Then, exactly 18 hours later—2 p.m. on Saturday in my case—it explodes into action. Note the description explodes please!
The Moment of Truth
I was napping, minding my own business, when suddenly:
A jet engine fired up inside my arm.
A samurai sword stabbed me in the exact same spot.
And then, as if I’d just licked a battery, I could taste the medicine.
For one delirious second, I thought I’d dreamed it all. But the little green light that had been flashing turned solid—meaning the beast had done its job. No dream. 100% real. WTF.
The Aftermath
Once the pain subsided and the device wheezed its last mechanical breath, I lay there still trying to understand what happened
Of course, being the overachiever I am, I immediately read the list of possible side effects. Big mistake. (Pro tip: if you don’t want to imagine yourself sprouting hobbit-feet hair or growing elf-ears, don’t read the fine print. These are not actual side-effects, but they are more desirable than the actual possible effects. Just saying.)
Today
This morning, I realized something shocking: I actually felt better. The nausea and exhaustion that had pinned me to the floor the day before started lifting.
So here I am—up, moving, and cautiously optimistic. The Wall may have knocked me flat, but with a little help from science, samurai swords, and jet engines, I got back up.
This cancer fight is brutal, unpredictable, and weirdly comical at times. Yesterday was down. Today is up. Tomorrow? I’ll keep fighting.
👉 Every day is a battle. Some days I hit the Wall. Some days I walk away from it. But I’m still here—and that’s what matters.
Second Battle, Same Me 