Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: cancer again

  • The Wall

    Every cancer patient who’s ever taken chemo knows about the Wall.


    It’s out there—lurking around the corner—just waiting to remind you that chemo doesn’t f***ing play. It can show up once, twice, or stick around to let you know things are about to get real for a long-ass time.

    Yesterday, I slammed right into it.

    Clue #1: Standing up, minding my own business, feeling like my body was about to collapse straight to the floor.

    Clue #2: My personal favorite—great waves of liquid exiting my body from all possible orifices, burning like I was sliding down a razor blade the whole way.

    When that was over, I slept five more hours like a baby. (There’s always a blessing somewhere, right?)

    The rest of the day was almost normal. I ate. I kept it down. I slept well last night—though don’t get the idea that sleep was some natural miracle. It came courtesy of prescribed medication. I took the pills. I slept. I was happy with that.

    This morning, I’m trying to figure out if I’m still clinging to the Wall. Dizzy when I stood up—clue? Spilled a glass of water and felt exhausted cleaning it up—another clue?

    And then I thought of the hundreds of thousands of people who were taken on death marches by their enemies—tired, confused, sick, exhausted—yet still driven forward by the will to live.

    I have that will to live too.

    If I keep meeting the Wall day after day, I’m not going to give up. But I know I’m going to need your encouragement along the way.

    And if someone could whip up some real mashed potatoes like Grandma used to make—and a bowl of real brown gravy—and drop them off, I’m sure it would help me fight the Wall. (Or maybe it would just fly right through me. Either way, it would taste like heaven going down and that would be good enough for today.)

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  • What do I really really want

    I just want it to be over — magically over. Not some haunted, never-leaving-for-good over, but over like I don’t have to do this anymore. Plain and simple. No more appointments, no more counting pills like prayer beads, no more scheduling my life around naps and pukes. Is that too fucking much to ask?

    I know the truth: you have to go through the damn thing to get past it. You can’t short-circuit the mess. You have to slog. So here I am — slogging. Hazy brain days that feel like I’m moving through molasses. Brainless moments where I stand in front of the fridge like it’s a conspiracy. Rest when my bones beg for it; heal when my body remembers how; poison because science says so; repeat because the calendar is a cruel comedian.

    Between the bleak and the boring, what I really want is the tiny, ridiculous stuff: to write in peace and light without the guilt that I should be “doing something productive” while I wait for the next appointment. To sit at the kitchen table with my laptop and not have the cloud of “what if” hovering over every line. To drink coffee that’s still hot. To walk outside and not count steps like they’re a report card. To have a normal week that does not begin and end with an IV drip and a list of side effects.

    Also? I want to shoot a fire arrow into this cancer and blow it the fuck up. There. I said it. There’s the part of me that wants to be dramatic and violent and victorious all at once. I want a literal and metaphorical kaboom — lights, confetti, the whole over-the-top ending to this chapter. Tell me that’s unreasonable and I’ll roll my eyes and bring the fireworks anyway.

    And listen: I’m conflicted. I can want peace and quiet and also want to scream and torch the thing that put me here. I can be grateful for the hands that hold me and furious at the time it steals. I can laugh at myself for crying over a lost sock and then sob over the way the chemo makes my bones feel like someone took a jackhammer to them. Cancer doesn’t come with an instruction manual that says “how to be graceful.” It comes with a lot of improvisation, a poor soundtrack, and the occasional emergency snack saved by a patient husband I nicknamed my own Luke Skywalker.

    So I keep going. I show up for the naps and the meds and the ridiculous moments because there’s still light to find. There are small mercies — a friend who drops off a pie, a dog that insists on dragging me outside, a good TV show that distracts for forty blessed minutes. There are stories I didn’t think I could finish that surprise me by being halfway decent. There are mornings when my head clears and I can see color again, and those mornings are holy.

    Mostly I keep going because I refuse to let this story end with me never coming back over it. I want the ending where I walk out the other side — bruised, scarred, wiser, still snarking — not looping back into the same damn place. That’s the stubborn part of me speaking: I want life after this. I want the pages after the battle. I want to play, to laugh, to be boring and ordinary and loud and alive.

    So yeah — I’ll keep slogging. Hazy brain, brainless days, rest and heal, poison and repeat. I will draw in the light where I can. I will fire the arrow in my imagination and shout when I need to. And I will keep looking for the little lights that make the whole thing bearable until one day—God willing—the arrow does its job and this is over for real.

  • Drops of Fears

    Photo by Ali Hassan on Pexels.com

    Tears falling—
    Drops in the vein.
    Never staying, never staining,
    Never easing the pain.

    Drops sliding
    Through the vein:
    Maybe a cure,
    Maybe more pain.

    Tears, fears, flips—
    Drops, stops. Cancer quits.

  • Dry Mouth, Dark Humor, Still Alive

    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.

  • The Power of Female Friendships

    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.

    I love you all. (You too Dougie.)


  • 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.

  • 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.

  • One Week In

    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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