Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: cancer

  • 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!

  • 🎮 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.

  • And just like that –

    The Wall Meets Udenyca

    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.

  • 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.

  • A little ditty

    I had some music playing in the background while I worked on this blog, and suddenly this little ditty popped into my head. I am nothing if not honest: I can’t draw, paint, or even color inside the damn lines—and now we can officially add “songwriter” to the list of ways I will never make any money. If it sounds suspiciously like something you’ve heard before, just credit the fabulous Beatles. They’ve been renting space in my brain for five decades, and frankly, I am grateful for all the earworms!

    When I get sick and losing my hair
    Just a month from now
    Will you still see me, want to be with me
    Take me with you everywhere? 

    If I throw up and cry until three
    Will you still want to be in bed and see.
    Will you still see me, want to be with me
    When nothing is easy like we?

    When I'm so tired and the end I can't see
    And we're too scared to know what to do
    If you still see me, want to be with me
    I'll keep on fighting to stay with you. 

    If you still me, want to be with me,
    Our love grows stronger, the life we can weave.
    I'll give you my heart, you'll always be mine,
    Together, my love, till we're ninety-nine!

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