What if I had nothing to say,
Just wandered on my merry way—
Accepted life for what it is,
And sat alone to mind my biz?
But you know I can’t do that.
We’ve all got storms we’re walking in.
And maybe it’s lighter when we share the pain—
Sit together in the rain—
And dance when the sun comes out again.
Oh my gosh, you guys — LOOK what my Uncle Bobby and Aunt Beth made just for me! 🦸♀️
A Super Cape for Sassy the Wonder Dog! 💚💜 I mean, seriously — could there be better humans in the whole wide world? If you see them, tell them how awesome they are.
As soon as it arrived, Mom took me up to Dad’s office to show me off. Everyone needs to see a superhero at work, right? I strutted across that shiny white tile floor like I owned the place. The cape even matches Mom’s cancer colors — bright lime green and purple — which makes me an official sidekick in the battle.
It was good for Mom to go, too. She doesn’t like going there much anymore. She says she “looks like crap” because her hair is falling out. (I don’t get that part — mine falls out every day and nobody panics about it. Humans are weird.) She also says she’s gotten fatter (and shhh, that part might be true), but it’s the medicine, and she can’t help it. I still think she’s perfect.
Last time I wrote, I had a plan to get Mom walking more. Well, as she likes to say — chemo turns plans to poop! 💩
You probably read her blogs — she’s been feeling rough. But she’s getting stronger again, and today we’re going to take short walks up at the lake. It’s our favorite place. I’ll be wearing my Wonder Dog cape proudly — maybe she’ll feel better being seen with such a stylish sidekick.
Taking care of Mom is my full-time job. That means making sure she rests, too. Yesterday was a big day (wonder dogging is hard work), so we went to bed early — 8 p.m. sharp. I curled up beside her all night to keep watch. She was pretty restless… probably still excited about the cape I think.
Thank you again to the bestest Uncle Bobby and Aunt Beth in the whole wide world! 💚
You made this Wonder Dog feel truly super.
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.
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. 🐕💚
Second Battle, Same Me 