There’s this moment — sometimes it’s an hour, sometimes it’s just a breath — when the dark starts to loosen its grip. It’s quiet at first, just a small flicker. A reminder that the flame inside me never really went out, it was just waiting for air.
And then the sun comes out. And everything changes.
I can see the flame again. I can feel the power I thought I’d lost start to stretch, yawn, and whisper, “Hey girl, I’m still here.”
Isn’t it crazy how the dark can hide your will and confuse your heart? It convinces you you’re out of fight, when really you’re just out of light.
But a little light — just a crack through the blinds, a kind word, a wagging tail, a red bird on a branch — is all it takes. And suddenly, you’re not sinking. You’re rising. You can see yourself take flight.
Because even after the longest night, the sun still shows up. And so do I. 💚
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!”
When was the last time you slept in and still woke up so tired that even pulling the blanket off felt like a full-body workout? I’m talking Olympic-level fatigue here. The kind where you just lie there negotiating with gravity like, “Listen, I’ll move if you move first.”
So there I was, having a full-blown hostage situation with my comforter. The only reason I didn’t stay trapped under it forever was because my bladder started yelling like a toddler in a grocery store. I tried to ignore it, but biology always wins. So I turned sideways, feet to the floor, and slid out like a slow-motion seal escaping a sand trap. It wasn’t pretty, but it was effective.
After surviving that adventure, I scrubbed my hands for the required 20 seconds (because apparently 19 seconds is where all the germs party), and fully intended to crawl back into bed. But then I looked down. My blanket mountain had avalanched to the floor. There was no freaking way I was lifting that mess.
So, off I wobbled to my sacred recovery spot—the couch. My couch never lets me down. It knows my shape. It cradles me. It always has that one blanket ready for action. But before I could collapse into its loving embrace, I stumbled into the kitchen to pour myself a cup of ambition. 🎶 (Yes, that’s a Dolly Parton lyric. Yes, my brain just sings now. No, there’s no off switch.)
Today’s ambition doesn’t involve board meetings or productivity charts. Nope. My ambition is to mix the perfect recipe of rest, healing foods, hydration, determination, and pure, unfiltered fierceness.
So, what’s the moral of this story? I’m too tired to pick up a blanket—but not too tired to keep showing up for the fight. I’m weary, yes. But I’m not out.
Now if someone could just invent self-folding covers, I might finally win a round.
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!
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.
For me, today—October 2, 2025—was the perfect date.
The sun was warm but the breeze carried just enough autumn chill to keep the leaves dancing off the trees. It was one of those days where you can breathe deeper, walk slower, and not feel guilty about either.
I woke up with a song in my head—sorry, no romance here—it was Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah. My dad used to sing that to me when I was little, and this morning it felt exactly right: My oh my, what a wonderful day.
Here’s the kicker: no part of my body hurt. That alone could’ve made it the perfect day. But then—bonus points—I was gifted the most relaxing massage. Afterwards I got time with my precious granddaughter, the kind that fills your heart without draining your energy.
Later, I drove peacefully to the lake, with my girl Sassy, watching leaves twirl and tumble in their autumn dance. At one point I stopped at a store and, without shame, practically Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah‘d from the car to the store and back again. Sassy was likely mortified.
By late afternoon, I had time to sit outside. I even took a nap out there, wrapped up in the perfect mix of warmth and breeze. And now, as I watch the sun slide down the sky, I can say it again: today was the perfect date.
It wasn’t too hot. It wasn’t too cold. I didn’t need a light jacket. And best of all—I didn’t think about cancer all damn day.
I want to take a moment to acknowledge something important. The movie Song of the South and its song Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah have not stood the test of time, and I understand the hurt it can represent. That film came out long before I was born, but my connection to the song is personal—I loved it because my Daddy used to sing it to me when I was little. That memory still brings me joy.
I never want to cause offense, so please accept my apology if my reference to the song was upsetting in any way. 💚
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. 💚
Second Battle, Same Me 