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.
This was technically a business trip for my husband (you remember, my own personal Luke Skywalker—the legendary snack saver). That meant we only had one full day to play tourist. Lucky for me, Denver’s sports teams were nowhere around, so we were spared from being swallowed up in a sea of jerseys and face paint. Instead, we got to do the average touristy stuff—which, for once, was actually perfect.
We strolled through a gorgeous part of the city. The foliage and flowers were showing off like they’d been waiting just for us, the sky was obnoxiously blue with Instagram-ready puffy white clouds, and the sun drenched us in actual warmth. Nothing I expected, but exactly what I needed. (For the record, “sun-drenched” sounds fancy, but it really means “I should’ve brought sunscreen.”)
Lunch was at True Food Kitchen, where I got brave and ordered something called the “Bright Eyes” refresher. Ingredients: pineapple, carrot, organic apple, ginger, turmeric, beet, and lemon. Basically, a liquid garden. It wasn’t love at first sip—more like, “huh?”—but by the end I was convinced I could run a marathon. (Don’t worry, I didn’t. Sitting was still on the schedule.)
Then came the highlight: the International Church of Cannabis. Calm down—no one was passing around brownies or handing out gummies at the door. It’s an old church that’s been turned into a space for meditation and relaxation. Think groovy 70s furniture (the kind you swore you’d never see again outside of your aunt’s basement) and a meditation garden that practically whispered “chill out.”
The real show, though, was a 30-minute light-and-sound experience. Imagine lying on a church pew with your head on a pillow while swirling lights and fantastic music transport you somewhere between Woodstock and Star Wars. It was that good. All four of us walked out saying, “Yeah, we’d do that again.” And you know that never happens.
Pro tip: if you want to experience this “elevated meditation” the way it was intended, you’ll need to, um, pre-elevate. The Church doesn’t sell cannabis on site, so it’s a bring-your-own-vibe situation. Locals can even join as members for non-public elevated sessions.
All in all, Denver gave us one heck of a memory-filled day. Gorgeous skies, questionable drinks, psychedelic pews, great friends, and my hero Luke at my side. Not bad for 24 hours in the Mile High City.
Got up at 6, left the house at 7, dropped Sassy at the farm by 8:30. She about beat my leg red with that happy tail of hers—dog joy is a full-contact sport.
Then it was Atlanta Airport time. Biggest and busiest airport in the world . And because I’m apparently allergic to common sense, I refused Delta assistance. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. So my poor husband shuffled along at turtle pace, pushing both our suitcases and our bookbags, while I trudged like I was reenacting the Oregon Trail.
We don’t check bags. Don’t ask me why—WE just don’t.
TSA: Tales of Suspicion and Attitude
We have this fancy TSA Pre-Check Touchless thing where your driver’s license photo matches your real-time picture. Except mine didn’t. Cue the angry TSA man glaring at me like I was trying to sneak through in a Groucho Marx disguise.
“Why haven’t you updated your ID?” he barked. “Well, my hair was just cut…before it falls out. My numbers were low. I just found out yesterday I could even come.” Translation: zero sympathy, double lecture.
When he finally waved me through, I tossed a snark grenade: “Only my hair changed—the face is the same.” My husband, ever the helpful peanut gallery, asks, “Did you take your mask off?” No, my darling, I did not assume my license photo included a pandemic mask. Bless his heart.
Then came the security shuffle. Pockets emptied, bins filled, walk this way. I flashed my “I have a port” card like it was a backstage pass, got sent through the full-body scanner, endured the pat-down, and had my suitcase searched because prescription powder apparently = suspicious contraband. Never a dull moment.
Socks of Doom
Doctor’s orders: wear compression socks on the plane. Problem: my legs are 11 inches from knee to ankle and my calves are, let’s say, generous. Walmart and Walgreens had nothing. Husband’s compression socks? Way too long. Solution? Scissors. Cut those suckers down to size and made myself some footless Franken-socks.
I hated them. So I waited until almost time to board to wrestle them on in a bathroom stall. At one point my bare foot was sticking out into the neighbor’s stall while I grunted, groaned, and fought with fabric. Every time I bent over, the toilet flushed. I was basically starring in my own airport bathroom comedy show. Got them on, but never again. (Okay, once more on the flight home. Then never again.)
Sleeping Beauty, Airline Edition
Finally boarded, slapped on my hat, headphones, and neck wrap, and was asleep in less than five minutes. I honestly have no memory of taking off. Two glorious hours gone in a blink. Woke up just in time to find a bathroom and prepare for landing, only to find my husband had scored me two of the best cookies in the world. Keeper, that one.
Reverse and Repeat
Off the plane we did the reverse struggle—restrooms, escalators, trains, restrooms again—until we finally made it to the hotel. The room was perfect. I napped. We ate downstairs instead of prowling the streets, and miracle of miracles, the food was fantastic.
Bonus entertainment: a bridal party taking pictures and friends we came to see. By 6:00 local time (aka 9 past-my-bedtime o’clock), I was tucked back in bed. Asleep within the hour, no regrets.
Worth Every Awkward Moment
As Vegan Coach Naomi nailed it after a mountain-biking crash: “Doing shit you want to do is totally worth it—even if you fall.”
So yes, oncologist, I followed the rules. And yes, friends, the whole chaotic, exhausting, ridiculous day was worth every second (my shamelessly stolen motto). Even if it did end with my bare foot in a stranger’s bathroom stall.
P.S. I swear I did not wear those crocks! Or short pants. Imagine if the franken-socks were visible. Oh hell no!!
Guess what, folks? The numbers were great. Like, “pack your bag and go live a little” great. And let me just brag for a second: for the first time ever, I packed in an hour. An HOUR. And everything actually fit in the carry-on. (Airline baggage fees, you will not be getting me this round.)
I’m giddy to meet up with friends and see new scenery. The thought of laughing, eating, and soaking up joy that doesn’t involve a hospital chair feels downright luxurious. Sometimes, life throws you a bone—or in my case, a boarding pass—and I’m running with it.
Thank you for all the prayers, good vibes, and cosmic wishes you keep sending my way. I swear the universe must be listening, because occasionally things actually line up just the way you want them to.
Now, don’t get it twisted—the battle’s not over. Chemo comes calling again next Friday, the long-haul kind. But until I get back? I’m going to play hard, laugh loud, and live like I never got acquainted with the uninvited houseguest we’ll just call “You-Know-Who.” (And no, not Voldemort—though frankly, cancer’s got the same level of evil.)
For those of you are wondering, Sassy did not get to go. She is going to her favorite home away from home at Serenity K9 where the best people take the best care of her. And teach her things too. If you are interested in learning more about Lauren and Serenity K)9. https://www.serenityk9.org/
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. 🐕💚
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.”
You’d think that when you get diagnosed with cancer, the rules of eating would go right out the window. Like, “Congrats—you’ve got cancer! Please enjoy your unlimited pass to nachos, milkshakes, and midnight drive-thru feasts.” Sadly, no. Apparently, I still have to care about what goes into my mouth.
It’s the same logic as the chain-smoker who says, “The damage is already done,” except my version involves cookies and french fries. And let’s be real: I’ve been chubby/fat/obese-all-my-life. I know my way around a snack aisle like it’s a second home. I’ve dieted enough to lose at least three entire humans along the way, but the chart still says I’m not “normal.” (Oh Honey, in so many ways! That’s a whole ‘nother blog!)
So no, this is not the time to “diet.” If I couldn’t do it when my biggest stress was whether to order cake or pie, I’m sure as hell not doing it while juggling cancer and chemo.
Here’s the thing, though: food really does matter. Not in the Pinterest-perfect “green smoothie in a mason jar” way, but in the “your body is being poisoned, so maybe give it a fighting chance” kind of way. My granddaughter calls me daily, demands pictures of my meals, and lectures me about vitamins. She’s basically my own personal food parole officer.
So I’ve made a deal with myself. Every time I look at food (and I use that word loosely—Oreos count in my world), I ask: “Will this hurt me or heal me?” Sometimes I actually listen and grab salmon and broccoli, or fruit. Other times? The cake wins. I’m aiming for balance—lots of vegetables and protein at meals, fruit for snacks, and yes, an occasional cookie to keep me from becoming a menace to society. Or less of a menace, my sharp tongue has been particularly slicing these days.
Am I perfect? Absolutely not. Do I sneak junk? You bet your Dairy Queen I do. But here’s the truth: eating well gives me energy, helps me feel less like a zombie, and maybe—just maybe—helps the chemo do its dirty work.
So yeah, I’m trying. And if anyone asks, I’ll tell them: I’m basically a spinach smoothie away from sainthood. (But don’t you dare touch my Oreos—I’m not that holy.)
If you have any suggestions or healing recipes you’d like to share, I’d love to see them!
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.
How much of my self-esteem is wrapped up in my hair? When I was a young woman, I had long red hair all the way to my bottom. (It was the 70s—every woman had long, long hair. It was practically in the dress code.)
The first time cancer boy came for me, 21 years ago, the thought of losing my hair was devastating. Hair meant youth, beauty, identity. I tried being Rapunzel with a chemo drip – not a good look.
But now? Not so much.
After my first chemo battle, when my hair grew back, I reveled in it. I grew it as long as I could stand it… which, it turned out, wasn’t much past my neckline. Something surprising happened during that phase: I realized how glorious it was to not have hair. No routine. No products. No hours wasted with hot rollers or blow dryers. Except for that brief, ridiculous love affair with my hair’s comeback tour, I’ve been perfectly happy with “trouble-free” hair ever since.
But trouble-free hair is not the same as no hair. And here I am again, standing at the edge of the cliff. Which would I hate more:
a) the actual baldness, or b) enduring people’s sympathy, their pitying looks, and their unsolicited “it will grow back” pep talks while I shed like a mangy dog in public?
Knowing me? It’s a strong, emphatic B. The comments and clucking would make me go full crazy-bitch mode, and nobody needs that.
So, this afternoon I’m taking control. I’m buzzing this older-lady short hair down to a tidy buzz cut. Yes, that will fall out too, but it’s easier to manage and—most importantly—my choice.
How do I know it’s time? Easy. Two days ago I wore my buff (you know, the all-purpose “Survivor” headband/armband/head covering/halter top if you’re braver and skinnier than me). When I went to nap, I laid it on the nightstand. The entire nap was a continous dream with me lifting up the buff and watching all my hair come with it.
Dream logic or not, I woke up knowing: it’s time.
Because let’s be real—nobody in this house needs me shedding more than Sassy the Wonder Dog.
So today, Rapunzel’s letting her hair down one last time. And tomorrow? She’s rocking the buzz.
✨ Have you gone through the hair-loss rollercoaster yourself—or stood beside someone who has? How did you handle the first buzz, the first scarf, the first bald-glare reflection in the mirror? Drop your story in the comments. Let’s trade survival tips, snark, or even just solidarity.
Second Battle, Same Me 