Oh my gosh, oh my gosh you guys—guess who drew the short straw again? 🙋♀️ Yep, me.
But hold on—this time the universe threw me a bone.
My port gave up blood without a single hissy fit.
My numbers came back high enough to keep going.
And get this: two hours. That’s it. TWO HOURS of chemo.
I don’t know if it was my lucky shirt, or maybe channeling my mom calling out “Big Money!” before she rolled the dice at the kitchen table. But somehow, today the chemo room was a blink instead of a marathon.
The nurses strapped a new little gadget onto my arm—like some weird futuristic bracelet—that’s set to shoot “life juice” into my veins tomorrow. Supposedly, it’ll beef up my white counts. Honestly, it feels a little sci-fi, but hey, if it works, I’m in.
The chemo room itself was pretty calm today—no drama, no chaos. To my left, a husband stayed by his wife’s side the whole time. Sweet as pie, and a good reminder that not all superheroes wear capes—sometimes they sit quietly in vinyl chairs.
And then there was the new lady in Lookout Chair #11. Let me tell you, she showed up like it was Fashion Week. Gorgeous dress, killer high heels that would’ve sent me face-planting in under thirty seconds. I loved it. She wasn’t here to look sick—she was here to shine. And it worked.
No chemo next week, which means I get a break from the chair and a chance to rest up for whatever adventures are waiting. (Spoiler: probably not heels that high. Ever.)
Oncology waiting rooms are strange places. You sit there surrounded by people—hopeful faces, broken bodies—and after a while, you stop really seeing them. It’s a survival trick, I think. If you really looked at every single person, every limp, every hollow cheek, every set of nervous fingers tapping, you’d fall apart before they even called your name.
But today, that survival trick failed me.
I saw her. Alone. Perched on the edge of a chair like she was ready to bolt, feet tapping with enough energy to power the hospital’s lights. Small, fragile even, but still holding herself upright with a kind of dignity cancer hasn’t managed to steal yet. Thin hair. Paper-thin skin. A cane she leaned on like it was her last good friend.
And then it hit me—I knew her. Not this version of her, not this worn-down, cane-clutching, chemo-room version. I knew her from before. She was a woman who always swayed to the music and made the entire room come alive, entertaining us all. She lost her partner to cancer decades ago. Life had already sucker-punched her once, and here she was again, still standing—well, sitting—but damn it, still here.
As these things go, she disappeared into a lab, and I disappeared into the oncologist’s office. But later, chemo brought us side by side, two chairs apart, IV poles standing guard like silent executioners. Our escorts had been banished back to the waiting room (because some women do not share their strongest moments with the people they love the most – we need the space to breathe.)
The nurse asked her name, and I knew without a doubt the beautiful vital woman she had been. The woman she still was, somewhere inside.
I tried to talk to her, but chemo cocktails don’t mess around. They dragged her into that deep, heavy sleep we all know too well. So I sat. And I watched. And I remembered.
And then, without even meaning to, I prayed.
I prayed she’d have another chance to dance. To laugh. To feel like herself again.
Mostly, I prayed we’d all get even just one more shot at being the people we were before cancer barged in. Whole. Carefree. Alive in ways that don’t come in IV bags.
Because cancer wants you to think it’s all loneliness and loss. But sitting there, two chairs apart, I realized remembrance, hope, and healing are stubborn little things. They stick. Even here.
Y’all, my mama could use some good thoughts (and maybe a few extra licks). She’s moving slower than a turtle on a hot day. If I didn’t have her on this leash, I swear she’d just wander right off into the woods. Good thing I’ve got her back—well, her front, too.
The other day, we only made it to the mailbox. THE MAILBOX. I can cover that in about five leaps, no problem. Mama? Not so much. She’s only got two short legs, and let’s just say her butt doesn’t exactly help with the leaping situation.
But don’t get me wrong—she’s doing her best. She takes her medicine, putters around the house, and always makes sure I get my potty breaks. Sometimes she just opens the back door and sends me solo into the yard. I don’t love it, but I get it. She’s tired.
At night, I take my nursing duties seriously. I tuck Mama in real tight, then patrol between her and Daddy. I probably wake him up with my “check-ins,” but hey—somebody’s gotta keep an eye on the humans. That’s my job.
Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Mama’s got chemo again at the end of the week, so I’m saving up my licks and my favorite toys to share with her. Maybe y’all could do the same—send her some good vibes, belly rubs, or squeaky toys from afar.
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.
Remember how I once reported that some folks draw the lucky short straw for chemo—zip in, zip out—and others get the long version? Well, folks, yours truly drew the very, very, very long straw. I arrived bright-eyed (okay, half-eyed) at 9 a.m. and was still there when the lights dimmed at 5 p.m.. Yes, I closed the joint down. (Closing the joint down sure brings different memories!)
But here’s the breaking news: it all went smoothly. No adverse reactions. Just hours and hours of people-watching, chair-swapping, and enough drowsy naps to qualify as a full-blown slumber party.
Morning Beat
When I arrived, chairs were 80% full (give or take, I don’t actually count). I parked myself on the TV-off side. Snoozing in front of me was a woman clearly shorter than me—a clear sign the universe was sending things in the right direction.
Within minutes, the room was its usual scene: patients knocked out cold from the pre-drugs, myself included. I lost the first two hours without even trying.
Midday Shuffle
By the time I woke, the cast had rotated. The self-appointed Chair 11 Lady was back in position, keeping silent watch over the room and the halllway. A few men had joined the section—both out like lights.
And then—finally—real entertainment. One nurse strutted in wearing head-to-toe yellow scrubs with matching socks, topped off with a black jacket and black shoes. She proudly declared herself a “bumble bee.” Who was I to argue? For all I know, that’s the official undercover bee uniform. 🐝 She buzzed around until—wait for it—her twin-in-disguise arrived: a regal patient escorted by her husband/guardian/possibly fellow bee agent. I dubbed her the Queen Bee—weary but still dignified. The nurse buzzed, the husband checked charts, the transfusion wrapped, and the hive emptied out.
For a moment I wasn’t sure if I was in a chemo chair, a bee convention, or halfway down the Yellow Brick Road with Dorothy. Either way, I was definitely not in Kansas anymore.
Evening Edition
As the afternoon crawled on, the chairs emptied. Patients left. Nurses clocked out. Until—just me. And three nurses. They never abandon ship, even when they’re itching to go home. By then, I was cranky and this close to bawling like a toddler denied her juice box.
Finally, my husband was called back, the finish line in sight. I jumped out of that chair faster than a short woman whose feet don’t reach the floor should be able to.
Tears waited until I got home. Then they came fast, like Biff the Cancer Boy himself screaming “I’m dying!”—melting like the Wicked Witch of the West.
Closing Statement
This is Pattie Presswoman, reporting live from the frontlines of chemo. The day was long, the straw longer, but the news? Still good.
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/
Second Battle, Same Me 