Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: cancersupport

  • Sassy Walks: V2

    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. 🐕💚

  • Morning Me

    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.”

    And honestly? She’s my favorite version anyway.

  • Cancer Food

    The Not-So-Gourmet Guide

    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!

  • Finding the Light

    I’m fighting an enemy
    I cannot see.
    It whispers in shadows
    and lingers in me.

    I wonder if I can trust myself,
    to remember it’s real,
    when it feels like a dream
    yet threatens to steal.

    The rules stay steady:
    rest when I can,
    nourish my body,
    walk when I’m able,
    hold hope in my hand.

    Today it is quiet,
    just me and my thoughts,
    wandering in circles,
    searching for ground.

    Still, I ask:
    Will I stand?
    Will I fight?
    If the light fades,
    can I find it again?

    Yes—
    because I have before,
    and because I am still here.

  • 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.

  • Rapunzel, Rapunzel… Buzz Off

    So, it’s time for the hair talk.

    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.

  • September is Blood Cancer Awareness Month

    • Did you know September is #BloodAwarenessMonth? This is our chance to shine a light on lymphoma and raise awareness about this rare cancer. I’m getting involved by [customize what you’re doing]—join me in helping spread the word! Learn how you can make an impact: lymphoma.org/BCAM💜
    • Join me in advancing lymphoma research, education, and support services by donating or fundraising for the @LymphomaCommunity this #BloodAwarenessMonth! Your contribution makes a difference in the fight against lymphoma. Together, we can create a world without lymphoma. Learn more here: lymphoma.org/BCAM💜
    • Today is #WorldLymphomaAwarenessDay, a time to come together in support of the more than one million people worldwide living or in remission from lymphoma. I’m helping raise awareness today to advance lymphoma research, education, and our search for a cure. Please join me in supporting the @lymphomacommunity and sharing this message. Together, we can create a world without lymphoma. 💜

    Make a Commitment to the Cure

    If the link above does not work, don’t give up. I’ll find another link.

  • 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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  • One Week In

    It’s been a week since I sat back down in the chemo chair after 21 years away. A lot has changed in my life since then — and yes, a lot has changed in me too. Here’s what this first week has taught me.

    The Mouth Situation

    Chemo and mouths don’t get along, and mine is proof. My taste buds have left the building. Everything tastes like pennies or cardboard, which makes eating more of a chore than a comfort. Even chocolate cake — which I hated before — is still useless. I’d give anything for a piece of toast that doesn’t taste like I’m chewing tinfoil.

    Old, Cranky, and Tired

    The last time I did this, I was 48 and thought I was old. Now, at nearly 69, I actually am old — and cranky to match. My body aches, my energy is on permanent low, and most days I’m too tired to do much beyond shuffling between the bed and the recliner. I’m hoping that part changes soon, because right now my world feels very small.

    The Strange Gift of New Hours

    Fatigue has its own rules. I crash in the middle of the day and then find myself wide awake at 3 a.m. It’s not ideal, but sometimes there’s a gift in those hours — quiet, stillness, even a sunrise I wouldn’t normally see. I wouldn’t have chosen this new schedule, but it’s reminding me that life doesn’t stop just because mine has slowed down.

    Gratitude, Even from a Grouch

    And here’s the part I didn’t expect: gratitude still sneaks in. I’m grateful for naps that give me a little reset. I’m grateful for friends who reach out, who show up, who keep me connected even when I feel like hibernating. I’m deeply grateful for my husband, whose steady support is a constant in all of this — helping, encouraging, and reminding me I’m not doing this alone. And I’m grateful for the odd, quiet moments that remind me there’s still light in the middle of all this mess.

    One Week Down

    So that’s one week in. My mouth is a disaster, my energy is unreliable, and my mood is… let’s just say “salty.” But I’ve also got support, humor, and small reasons to be thankful. And maybe that’s what I’ve learned most this week: it’s not about pretending to be positive — it’s about noticing what’s still here, even when so much feels hard.

    If you’ve read this far, maybe take a moment and think about the small things keeping you going right now — the unexpected comforts, the quiet gifts, the people who show up. Those are worth holding onto.

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  • Sassy Walks

    Saving Mama, One Pee at a Time

    Hi. I’m Sassy, and I’ve got news about my Mama.

    I’m what you’d call a dog of many cultures (and questionable ancestry), weighing in at 26 pounds—prime size for “emotional support bestie,” “fitness trainer,” and “professional poop-bag logistics manager.”

    But let me tell you—this last week hasn’t been a walk in the park. Mama is back in chemo-land. Two months shy of 69 and wrestling lymphoma again. She says she’s “been badder and gooder, thinner and fatter, younger but never this old before.” To me? She mostly smells like hand sanitizer, Band-Aids, and pure stubborn.

    Now, Mama’s on this kick about “flushing the poison out.” She downloaded an app with a cartoon llama that cheers every time she drinks water. A llama. As if my tail wagging isn’t motivation enough! Anyway, she’s guzzling 100 ounces a day—which means I’ve now memorized every bathroom within a two-mile radius.

    But apparently water isn’t enough. Studies show (insert Mama’s dramatic eye roll here) that exercise helps. And that’s where I come in. She straps on her shoes, clips on my leash, and declares we’re going on “short walks of torture and exhaustion.”

    I call them SWALKS—Sassy Walks.
    And here’s how they go:

    • Minute 1: Mama is all business. I’m busy sniffing the grass like it’s a fine wine tasting.
    • Minute 5: Mama is huffing, cussing at “fucking studies.” I’m still auditioning pee spots.
    • Minute 10: Mama looks like she’s negotiating with Death. I’m prancing like a show pony.
    • Minute 20: Mama is swaying like a drunk flamingo, but don’t worry—I know the way home.

    Chemo is rough. My Mama feels awful. But she’s still out here—sweating, swearing, stumbling forward. And I’m her furry sidekick: sniffing, peeing, cheerleading, making sure she doesn’t face-plant on the neighbor’s driveway.

    So, if you see us out there on a SASSY WALK, give Mama a honk, a wave—or, better yet, toss me a chicken-flavored treat. We’ll take all the encouragement we can get.

    Because adventures aren’t always mountain hikes or big vacations. Sometimes they’re just a stubborn woman and her determined little dog, trudging through the Georgia heat, refusing to quit.

    And don’t worry—I’ve got more stories. Next time I steal the keyboard, I’ll tell you about the killer mosquitos the size of Labradors.

    🐾 Until then, nose boops and tail wags,
    Sassy