Cancer days good.
Cancer days bad.
You never really know
Which day you had.
Massage in the morning,
Constipated afternoon.
Laughing on sunny roads,
Then a mental monsoon.
Peaceful nap
in a comfortable bed,
Waking up
with worms in your head.
Tears.
Laughter.
Lightness.
Pain.
It’s never the same—
Never explained.
Cancer days good.
Cancer days bad.
You never really know
Which day you had.
It’s dark thirty o’clock here, and I am up and half-assed ready to face the day. Taking in my poison to kill cancer boy and fluids to flush him out. I just wanted to thank all of you who are reading and following this journey. Please continue to share your comments if you have any. It’s going to be a beautiful day!
This is Pattie Presswoman, reporting live for the first time from the tranquil trenches of Recliner Row.
Breaking News: the recliners are fully occupied, the blankets are scarce, and Chair 3 has been officially declared the coziest corner of the room. Patients across the row are—prepare yourselves—all asleep. The synchronized snoring is bordering on “barbershop quartet” levels, though the harmony is nearly drowned out by the steady hum of infusion pumps.
Meanwhile, the nurses glide between IV poles like (dare I say? Yes.)pole dancers in sensible shoes—armed with blood pressure cuffs, vinyl gloves, and bags filled with solutions both innocuous and deadly. Their mission: keep everyone calm and breathing while handing out poison like peppermints.
In Summary: spirits are stable, vitals are good, and the only drama today is whether the sweet lady in Chair 4 will wake up before her drip is done. And she DID!
This is Pattie Presswoman, bringing you the news you didn’t know you needed—from the quiet frontlines of Day One chemo. This is Pattie Presswoman saying “Good day, and may the good news be yours”.
Hi, I’m Pattie—and yep, I’ve got cancer. Again.
Not the polite, slow-growing Stage I small-cell, “sorry-to-bother-you” non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma I had 21 years ago. Oh, hell no. This time it’s the loud, obnoxious asshole cousin: Diffuse Large B-cell non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Can we say here comes trouble? This dumb jock of a cancer is sprinting through my body, knocking over furniture, spilling beer on the carpet, and generally trashing the place. I’m calling him Biff Tannen, because of course I am. Extra points if you can name the movie from which I stole this name.
People ask if I’m okay, and I tell them, “Don’t worry. It’s just two little lymph nodes—way smaller than the apologetic baseball-sized lump I had way back then.” And I am okay. I mean… what the hell else am I going to be? This is where I live now.
But seriously—twenty-one years later? Are you kidding me? I’m 68, just retired, and ready to live the good life: sleeping in, days on the water, learning new things, going on adventures. And now? Well… that plan’s been shot to hell.
Or… maybe not. I’m still here. I’m still me. I’m learning plenty—granted, mostly about cancer right now, but still. I can still sleep in (the meds are great for that). The water’s still there, whether I’m floating on it or just watching from the deck. And adventures? They still await. They might not look exactly like I’d pictured, but they’re mine, and I’m still living them.
So, follow my blog. Let’s see where this road through cancersucksland takes us—as we attempt to leave Biff in the dust. Screw you, Biff!
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Second Battle, Same Me 