Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: canncer partner

  • Five Days Before Christmas…Reaching for Ordinary

    It’s five days before Christmas, and today I am doing something wonderfully ordinary.
    Or at least my version of ordinary.

    For decades, my granddaughter and I had a tradition: a little Christmas shopping on the Saturday before Christmas, followed by a movie. No rushing. No pressure. Just wandering, laughing, and then sitting in the dark with popcorn while the world paused for a couple of hours.

    Life grew up, as it tends to do. She became an adult. Schedules filled. Responsibilities shifted. This year, she even took over my major Christmas shopping — a gift I didn’t know I needed, but one I’m forever grateful for.

    Today, though, we’re bringing a piece of that old tradition back.

    We’re heading out into the hustle and bustle. We’ll shop a bit, soak in the Christmas energy, and then do the best part — sit down at a movie. Maybe squeeze in some lunch if the stars align and the universe behaves.

    I don’t know how this “normal” day will go. I don’t know how long I’ll last, or how much energy I’ll have, or what my body will decide to do halfway through. But what I do know is this:

    I’m excited.

    Excited to step outside.
    Excited to reach for normal.
    Excited to live inside a small, beautiful moment that feels like Christmas used to — and still can.

    Happy five days before Christmas.
    Today, hope looks a lot like a movie ticket and time with someone I love. 🎄✨

    Do you have an ordinary holiday tradition? Share it with me, please, I need more ordinary!!!

  • The Steroid Cycle (AKA Punkinhead Squarepants Meets Bitchy Witch Woman)

    As I approach my last chemotherapy treatment, I have finally figured out the cycle of how chemo affects me.

    Only took me five months.
    Clearly, I am a genius.

    Here’s the thing no one really prepares you for: along with my chemo IV cocktails come some lovely liquid steroids. And when I have the long chemo days, I also get to take a whole lot of steroid pills.

    One hundred and twenty mgs a day.

    Hence the transformation into Punkinhead Squarepants, combined with Crying Witch Woman, mixed with Can’t Sleep for a Week, topped off with Bitchy Bitchy Bitchy.

    It’s a stunning look. Truly.

    Tomorrow I take my last steroids. Which leads me to wonder…
    How long does bitchy bitchy take to go away?
    Asking for myself. And for everyone who loves me.

    Another thing I’ve finally figured out: after the steroids pile on, the exhaustion and misery pile on too. Enter the deep, deep hole.

    Now, are you supposed to quit steroids cold turkey?
    No.
    But that’s exactly what happens every long chemo week.

    And every time, the hole gobbles me up.

    This week—because it’s the week before Christmas and not a single decoration is up—I am trying very hard to stay outside the hole. I’m allowing myself to look into it, but not climb in and unpack.

    Next week should be my last chemo treatment.

    But it’s not the end.

    Anyone who has ever been through this knows that it never really ends. The side effects linger. The fear lingers. You become a person who questions every symptom:

    • My ear hurts — cancer.
    • My nose is running — cancer.
    • I stubbed my toe — must be brain cancer.

    It takes a toll. And it never completely goes away.

    I was almost there once.
    Twenty-one years since my last cancer. I was almost at the place where cancer was no longer my go-to diagnosis.

    And then I found a lump on my back.

    And it all fell apart.

    So here I am again, with my old go-to firmly back in place.

    None of this is to say that I am not grateful—because I am.
    Grateful to God.
    To family.
    To friends.
    To Sassy.
    To sunshine.
    To the universe.

    Grateful for another chance to remember just how precious life is.

    I fully intend to live it.
    Fully.

    It just might take a little while.

  • The Great Escape (For Now)

    It’s been a great week — and I’m as shocked as you are.
    Five whole days of sunshine, and I finally crawled out of that dark, muddy hole I’d been sulking in. And let me tell you, it was fantabulous!!

    Sorry to be AWOL from the blog, but honestly? It felt too good to feel good. I didn’t want to think about cancer, chemo, or any of that. AT. ALL.

    Instead, I did totally normal, boring, glorious things. I cleaned my house – well some of it. I made spaghetti sauce from scratch. I sat in the sunshine — at home and by the lake. I even caught myself smiling like some Hallmark movie extra.

    But (and there’s always a “but” in Chemo Land), today is chemo day. The damn hole is waiting with its arms wide open. I can almost hear it whispering, “Come on back, sweetheart.”

    And I don’t want to go. Not to chemo. Not to the hole. Even though there’s only ONE MORE left after today — I still don’t want to. Because the hole will be waiting, and the body and mind both know it. That’s just how chemo works: cumulative exhaustion and a side of psychological warfare.

    But I’m doing it. Because sunshine weeks are worth crawling out for. And after this… there will be only one.

  • 🐾 Sassy Walks: “Digging Out with Mama”

    Hey Everyone —
    I’ve been in a hole with Mama for a few days.
    And let me tell you, she has no idea how to appreciate a good hole.

    At first, she just lay there crying in the dirt.
    I mean, seriously? You get a whole hole — prime digging territory —
    and you don’t even sniff around or toss a little dirt for fun?

    I tried to show her how it’s done —
    scratch a little, paw a little, maybe wag while you’re at it —
    but noooo, she just sat there looking all sad and “deep.”
    (Whatever that means. I’m deep every time I nap under the blanket.)

    Apparently, Mama’s hole wasn’t a digging hole,
    it was a “people feelings” hole.
    She says she had to “work her way out”
    like it was some kind of mission from the People Council.
    Honestly, I will never understand humans.
    Why can’t they just bark it out and chase a squirrel?

    Anyway, she finally started digging —
    with the tiniest little spoon you ever saw.
    It was pitiful, but I wagged and supervised.
    And you know what?
    Bit by bit, spoon by spoon, she’s climbing out.

    So I guess that’s what “healing” looks like for humans.
    Slow, messy, confusing… but at least we’re headed back toward the sunshine.

    And me?
    I’m just glad she’s finally learning the true art of a good dig.

    #SassyWalks #SecondBattleSameMe #MamaAndMe #DiggingOut #PeopleAreWeird #DogLogicWins

  • Happy Thanksgiving

    Hi everyone, it’s been a rough week. The cumulative effect of chemo is taking its’ toll. I wrote this last week at chemo and saved it for today. I hope you find love, hope, and gratitude at Thanksgiving.

    Sitting here in the chemo room — hour five — and I am tired.
    Tired of sitting.
    Tired of waiting.
    Tired of watching the faces around me — some blank, some worried, some so quiet you can almost hear their thoughts.

    There’s a look that settles over this room sometimes.
    It’s the “Will I still be here next Thanksgiving?” look.
    And some, bless them, are already convinced they won’t.

    But the truth is, none of us really know.
    Not even those of you who aren’t sitting in recliners hooked up to IV poles. Life doesn’t come with guarantees, not even with the turkey and dressing.

    What I do know is this — hope is sneaky.
    It slips into the room in the form of a grandchild’s text, a photo from a friend, or a nurse who calls you “sweetheart” like she means it. It sits in the corner, humming softly, waiting for you to notice it again.

    Maybe this year, we can all — every one of us — choose to be grateful. Grateful for still being here, for one more laugh that turns into a snort, for one more hug that lingers, for one more text or phone call that starts with, “Just checking on you.”

    Whether you spend Thanksgiving surrounded by family or curled up quietly with your own thoughts, I hope you feel love reaching toward you.

    Because it’s out there — in every friend who calls or texts, every family member who worries, every person still fighting their way through another long day.

    So here’s to being here.
    Here’s to love that holds steady.
    Here’s to hope that won’t quit.
    And here’s to many more Thanksgivings — together!

  • Chemo Weather: Forecast Calls for… Everything

    One minute I’m cold.
    One minute I’m hot.
    The next minute I’m absolutely burning up.
    And then—because my body likes to keep things interesting—I’m right back to cold again.

    It’s got to be the drugs running through me, because when I had cancer 21 years ago, they treated me to the delightful combo-platter of treatment plus “going through the change.” Nothing like night sweats and hot flashes tag-teaming you at 3 a.m.

    So honestly? This time is better.
    I’m not going through the change, and I’ve only had a little night-sweat nonsense.

    And I am absolutely certain that Don Williams’ “It Must Be Love” has nothing to do with it — no matter how much the universe tries to convince me otherwise.

    Just last night—because life loves a well-timed coincidence—I stepped out the restaurant door with my takeout order (I do not eat inside anymore; the service is too slow, and my patience has officially filed for retirement – Not to mention they won’t let me take off any clothes). The moment that fresh, cool breeze hit my face, I let out the happiest little sigh.

    A woman sitting nearby looked over and said,
    “Oh, I remember that… needing cool air, then blankets, then cool air again.”

    We both laughed the kind of laugh only people on this strange path understand. Two chemo sisters, bonded instantly by the universal language of temperature chaos.

  • **📰 Chemo Chronicles: Dispatches from the Front Lines of Infusion Nation

    By: Pattie Presswoman, your roving, slightly woozy, always-observant reporter

    Ladies, gentlemen, and all you brave souls tuning in from the comfort of your recliners, heating pads, or emotional support snacks—welcome back to another thrilling episode of Chemo Chronicles, brought to you live from the bustling (or not) newsroom of Infusion Room 3.

    Let’s set the scene.

    Last week, the chemo room was—how shall I put this delicately?—slower than a sloth on Benadryl.
    My side of the room was so still I swear I heard my own thoughts echo.
    (I know… “dead.” I said it. I apologize to the universe immediately.)

    Chair 8 Guy?
    He got thirty minutes of whatever they were pumping into him, hopped up like he had a dinner reservation, and evaporated.
    Lady across from me? Same story. Whoosh. Gone before my IV pole could say goodbye.

    Meanwhile, yours truly sat there marinating—slow-cooking like a pot roast.

    Five minutes before I was finished, a woman was wheeled in, clearly looking at me like I was sitting in her rightful throne.
    I told her and her daughter, “Promise, I’ll be out in five.”
    But people on drugs—I mean this with all the love in my heart—have the patience of caffeinated toddlers.
    They want the show started and they want it now. She picked another chair.

    When I was done I gathered my blanket, the nurse unplugged my little robot helper, and I strutted out like a seasoned pro.
    And that’s when I realized…

    I had been in the ghost town half of the chemo room.
    When I walked toward the exit, suddenly things got loud. Busy. Alive.
    The right side of the room? PACKED.
    I mean, it was like they were hosting a tailgate party over there.

    Chairs filled. Voices chatting.
    One lady knitting like she was in a speed competition.
    A man crunching ice like he was digging for gold.
    The nurse on that side looked like she needed a medal… or a margarita.

    People are funny like that.
    No assigned seats, but we all swear we have a spot that’s ours.
    Whole empty row? Doesn’t matter.
    If someone’s in “your chair,” the universe feels slightly misaligned.

    As I passed the bustling side, my friend spotted me and waved with the enthusiasm of someone finally seeing civilization after wandering the desert.
    I waved back, we both grinned…

    …and then I got the hell out of there before anyone tried to assign me a seat, a job, or a conversation about their neighbor’s cousin’s hairdresser’s cancer journey.

    And that, dear readers, concludes this week’s thrilling broadcast from Chemo Central.

    Until next time—
    This is Pattie Presswoman, signing off and rolling out

  • When “All the Time in the World” Shows Up… and I Take a Nap Instead

    I remember dreaming about this for years.
    Decades even.

    If I could just have weeks and weeks to sit still…
    To rest without guilt,
    To look out at the lake and let the birds entertain me,
    To sleep in a warm sunbeam like Sassy,
    To learn fascinating things I’d never heard of before.

    If only I had the time.

    Well guess what?
    Now I do have the time.
    The universe delivered it—wrapped in chemo, brain fog, and a recliner chair—but still, technically: Time.

    And what do I do with this golden opportunity?
    I sit.
    I rest.
    I binge-watch TV shows that are so dumb I lose IQ points just hearing the theme song.
    Some days I think my brain is slowly melting into the couch cushions.

    So here I am, being productive in the only way I can muster:
    I’m making a “Later, When I’m Energetic and Less Foggy” list.

    A list of things Future Me can do once the exhaustion lifts, the brain fog thins, and my body stops feeling like it’s held together with duct tape and stubbornness.

    The problem?
    At this very moment, I can’t think of a single thing to put on the list.
    Not. One.

    So I’m asking you—yes, you reading this—
    Drop some ideas for my coming energetic, fog-free life.
    Big ideas, tiny ideas, ridiculous ideas, peaceful ideas…
    I’ll take them all.

    Help me build the list that Current Me can’t quite pull out of this sleepy, chemo-brain haze.

    Because someday soon, the fog will lift, the energy will return, and I want to be ready. PLEASE DROP SOME IDEAS!

  • Tantrums & Lightning Bugs

    Let me just say it plainly:
    I. Want. To. Feel. Normal.

    Is that so unreasonable?
    To wake up with energy?
    To know who I am and what day it is?
    (At this point, I’d settle for getting one of those right.)

    And honestly—
    some days my inner toddler wakes up before I do.

    She wants to march into Wal-Mart (where else),
    plop down in the middle of the stupid seasonal aisle,
    and unleash a Big-Ass Deluxe Super-Sized Tantrum™
    complete with foot stomping,
    arm flailing,
    and a dramatic,
    “I WANT THIS TO BE O–VER, DAMMIT!”

    I want to scream it so loud
    they hear it in Sporting Goods.

    But then…
    I re-read what I wrote.

    And suddenly the tantrum isn’t quite as adorable as it sounded in my head.
    Because WOW.
    Who knew I was the spoiled brat in this equation?

    Here I am whining about wanting the finish line closer,
    when some people don’t even get a finish line—
    just more road.
    More fight.
    More pain.
    More “keep going even though you’re tired down to your soul.”

    Talk about a perspective slap.

    Meanwhile I’ve got a lightning bug blinking at me
    from the end of my tunnel,
    like,
    “Hey girl, I’m tiny but I’m TRYING.”

    And if I get even a flicker of light,
    I damn well want to help somebody else
    spot theirs.

    So instead of melting down in Wal-Mart
    (tempting though it still is),
    I’m redirecting that dramatic energy
    toward something useful:

    How to Help Someone Who’s in the Dark

    • Send a meal (or a DoorDash code).
    A cancer patient receiving a no-cook dinner is basically the Oscars of kindness.

    • Text them with ZERO expectation of reply.
    “Thinking of you—don’t answer this or I’ll fight you.”
    Perfect.

    • Learn other people’s stories, not just mine.
    Sites full of real humans being brave and messy:

    • The Mighty
    • Stupid Cancer
    • Cancer Support Community (legit, not woo-woo)
    • American Cancer Society (the grown-up in the room)

    • Volunteer without leaving your recliner.

    • Letters Against Isolation → send love to lonely seniors
    • Imerman Angels → one-on-one support mentoring

    • Donate if you can. Share if you can’t.
    No guilt. Just options.

    And maybe the biggest one:

    When you have even ONE lightning-bug moment,
    hold it up.
    Let someone else borrow the glow.

    Because tantrums feel good for a minute.
    But helping someone else find their light?
    That feels good for a long time.

  • Dancing Alone (and Liking It)

    Sometimes I just want to be alone.
    I think I’ve always been this way.

    There’s something deeply peaceful about sitting in my own silence — just me and my thoughts, no noise, no small talk, no expectations. It’s not lonely. It’s re-energizing. I actually like my own company.

    When I was a little girl, I used to sneak into the living room, put on my mother’s Tchaikovsky album, and dance with the door shut tight. I didn’t have a clue how to dance — but oh, the freedom! The music would fill the air, and I’d twirl until I fell over laughing. It was my secret world, just me being me.

    Now, after days of chemo exhaustion, I’ve found myself sitting quietly again — just like that little girl, alone but content. My body might be tired, but my mind is still stretching its arms toward all the other versions of me waiting in the wings:

    The sewist. The reader. The dancer. The cook.
    The comedian. The writer. The helper. The friend.

    I’m ready for those me’s to come back out to play.
    Because underneath this worn-out chemo girl is still that same dreamer — the one who dances when nobody’s watching.