Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: canncer partner

  • The View From Right Now

    It’s been almost three weeks since my last chemotherapy treatment, and I am feeling… so many feels.
    Like, Costco-sized feelings. In bulk.

    On the bright side, I haven’t had a night sweat in five whole days. FIVE.
    That alone deserves a parade. Or at least fresh sheets that don’t feel like they were wrung out by a lifeguard.
    I feel better. My mind is a little clearer. I’ve even started tiptoeing into that dangerous mental neighborhood called “Life After Cancer.”
    You know—the place where people make plans. And assumptions. And maybe even buy concert tickets more than a month out.

    But then there’s the other hand.
    I’m still tired. A lot.
    Like, do one thing and need a lie-down tired.
    My motivation seems to have a strict one-activity-per-day policy, and my brain shuts down the moment exhaustion shows up—which is often and without notice. Concentration just packs up its little suitcase and says, “Nope. I’m out.”

    And then there’s the third hand.
    Which I don’t technically have, but my anxiety has graciously supplied.

    This hand is busy worrying.
    Worrying that I’m not cancer-free yet.
    Worrying while I wait for a test that hasn’t even been scheduled because insurance is apparently on a scenic route.
    Worrying that even if I am cancer-free now, what about next year?
    This was my second round—does that mean I get a punch card? A loyalty program? Do I do this forever?
    Will it be a long life?
    A shortened one?
    Is all this mental ping-pong the reason I sometimes feel completely frozen, like my body just hits the pause button?

    Probably.

    The truth is, the view from right now keeps changing.
    Sometimes it’s hopeful.
    Sometimes it’s foggy.
    Sometimes it’s downright scary as hell.

    But here’s the thing I’m trying to hold onto: right now is not the whole story.
    Right now includes dry sheets, a clearer mind, and small signs that my body is still trying—still healing.
    Right now doesn’t require me to solve next year, or the rest of my life, or every possible outcome.

    Right now just asks me to sit here.
    Breathe.
    Do one thing.
    And trust that the view will change again.

    And maybe—just maybe—the next version will be even better.

  • On the Edge of a New Year

    As I sit on the precipice of a new year, I’m having trouble letting the last one go.
    I’m also having trouble being completely honest.

    So here it is.

    I spent the last six months of 2025 terrified. Sick. Lost. Unable to imagine a life that didn’t revolve around chemotherapy schedules and side effects and fear.

    People, as people do, eventually grew tired of the constant ups and downs. Life went on for them. I, as I often do, withdrew further and further into myself—quietly convincing myself that I didn’t want to be a burden, while simultaneously wondering why I felt so alone.

    On the days when it all became too much, I cried in the solitude of my own making, telling myself I had no one—despite knowing that wasn’t entirely true.

    I wanted to leave 2025 with a victory lap.
    With a clear test result.
    With a doctor saying, Yes, you’re in remission.

    Chemo is over, but that one final test hasn’t happened yet. And because of that, I brooded. I whined. I pouted privately. I obsessed over the ending I didn’t get instead of honoring the story I survived.

    And honestly? I disgusted myself a little for that.

    Because here’s what I did get in 2025.

    I got a cancer caught so early it didn’t even show up in my regular bloodwork.
    I got a chance to fight before it had time to take more from me.

    I was never alone.

    My husband—my partner—did not miss a single doctor’s visit or chemotherapy session. Not one. He showed up every day, steady and unflinching, even when I couldn’t be.

    My granddaughter kept me anchored to life itself—reminding me that I was still here and still needed to live.

    Family members and friends checked in, called, texted, cared. One friend made it her personal mission to send me an encouraging message every single day.

    And Sassy—sweet, intuitive Sassy—took it upon herself to care for me daily, in all the quiet ways only a dog can.

    So yes, I didn’t get the final word in 2025.

    But I got something far greater.

    I got love.
    I got presence.
    I got another chance at living.

    And now, I’m ready.

    Ready to put the last six months behind me.
    Ready to step into 2026 with gratitude—for life, for family, for friends, and for Sassy.

    Whatever happens in 2026, I will meet it knowing this:

    I am still here.
    And that matters more than any test result ever could.

    And as I step into 2026, I do so believing that healing doesn’t always arrive with certainty—but it always begins with hope.

  • 🐾 Sassy the Wonder Dog Walks Again 🐾

    Hello everyone.
    It’s me. Sassy. The Wonder Dog.
    Since Mama has been suspiciously quiet for about a week, I have taken over communications. You’re welcome.

    Here’s the scoop.

    That last chemo?
    Yeah. It flattened Mama like a pancake you accidentally sat on. Since then, it’s been an up-down-up-down situation. Christmas was… not normal. But Daddy? Oh my dog. Daddy WORKED that kitchen like he was auditioning for a Food Network special. Mama noticed. I noticed. I supervised closely from floor level. We really appreciate Daddy.

    I do keep seeing Mama try to write sometimes. She sits down, types a bit… and then suddenly runs off to that horrible room where they attempt to drown me with soap and water and where she sits on a strange white throne. I do not approve of this room. AT ALL. I try not to even look in there.

    Now we are up at the lake, Mama’s Happy Place, and let me tell you—Mama is slowly getting her mojo back. She sits on the deck soaking up sunshine (excellent life choice), and I lay nearby pretending I am a decorative rug but watching her every move. She walks around the property a little, tries to be “normal” going up the stairs, and then immediately remembers that breathing is still optional but highly recommended.

    BUT THEN.
    YESTERDAY HAPPENED.

    Mama let ME take HER for a walk.

    We walked all the way around the yard.
    AND up the driveway.
    AND all the way to the community mailboxes.

    People, this was BIG.
    She was exhausted afterward and took a two-hour nap. Naturally, I napped with her to ensure survival. It’s called being responsible.

    Now she says later today we might walk all the way to “the green thing.”
    I don’t know what that is.
    I don’t care what that is.
    What I know is Mama is determined, and when she decides to do something, she usually does it—even if she has to stop and huff and puff and lean on me (which is fine, I am very sturdy).

    So until Mama gets her writing brain fully rebooted, here’s the official Sassy Update:

    ✔️ Mama is okay
    ✔️ Mama is getting stronger
    ✔️ Mama is walking again
    ✔️ Mama is even talking about cooking food someday (Daddy is VERY excited).

    Stick with us.
    We’re walking forward—one mailbox, one green thing, and one nap at a time.

    Love,
    🐾 Sassy the Wonder Dog
    Head of Walks, Naps, and Mama Supervision

  • 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