It’s not the news I wanted, but it’s the closest it can be — which, in this world, counts as awesome.
Thank you all for your crossed fingers and toes, your thoughts and prayers, and your pleas to Mother Earth. I appreciate every single effort on my behalf.
Luke and I waited in that small little room for what seemed like hours (but was probably fifteen minutes). Me — my usual version of “calm,” meaning foot pumping, standing, sitting, standing again, stomping, sighing, repeat. And Luke — sitting perfectly still with his trademark Starfighter calm.
Finally, the doctor came in — and her radiant smile told it all before she even spoke.
I won’t bore you with the doctor/scientist version, but here’s the simple truth: I had two affected lymph nodes, and they are now much smaller. And much less bright.
PET scans use an isotope that “lights up” the cancer — and where I once glowed like a neon sign at 14, I now barely shimmer at 3.
Hallelujah.
So, when you look at the photo — the left side is the first PET scan and the right side is the new one. A cherry became a pinto bean. An almond became a little English pea.
Normally, I hate peas. But I love this one.
As for brightness — the first scan could shine in full sunlight, and the new one? You’d barely spot it under a quarter moon.
So here we are — halfway done, and if all goes as planned, it should be over by Christmas.
🎃 Happy Halloween to all — from your half-lit, pea-loving, halfway warrior. 💚
I’m still feeling great — even heading out today to vote and grab a coffee with a friend. I refuse to ruin a day where I feel good by worrying about things I cannot change. I’m assuming this “feeling good” is for great reasons (not just because I’ve been chemo-free for two weeks).
I believe in good things. I believe in healing. At least today, I do.
Tomorrow I’ll head to oncology, ready for what’s supposed to be a long chemo day — and ready to hear the results of the PET scan. My hope? That the conversation goes something like:
“We didn’t see anything, but let’s finish this course to make sure we get anything that thinks it might be trying to change cell type.”
That’s the script I’m holding onto.
Because today, I refuse to consider any other option. Why borrow trouble? (As our grandmothers would say.) Why speak that into the universe? (As our Gen Z family would say.) Why the hell think about it on your last feel-good day for a few weeks? (As every cancer patient would say.)
It’s been a few days since I posted, and I hope you weren’t worried that I was feeling awful — because I wasn’t! From Saturday through right now, I’ve felt surprisingly great. No pain pills, no nausea meds, no reason for nausea meds. It’s been a fabulous stretch — almost enough to make me forget I’m fighting Cancer Boy. Almost.
But when you’re in this battle, even the good days come with a shadow. No matter how great you feel, that little voice in your head never quite shuts up: “Is this working?” “Am I getting better?” “Will I have to ditch this chemo and start all over again?” It’s always there, quietly humming along in the background of every moment.
Today is PET scan day — the big one. The test that tells us if things are getting better, holding steady, or spreading. It should feel exciting, but honestly? It’s terrifying. More terrifying than a haunted house.
So after a few blissful days “off,” I’m suiting up again — lucky shirt on, battle mind engaged, and (in theory) my best poker face in place. (In reality, I’m about as unreadable as a Hallmark card.)
Cross your fingers. Cross your toes. Whisper to Mother Earth or pray to your God — I’ll take all the good vibes you can send. And know that I’m deeply grateful for every single one of you who cares. 💚
One would think the obvious answer is that the cancer—or the treatment—could kill you. But for me, that’s not it. Not yet, anyway. The possibility of death, even with the diagnosis and the poison, still feels far away. Which is, frankly, my preference.
It’s not the constant sickness or nausea. It’s not the hours of shivering and chills, or the sliding-down-a-razor-blade thrill of eliminating bodily waste.
It’s not the isolation—both physical and internal. It’s not that most food tastes like metal, or that eating and drinking enough each day sends you right back to that razor-blade ride.
It’s not even the endless naps, the half-conscious fog, the 8 p.m. bedtime, or the sense that life’s fun is happening somewhere else without you.
But I digress. The question was: what is the worst part of having cancer?
Your hair is gone. Your face looks puffier. Your body changes. You tell yourself those are just shallow things—but then you start forgetting words, and where you were going, and why. You can’t recall names you’ve known for years. You sit in the dark and cry for any reason—or no reason at all.
And the biggest thing you lose? Your common sense.
Take a few days ago, for example. A fine case study in cognitive chaos.
I got up early, determined to leave by 8 a.m. because Sassy the Wonder Dog had a 9 o’clock grooming appointment. (Sassy’s favorite hobby is rolling in the stinkiest piles imaginable.) With Luke’s help, I loaded the car and finally got dressed—only to realize my diamond ring was missing.
Common sense immediately exited the premises.
I went to grab my phone to call Luke—only to discover that it, too, was missing. Lost ring. Lost phone. Obviously Luke’s fault.
So I ran outside and started tearing apart everything he had just loaded into the car. Found the phone, not the ring. Maybe not Luke’s fault after all. But I called him hysterical anyway, and he promised to rush home.
Meanwhile, I ransacked the house: dishwasher, clean sheets, folded blankets—nothing. Luke arrived, calm and logical (as usual), and asked where I was when I first noticed it was gone. He checked the dressers while I tore apart the blankets on my side of the bed—still mid-meltdown, crying about how useless I am, how I keep losing everything, how I’m losing my brain, and what if I never get back to—
And then I looked under the bed.
“FOUND IT!” I shouted, with what can only be described as a psychotic smile.
Luke looked up. “Found what?”
“My ring!” I chirped.
He didn’t actually say this, but I swear I heard:
“Hm. Thought maybe you found your senses.”
It was only 8 a.m., and I was already crazy. Sad to say, the crazy lasted all day.
And let’s be honest—it’ll be back tomorrow. Because common sense is not a product of chemotherapy.
What do you call a room with four women and no talking?
I’ve been thinking about it. It’s clearly the chemo room, but that doesn’t begin to cover it.
It might be a nap salon — where no one asked for a blow-out but we all left a little lighter.
Or maybe a spa for the terminally exhausted, featuring the latest in drip-infused “glow from within” technology.
Some days it feels like the quiet car on the Cancer Express — no loud talking, no snacks, and you’re not sure where you’ll end up, but everyone’s ticket cost too much.
The Waiting Room for the Brave, perhaps, except there’s no waiting. We’re doing the thing. Just quietly.
This week there were four of us. All women. All lined up in our recliners like power stations plugged into perseverance. Within minutes of the “pre-drug” drip, every single one of us was out cold. No chatter. No reality TV. Not even the usual IV-pole squeaks. Just four warriors in soft socks, drifting off under fluorescent halos.
I had about ten minutes before my own eyelids surrendered, so I took inventory: – Chair 4 had really good hair and shoes. Definitely winning chemo couture. – Chair 3 was already asleep—basically a blanket with a pulse. – Chair 6 chatted with the nurse, then disappeared under her pillow. Relatable.
And then silence. The kind of deep, unbothered quiet you don’t get anywhere else.
When it was over, we rose like polite zombies—unplugged, gathered our stuff, and shuffled out with the reverence of churchgoers leaving midnight mass. No words necessary. We knew.
Whatever this room is—a sanctuary, a spa, a silent sorority—it’s ours.
Until next time—may your drips be steady, your naps restorative, and your IV poles never squeak at the wrong moment.
It could be said that when you’re fighting cancer, every day is a self-care day — you know, since you’re literally ingesting poison to stay alive. Cute concept, but no. That’s not my idea of self-care.
Real self-care is what I’ve been doing these last few days: sitting on the deck, watching the geese, and soaking up the warm sunshine like a lizard on vacation.
Today’s agenda? Massage. Because sometimes “healing” looks less like IV poles and more like someone working the knots out of your shoulders while your soul exhales.
So… no post today. Unless you count this one. Which, honestly, you should.
Time is weird. I’m calling this Day 2, even though the calendar swears otherwise. But my cells, my soul, my spinning little chemo-altered molecules—they insist Thursday was Day 1. So Day 2 it is.
Yesterday’s question: Do you ever wake up and wonder where YOU went? Today’s realization: apparently, “becoming” requires traveling somewhere else entirely—no luggage, no return ticket, just a brain on shuffle.
Chemo was short, mercifully. I even came home with my jet-pack—my white-cell superstarters ticking quietly on my arm, a tiny biochemical fireworks show set for 1 p.m. And then… I disappeared.
I slid into bed like melting butter. Shivering, sweating, freezing, burning. Fan on. Fan off. Every molecule arguing with its neighbor about the thermostat of existence.
Time folded in on itself. When I woke, the light had shifted but nothing else had. I drifted to the couch, a parallel universe where gravity hums louder and blankets weigh more than regret. I didn’t eat. I barely sipped water. I just floated in and out of body, like my brain had clocked out for interdimensional maintenance.
Around 6:30, Luke appeared—steady, sun-warm—and said, “Come sit by the water.” He might as well have said, Come back to Earth. I sat beside him, blinking at the ripples like they were breathing.
My mind was mushy honey. My thoughts, ping-pong balls in zero gravity. Winnie the Pooh would’ve understood. He said it loud and clear “Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?
So yeah, I was here yesterday. Physically. But mentally? I was off somewhere between the stars and the shivers. Maybe that’s what becoming really is—your brain goes on a field trip to rearrange the furniture while your body holds down the fort.
I wonder what version of me will step off the bus next time. I wonder if there will be a green sofa,
Oh my gosh, you guys — LOOK what my Uncle Bobby and Aunt Beth made just for me! 🦸♀️ A Super Cape for Sassy the Wonder Dog! 💚💜 I mean, seriously — could there be better humans in the whole wide world? If you see them, tell them how awesome they are.
As soon as it arrived, Mom took me up to Dad’s office to show me off. Everyone needs to see a superhero at work, right? I strutted across that shiny white tile floor like I owned the place. The cape even matches Mom’s cancer colors — bright lime green and purple — which makes me an official sidekick in the battle.
It was good for Mom to go, too. She doesn’t like going there much anymore. She says she “looks like crap” because her hair is falling out. (I don’t get that part — mine falls out every day and nobody panics about it. Humans are weird.) She also says she’s gotten fatter (and shhh, that part might be true), but it’s the medicine, and she can’t help it. I still think she’s perfect.
Last time I wrote, I had a plan to get Mom walking more. Well, as she likes to say — chemo turns plans to poop! 💩 You probably read her blogs — she’s been feeling rough. But she’s getting stronger again, and today we’re going to take short walks up at the lake. It’s our favorite place. I’ll be wearing my Wonder Dog cape proudly — maybe she’ll feel better being seen with such a stylish sidekick.
Taking care of Mom is my full-time job. That means making sure she rests, too. Yesterday was a big day (wonder dogging is hard work), so we went to bed early — 8 p.m. sharp. I curled up beside her all night to keep watch. She was pretty restless… probably still excited about the cape I think.
Thank you again to the bestest Uncle Bobby and Aunt Beth in the whole wide world! 💚 You made this Wonder Dog feel truly super.
Hey y’all — it’s me, Sassy the Wonder Dog, checking in with breaking news from the home front.
Mama is almost halfway through her chemo protocol! Which is amazing, but let me tell you — the woman looks really, really tired. Like, couch-is-now-her-best-friend tired.
I’ve had to get creative with my motivation tactics. My favorite trick? Barking like there’s a stranger at the door until she hauls herself up to go check. Hey, a motivation dog’s gotta do what a motivation dog’s gotta do. 💪🐶
Now, about last night — when they came home from chemo, I jumped in Mama’s lap and gave her the full deluxe lick-down package. That’s when I noticed something, she’s losing more hair. Not bald yet, but I can see some shiny spots starting to peek through. I tried to ask Dad if we’re supposed to act cool about it, but he doesn’t speak fluent Dog. So I said nothing.
This morning, I spotted more hair on her pillow. So I did what any loyal companion would do — I rubbed all over it. If Mama’s hair is going anywhere, I’m taking some with me. ❤️
Anyway, the real story is my mission to get her moving again. Lately, her walks are shorter and her breathing’s shallower. I know humans like rewards just like dogs, but apparently not bones (weird, right?). I heard they like stickers on a calendar — which, if you ask me, sounds like a rip-off. Not even edible! 🍖
So I’m planning to make Mama a Sassy Sticker Chart — one paw print for every time she takes me outside. I’m starting my data collection today. When she lets me out for my morning business, I’m gonna pull out my best acting — big eyes, tail wag, full drama — and beg her to walk down the street. She’ll cave. She always does. She loves seeing what’s going on in the neighborhood. (I call it “people-watching.” She calls it “getting fresh air.” Tomato, tomahto.)
So keep wagging your tails and sending those good thoughts and prayers. Mama says I can’t ask for licks again — apparently it’s “unsanitary.” Whatever that means.
Until next time — Sassy the Wonder Dog, signing off. 🐾💚
Hi everyone — Pattie Presswoman here, reporting live from the glamorous chemo room, where the IVs drip, the chairs spin, the nurses pole dance (for the cause, obviously), and the drama unfolds one infusion at a time.
I arrived bright and early — 8:30 a.m. — because apparently, I enjoy pretending punctuality matters when chemo runs on its own cosmic schedule. Spoiler: it doesn’t. It’s now late afternoon and, once again, I’m closing down the chemo lounge like it’s last call at Club Infusion.
I started the day in what looked like the perfect corner chair. Big mistake. Within an hour, I was sweating like I’d run a half-marathon in South Georgia in August — which, for the record, I have (and yes, I kept the participation medal because I survived humidity that could melt eyelashes). Maybe it would be easier now with no eyelashes.
Naturally, because I was sweating and he was not currently suffering with me, I texted my husband — a.k.a. Luke Skywalker — for sympathy. His very Jedi response? “Say something.” Ugh. Fine. I complained. Ten seconds later, I was told where the “cool kids” sit, and now I’m parked directly under the arctic vent, cool as a cucumber in full IV couture.
Remember that friend from way-back-when who reappeared a few weeks ago? She and her son are here again. He remembered me. She half did, half didn’t — which honestly makes us even because chemo brain has me forgetting my own name some days. Still, we laughed, caught up, and for a few minutes it felt like old times (minus the poison drip, of course).
Chair 4 was chatty today — first-timer nerves, bless her. She said asked me if all food tastes like metal. Been there, chewed that. I told her the only thing that tasted right during my first chemo rodeo was pork chops and watermelon. (Yes, together. Don’t judge. It was delicious.) She’s going to give it a try. If it works, I expect credit and maybe a Food Network deal.
Then The Mama arrived — Queen of Chair 11. Except someone had the audacity to sit in her throne. Cue the silent standoff. Her daughter, clearly a seasoned diplomat, negotiated a peaceful one-chair-over relocation. The Mama dozed off soon after, and as I passed on my way to the restroom, I whispered to her daughter, “How dare someone steal Mama’s chair?” She nodded like we were co-conspirators in a Hallmark movie about chemo justice.
A little later I woke up from my name to see in the chair directly across from me sat the tiniest little lady — shorter than me (and I’m 4’10” with hair). She reminded me of my own tiny little sweet-but-salty Mama. My Mama always said dynamite came in small packages. It was true for her. Anyway when the new little lady fell asleep, her head flopped over, and of course I started bugging each nursed that passed by and each one assured me she always sleeps that way, which I’m 99% sure was nurse-speak for, “Mind your own damn business, Presswoman.”
Now here I am, half done with my third treatment regiment – which is half-way through the entire treatment schedule — cue confetti, and maybe a victory nap. A PET scan is next to see if we’re winning or if I get to pick another poison card from the deck. Either way, I’m ready.
Because Mama didn’t raise a quitter — she raised a woman who sweats, snacks, and reports live from the chemo front lines. With sarcasm as my sidekick and hope as my headline, I’ll keep showing up — cool under the vent, pork chop in spirit, and always ready for the next round.
Just a warning, being cool as a cucumber may have put way too many words in my fingers. My apologies for the long read. I hope it was at least entertaining!
Second Battle, Same Me 