Sitting on the plane, mask strapped tight, sounding like Darth Vader just for the luxury of chasing a normal life.
Exhaustion hit. I was out cold— missed the food, missed the snacks, missed most of the flight.
But here’s where the story flips. While I was passed out in my personal cloud of exhaustion, my own personal Luke Skywalker was on guard. Not for the galaxy. Not for the greater good. For my snacks.
He saved them. Protected them. Like the Rebel Alliance depended on it.
So sure, Denver was waiting outside the window. But the real view? The reminder that even when I’m down for the count, my own personal Luke has my back.
That’s not sappy. That’s survival. That’s love in our language. And that’s why Luke is my hero!
Got up at 6, left the house at 7, dropped Sassy at the farm by 8:30. She about beat my leg red with that happy tail of hers—dog joy is a full-contact sport.
Then it was Atlanta Airport time. Biggest and busiest airport in the world . And because I’m apparently allergic to common sense, I refused Delta assistance. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. So my poor husband shuffled along at turtle pace, pushing both our suitcases and our bookbags, while I trudged like I was reenacting the Oregon Trail.
We don’t check bags. Don’t ask me why—WE just don’t.
TSA: Tales of Suspicion and Attitude
We have this fancy TSA Pre-Check Touchless thing where your driver’s license photo matches your real-time picture. Except mine didn’t. Cue the angry TSA man glaring at me like I was trying to sneak through in a Groucho Marx disguise.
“Why haven’t you updated your ID?” he barked. “Well, my hair was just cut…before it falls out. My numbers were low. I just found out yesterday I could even come.” Translation: zero sympathy, double lecture.
When he finally waved me through, I tossed a snark grenade: “Only my hair changed—the face is the same.” My husband, ever the helpful peanut gallery, asks, “Did you take your mask off?” No, my darling, I did not assume my license photo included a pandemic mask. Bless his heart.
Then came the security shuffle. Pockets emptied, bins filled, walk this way. I flashed my “I have a port” card like it was a backstage pass, got sent through the full-body scanner, endured the pat-down, and had my suitcase searched because prescription powder apparently = suspicious contraband. Never a dull moment.
Socks of Doom
Doctor’s orders: wear compression socks on the plane. Problem: my legs are 11 inches from knee to ankle and my calves are, let’s say, generous. Walmart and Walgreens had nothing. Husband’s compression socks? Way too long. Solution? Scissors. Cut those suckers down to size and made myself some footless Franken-socks.
I hated them. So I waited until almost time to board to wrestle them on in a bathroom stall. At one point my bare foot was sticking out into the neighbor’s stall while I grunted, groaned, and fought with fabric. Every time I bent over, the toilet flushed. I was basically starring in my own airport bathroom comedy show. Got them on, but never again. (Okay, once more on the flight home. Then never again.)
Sleeping Beauty, Airline Edition
Finally boarded, slapped on my hat, headphones, and neck wrap, and was asleep in less than five minutes. I honestly have no memory of taking off. Two glorious hours gone in a blink. Woke up just in time to find a bathroom and prepare for landing, only to find my husband had scored me two of the best cookies in the world. Keeper, that one.
Reverse and Repeat
Off the plane we did the reverse struggle—restrooms, escalators, trains, restrooms again—until we finally made it to the hotel. The room was perfect. I napped. We ate downstairs instead of prowling the streets, and miracle of miracles, the food was fantastic.
Bonus entertainment: a bridal party taking pictures and friends we came to see. By 6:00 local time (aka 9 past-my-bedtime o’clock), I was tucked back in bed. Asleep within the hour, no regrets.
Worth Every Awkward Moment
As Vegan Coach Naomi nailed it after a mountain-biking crash: “Doing shit you want to do is totally worth it—even if you fall.”
So yes, oncologist, I followed the rules. And yes, friends, the whole chaotic, exhausting, ridiculous day was worth every second (my shamelessly stolen motto). Even if it did end with my bare foot in a stranger’s bathroom stall.
P.S. I swear I did not wear those crocks! Or short pants. Imagine if the franken-socks were visible. Oh hell no!!
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!
Not gonna lie: I tried every filter I could find. When “they” were done, the pic didn’t even look like me.
All I really wanted? Eyes a little more open. Neck a little less wrinkled. But apparently “they” saw so much more that needed to be blurred, smoothed, and fixed.
And it made me wonder: is this what happens when we sign up for surgery to erase a bump in the nose, or a little tweak here and there? Do we walk out feeling less like ourselves?
For me, this photo is staying real. The only edit here is a solid background.
Because wrinkles, tired eyes, and all… it’s still me.
And speaking of staying real—today is chemo day for me. So expect a report from Pattie Presswoman soon, straight from the trenches of Recliner Row.
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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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.
The Official Report
Patients — 1 point for unconscious endurance.
Nurses — 10 points for maintaining peace and pillows without a single saline spill.
Notable Event — Chair 2 lost his phone, sparking a full-chair search party. The phone was ultimately recovered… in Chair 6’s pocket. It’s the drugs folks – these are just normal people. We’re not crazy – we’re on chemo.
Cancer — zero points. And may the odds be never in its favor!
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”.
I wrote this for my husband, who carries a copy in his pocket. I love this man!
I'm grateful for his love and support, But love isn't proven by easy words. It's tested in the mess - When I throw up, will he help me clean? When I awake, soaked in sweat, will he stay close or walk away? Will he carry some of the chaos so I don't bear it all?
I don't want pity. I want a partner. Someone who can hold my truth without breaking in half. Someone who can face my fear without turning away.
I've battled alone before. I can fight again. But partnership means sharing the weight - not protecting each other with silence. If I reveal the storm inside me, will he still stand tall beside me? Can he fight this fight with me, not just watch from the edges?
Some days I will not rise from bed. Other days, I'll insist on living hard, pushing through exhaustion, chasing pieces of the life we had. And yes, people will stare. Yes, the world will feel too heavy. But I refuse to shrink.
So I won't hide and I won't pretend. I'll speak my truth, even when it shakes. And if he is truly my partner, he'll grow with me through the fire. Because is not just my battle, it's ours.
If you’d like to know whenever I post new blog content, please add your e-mail below and click the subscribe button to receive email notification. I truly appreciate your interest!
Second Battle, Same Me 