This morning, Mom was in the kitchen acting all kinds of crazy — singing, dancing, twirling around like humans do when they think they’re having “fun.” I knew right away: if she had that much energy, she was definitely ready for a walk.
I tried to wrangle her immediately, but then came the eggs. Eggs are my weakness. She always shares a bite, so of course I had to wait it out.
Next distraction? That computer. She muttered to herself for a full hour before prancing off to the printer like it was Christmas morning. Perfect ambush spot. I trapped her at the doorway of “her” room (aka the Cave of Crap) and pushed her straight toward the front door. She knew what I meant. Leash on, drizzle outside, painfully slow loop around the yard — but hey, we did it.
After that, she needed a nap. I stretched out right beside her, on guard. When she stirred, I pounced — ears up, eyes locked, leash ready. Yard loop number two.
Later, I noticed her clutching the railing after just two steps. Okay, Wonder Dog knows when to call it. I let her rest. No toys, no snack raids. I just waited. And waited. Through 50 phone calls (ugh, she never shuts up).
Finally, the blankets rustled. My moment. I unleashed the Sad Dog Eyes™. A tiny whine. Boom — success. Yard loop number three.
Three walks in one day. Who’s the best motivator, protector, and leash-wielding life coach? Me. They don’t call me Sassy the Wonder Dog for nothing.
Mom was wiped out but still managed to hand over a big treat. Score for both of us. Tomorrow? Road walk. I’ve got plans.
Today, a friend I haven’t seen in a long while reached out. She didn’t know my cancer was back. She didn’t know I was in treatment again. She just said, “I would love to hear your heart.”
That line stopped me cold. Not “let’s catch up.” Not “tell me what’s been going on.” She wanted to hear my heart.
And that got me thinking: what kind of peace, what kind of love does a person carry when they care less about your circumstances and more about your heart?
Do I even listen to mine? Sure, when it comes to the big-ticket items—marriage, kids, family, love. Those are the moments when you’re “supposed” to listen to your heart.
But do I listen to it daily? When I wake up bone-tired. When the chemo wall hits and knocks me flat. When Sassy drags me down the driveway like a reluctant sled dog. Do I stop and check in?
Truth: most days, my head is way louder than my heart. My head is bossy. It says:
Take the meds.
Keep walking.
Don’t puke in public.
Try to be funny about this so people aren’t uncomfortable.
Meanwhile, my heart whispers. And I ignore it. Because sometimes, my heart says stuff I don’t want to hear—like “rest” when I’d rather power through, or “cry” when I’d rather throw up a sarcastic one-liner. Or, “it’s ok to be mad about this” when I don’t want to think about that.
But my friend’s words have been simmering all day. Maybe what she really offered me was permission. Permission to pause. Permission to tune in. Permission to let my heart speak, even if it doesn’t have the right words, even if it stutters.
So I asked myself: what does my heart say right now?
And here’s the messy, beautiful, unfinished truth:
I’m still here, even if this is not what I planned to do this year.
I’m still fighting, and will not stop.
I still love, and need to show myself a little more of that.
I still have stories to tell.
That’s my heart. Maybe small. Maybe quiet. Maybe shaky. But it’s still beating. And today, someone wanted to hear it.
Within 24 hours of slamming face-first into The Wall, it retreated. I give full credit to the tiny (yet monstrous) contraption known as the Udenyca On-Body Injector—a device slapped onto my arm right after chemo. Supposedly, it waits 18 hours before releasing its magical (and slightly terrifying) payload of medicine. If you’d like the medical mumbo-jumbo, you can check the official site here: udenyca.com.
But if you’d rather hear it the way it really went down, buckle up.
How It Works (According to Me)
On Friday, they stuck this little white box on the fatty part of my arm (nurse’s words, not mine). Imagine half a computer mouse, only bulkier, and now imagine me banging it into every wall, chair, or doorframe in my house. Chemo makes me clumsy; add a plastic box to my arm and I become a human demolition derby.
The device waits. Then, exactly 18 hours later—2 p.m. on Saturday in my case—it explodes into action. Note the description explodes please!
The Moment of Truth
I was napping, minding my own business, when suddenly:
A jet engine fired up inside my arm.
A samurai sword stabbed me in the exact same spot.
And then, as if I’d just licked a battery, I could taste the medicine.
For one delirious second, I thought I’d dreamed it all. But the little green light that had been flashing turned solid—meaning the beast had done its job. No dream. 100% real. WTF.
The Aftermath
Once the pain subsided and the device wheezed its last mechanical breath, I lay there still trying to understand what happened
Of course, being the overachiever I am, I immediately read the list of possible side effects. Big mistake. (Pro tip: if you don’t want to imagine yourself sprouting hobbit-feet hair or growing elf-ears, don’t read the fine print. These are not actual side-effects, but they are more desirable than the actual possible effects. Just saying.)
Today
This morning, I realized something shocking: I actually felt better. The nausea and exhaustion that had pinned me to the floor the day before started lifting.
So here I am—up, moving, and cautiously optimistic. The Wall may have knocked me flat, but with a little help from science, samurai swords, and jet engines, I got back up.
This cancer fight is brutal, unpredictable, and weirdly comical at times. Yesterday was down. Today is up. Tomorrow? I’ll keep fighting.
👉 Every day is a battle. Some days I hit the Wall. Some days I walk away from it. But I’m still here—and that’s what matters.
Every cancer patient who’s ever taken chemo knows about the Wall.
It’s out there—lurking around the corner—just waiting to remind you that chemo doesn’t f***ing play. It can show up once, twice, or stick around to let you know things are about to get real for a long-ass time.
Yesterday, I slammed right into it.
Clue #1: Standing up, minding my own business, feeling like my body was about to collapse straight to the floor.
Clue #2: My personal favorite—great waves of liquid exiting my body from all possible orifices, burning like I was sliding down a razor blade the whole way.
When that was over, I slept five more hours like a baby. (There’s always a blessing somewhere, right?)
The rest of the day was almost normal. I ate. I kept it down. I slept well last night—though don’t get the idea that sleep was some natural miracle. It came courtesy of prescribed medication. I took the pills. I slept. I was happy with that.
This morning, I’m trying to figure out if I’m still clinging to the Wall. Dizzy when I stood up—clue? Spilled a glass of water and felt exhausted cleaning it up—another clue?
And then I thought of the hundreds of thousands of people who were taken on death marches by their enemies—tired, confused, sick, exhausted—yet still driven forward by the will to live.
I have that will to live too.
If I keep meeting the Wall day after day, I’m not going to give up. But I know I’m going to need your encouragement along the way.
And if someone could whip up some real mashed potatoes like Grandma used to make—and a bowl of real brown gravy—and drop them off, I’m sure it would help me fight the Wall. (Or maybe it would just fly right through me. Either way, it would taste like heaven going down and that would be good enough for today.)
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Oh my gosh, oh my gosh you guys—guess who drew the short straw again? 🙋♀️ Yep, me.
But hold on—this time the universe threw me a bone.
My port gave up blood without a single hissy fit.
My numbers came back high enough to keep going.
And get this: two hours. That’s it. TWO HOURS of chemo.
I don’t know if it was my lucky shirt, or maybe channeling my mom calling out “Big Money!” before she rolled the dice at the kitchen table. But somehow, today the chemo room was a blink instead of a marathon.
The nurses strapped a new little gadget onto my arm—like some weird futuristic bracelet—that’s set to shoot “life juice” into my veins tomorrow. Supposedly, it’ll beef up my white counts. Honestly, it feels a little sci-fi, but hey, if it works, I’m in.
The chemo room itself was pretty calm today—no drama, no chaos. To my left, a husband stayed by his wife’s side the whole time. Sweet as pie, and a good reminder that not all superheroes wear capes—sometimes they sit quietly in vinyl chairs.
And then there was the new lady in Lookout Chair #11. Let me tell you, she showed up like it was Fashion Week. Gorgeous dress, killer high heels that would’ve sent me face-planting in under thirty seconds. I loved it. She wasn’t here to look sick—she was here to shine. And it worked.
No chemo next week, which means I get a break from the chair and a chance to rest up for whatever adventures are waiting. (Spoiler: probably not heels that high. Ever.)
This was technically a business trip for my husband (you remember, my own personal Luke Skywalker—the legendary snack saver). That meant we only had one full day to play tourist. Lucky for me, Denver’s sports teams were nowhere around, so we were spared from being swallowed up in a sea of jerseys and face paint. Instead, we got to do the average touristy stuff—which, for once, was actually perfect.
We strolled through a gorgeous part of the city. The foliage and flowers were showing off like they’d been waiting just for us, the sky was obnoxiously blue with Instagram-ready puffy white clouds, and the sun drenched us in actual warmth. Nothing I expected, but exactly what I needed. (For the record, “sun-drenched” sounds fancy, but it really means “I should’ve brought sunscreen.”)
Lunch was at True Food Kitchen, where I got brave and ordered something called the “Bright Eyes” refresher. Ingredients: pineapple, carrot, organic apple, ginger, turmeric, beet, and lemon. Basically, a liquid garden. It wasn’t love at first sip—more like, “huh?”—but by the end I was convinced I could run a marathon. (Don’t worry, I didn’t. Sitting was still on the schedule.)
Then came the highlight: the International Church of Cannabis. Calm down—no one was passing around brownies or handing out gummies at the door. It’s an old church that’s been turned into a space for meditation and relaxation. Think groovy 70s furniture (the kind you swore you’d never see again outside of your aunt’s basement) and a meditation garden that practically whispered “chill out.”
The real show, though, was a 30-minute light-and-sound experience. Imagine lying on a church pew with your head on a pillow while swirling lights and fantastic music transport you somewhere between Woodstock and Star Wars. It was that good. All four of us walked out saying, “Yeah, we’d do that again.” And you know that never happens.
Pro tip: if you want to experience this “elevated meditation” the way it was intended, you’ll need to, um, pre-elevate. The Church doesn’t sell cannabis on site, so it’s a bring-your-own-vibe situation. Locals can even join as members for non-public elevated sessions.
All in all, Denver gave us one heck of a memory-filled day. Gorgeous skies, questionable drinks, psychedelic pews, great friends, and my hero Luke at my side. Not bad for 24 hours in the Mile High City.
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.
Second Battle, Same Me 