Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: chemo

  • 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.

  • Chemo Chronicles: Live from the Lounge of Liquid Courage

    Reporting live from the Chemo Room, folks, where the IV poles sway and the recliners are almost comfortable. It’s 10:30 a.m., and this joint is hopping — every single chair taken. That’s right, the chemo lounge is standing-room-only (well, reclining-room-only). I haven’t seen this kind of turnout in eleven visits. Clearly, today’s the day everyone got the “Let’s poison cancer!” memo.

    To my far right sits a young lady with all her hair. All of it. Long, shiny, shampoo-commercial hair. Naturally, I had to investigate (journalistic integrity, people). Turns out she’s here for an iron infusion. Bless her. May her iron rise and her hair remain glorious.

    Meanwhile, I stepped away to the restroom and came back to find the man to my immediate right completely covered by a blanket. Like, entirely. Head completely covered, a human burrito of concern. And you know in this room, we don’t talk about dead people — it’s bad mojo. So yes, I stared until I saw his chest rise and fall. Whew. Crisis averted. No grim reaper sightings today.

    Now, on my left sits a woman who clearly did not get the chemo memo about looking half-dead. She looks fabulous. Black shiny hair (real — I checked, again, reporter skills), perfect makeup, and an outfit that screams “Cougar Christmas Chic”: black sweater, leopard-print pants, and matching boots. I want to be her when I grow up.

    Across the room, two elderly gentlemen (okay fine, probably my age, damn it) are having the time of their lives chatting about everything under the sun. I’ve seen both of them here before, alone and quiet, but today? They’re laughing, talking about old times. (Sadly, I remembered a lot of it myself.) But it’s nice. It feels like a tiny bit of joy snuck in with the saline drip.

    Somebody’s in Mama’s old chair today. I haven’t seen her in weeks. Maybe she’s cured. God, I hope she’s cured!

    And in the far corner? A little gaggle of women talking about Christmas crafts they’ve made. Glitter, glue guns, and garland galore. I wish I could join that table, but a reporter’s got to stay on her beat.

    Fast-forward to 2:30 p.m. The chemo crowd has thinned out, leaving just me and the two gents — still solving the world’s problems and condemning the evils of some drug or another. The room hums quietly now. I can see the sunshine pouring through the window, a soft reminder that there’s life happening outside these IV poles.

    It’s been a good day in the chemo room.
    No deaths. Some laughs. A little envy. A little sunshine.
    And me — still here, still reporting.

    Chemo Chronicles: signing off until next drip.

    Breaking News

    The gentlemen just told their age. I am AT LEAST 10 years younger. Boy, I feel even better now!

  • 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 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

  • Cherries, Almonds, and a Smart-Mouthed Sidekick

    Two days ago, I got the happiest kind of news: the chemo is working!

    Cue the confetti cannons, lime-green ribbons, and one happy little red bird doing loop-de-loops over my head. After weeks of wondering, worrying, and silently negotiating with the universe, I finally got the word that things are shrinking. Me! Shrinking things!

    The celebration continued with a long but surprisingly pleasant day in the always-entertaining chemo room — that magical land of heated chairs, cold IV poles, and nurses who could moonlight as comedians. All was well in my soul.

    Luke and I drove home talking about the future again, like normal people do. I could actually breathe again. I swear I felt my shoulders drop three inches from relief. For the first time in months, we weren’t just surviving the moment — we were daring to plan what comes next.

    And then came yesterday.

    Apparently my brain didn’t get the “we’re okay now” memo. Between the pre-programmed crazy in my head, the toxic cocktail dripping through my veins, and the endless wisecracks from that internal smart-aleck I call Chemo Boy, peace didn’t last long.

    My “quick nap” turned into a full-blown horror flick.
    Somewhere between hour two and four, I dreamed I was being attacked from the inside — an Invasion of the Body Snatchers situation starring… wait for it… cherries and almonds.

    Yep. In my subconscious, the once-monstrous “cancer nodes” became produce aisle invaders. They multiplied, pressed, and squeezed until I thought I’d explode into a fruit salad. I don’t do horror movies. And now, apparently, I don’t do long naps either.

    When I woke up, sweating and slightly homicidal toward Chemo Boy, I did what every rational cancer fighter does: I reread the PET scan report and the doctor’s notes. Twice. Okay, maybe three times.

    And here’s the reassuring truth: I am no longer invaded by cherries and almonds. The latest scan says it’s down to a pinto bean and a pea.

    That’s right — my invaders have been demoted to side-dish size.

    So I can stop holding my breath again.

    Because here’s what I know for sure:
    I am in this battle until the very end.
    I’m going to beat this cancer.
    And one of these days, I’m going to silence that sarcastic little Chemo Boy once and for all.

    (Maybe I might miss him a little. NOT A CHANCE!)

  • Chemo Chronicles V5: What do you call this room?

    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.

  • Becoming, Again (Day 2)

    (Or: Somewhere Between the Couch and the Cosmos)

    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,

  • And just like that –

    The Wall Meets Udenyca

    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.