Minions, Mama’s Chair, and the Great Heater Debate
Today was a great day! After the great PET scan news, I skipped down to the Chemo Room. Even though it was long chemo day. It was the first Chemo of the last of the protocol. Five more sessions in the plan!
Entering the chemo room, my main concern was making sure that my chair was NOT under the heat. It was hot as hell in there to me. And I stayed hot. In fact, I eventually took off my shoes and socks. Three or four of the chairs under the heater had people with sweaters, heated blankets, and caps. I am sure they were almost cooked before they left.
All the nurses were dressed for Halloween. They were all Minions. It was so cute. But of course, since I can’t remember anything, including faces, I couldn’t tell them apart.
There was lots of action in the chemo room today. Off and on it was a full room, then emptied out to just me, tjrm a full room again.
Once again somebody took Mama’s chair. It was a young man. She sat right next to him and spread out her stuff, and then fell fast asleep –maybe with her mouth open. I bet he won’t do that again. Why can’t these people learn – the minions should just put a taken sign on that chair.
All in all, a long 7 hour day, but a good one. Minions, heaters, naps, and all — just another episode in the ongoing adventure of Chemo Chronicles.
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!
I just want it to be over — magically over. Not some haunted, never-leaving-for-good over, but over like I don’t have to do this anymore. Plain and simple. No more appointments, no more counting pills like prayer beads, no more scheduling my life around naps and pukes. Is that too fucking much to ask?
I know the truth: you have to go through the damn thing to get past it. You can’t short-circuit the mess. You have to slog. So here I am — slogging. Hazy brain days that feel like I’m moving through molasses. Brainless moments where I stand in front of the fridge like it’s a conspiracy. Rest when my bones beg for it; heal when my body remembers how; poison because science says so; repeat because the calendar is a cruel comedian.
Between the bleak and the boring, what I really want is the tiny, ridiculous stuff: to write in peace and light without the guilt that I should be “doing something productive” while I wait for the next appointment. To sit at the kitchen table with my laptop and not have the cloud of “what if” hovering over every line. To drink coffee that’s still hot. To walk outside and not count steps like they’re a report card. To have a normal week that does not begin and end with an IV drip and a list of side effects.
Also? I want to shoot a fire arrow into this cancer and blow it the fuck up. There. I said it. There’s the part of me that wants to be dramatic and violent and victorious all at once. I want a literal and metaphorical kaboom — lights, confetti, the whole over-the-top ending to this chapter. Tell me that’s unreasonable and I’ll roll my eyes and bring the fireworks anyway.
And listen: I’m conflicted. I can want peace and quiet and also want to scream and torch the thing that put me here. I can be grateful for the hands that hold me and furious at the time it steals. I can laugh at myself for crying over a lost sock and then sob over the way the chemo makes my bones feel like someone took a jackhammer to them. Cancer doesn’t come with an instruction manual that says “how to be graceful.” It comes with a lot of improvisation, a poor soundtrack, and the occasional emergency snack saved by a patient husband I nicknamed my own Luke Skywalker.
So I keep going. I show up for the naps and the meds and the ridiculous moments because there’s still light to find. There are small mercies — a friend who drops off a pie, a dog that insists on dragging me outside, a good TV show that distracts for forty blessed minutes. There are stories I didn’t think I could finish that surprise me by being halfway decent. There are mornings when my head clears and I can see color again, and those mornings are holy.
Mostly I keep going because I refuse to let this story end with me never coming back over it. I want the ending where I walk out the other side — bruised, scarred, wiser, still snarking — not looping back into the same damn place. That’s the stubborn part of me speaking: I want life after this. I want the pages after the battle. I want to play, to laugh, to be boring and ordinary and loud and alive.
So yeah — I’ll keep slogging. Hazy brain, brainless days, rest and heal, poison and repeat. I will draw in the light where I can. I will fire the arrow in my imagination and shout when I need to. And I will keep looking for the little lights that make the whole thing bearable until one day—God willing—the arrow does its job and this is over for real.
Remember how I once reported that some folks draw the lucky short straw for chemo—zip in, zip out—and others get the long version? Well, folks, yours truly drew the very, very, very long straw. I arrived bright-eyed (okay, half-eyed) at 9 a.m. and was still there when the lights dimmed at 5 p.m.. Yes, I closed the joint down. (Closing the joint down sure brings different memories!)
But here’s the breaking news: it all went smoothly. No adverse reactions. Just hours and hours of people-watching, chair-swapping, and enough drowsy naps to qualify as a full-blown slumber party.
Morning Beat
When I arrived, chairs were 80% full (give or take, I don’t actually count). I parked myself on the TV-off side. Snoozing in front of me was a woman clearly shorter than me—a clear sign the universe was sending things in the right direction.
Within minutes, the room was its usual scene: patients knocked out cold from the pre-drugs, myself included. I lost the first two hours without even trying.
Midday Shuffle
By the time I woke, the cast had rotated. The self-appointed Chair 11 Lady was back in position, keeping silent watch over the room and the halllway. A few men had joined the section—both out like lights.
And then—finally—real entertainment. One nurse strutted in wearing head-to-toe yellow scrubs with matching socks, topped off with a black jacket and black shoes. She proudly declared herself a “bumble bee.” Who was I to argue? For all I know, that’s the official undercover bee uniform. 🐝 She buzzed around until—wait for it—her twin-in-disguise arrived: a regal patient escorted by her husband/guardian/possibly fellow bee agent. I dubbed her the Queen Bee—weary but still dignified. The nurse buzzed, the husband checked charts, the transfusion wrapped, and the hive emptied out.
For a moment I wasn’t sure if I was in a chemo chair, a bee convention, or halfway down the Yellow Brick Road with Dorothy. Either way, I was definitely not in Kansas anymore.
Evening Edition
As the afternoon crawled on, the chairs emptied. Patients left. Nurses clocked out. Until—just me. And three nurses. They never abandon ship, even when they’re itching to go home. By then, I was cranky and this close to bawling like a toddler denied her juice box.
Finally, my husband was called back, the finish line in sight. I jumped out of that chair faster than a short woman whose feet don’t reach the floor should be able to.
Tears waited until I got home. Then they came fast, like Biff the Cancer Boy himself screaming “I’m dying!”—melting like the Wicked Witch of the West.
Closing Statement
This is Pattie Presswoman, reporting live from the frontlines of chemo. The day was long, the straw longer, but the news? Still good.
Second Battle, Same Me 