Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: family

  • Tantrums & Lightning Bugs

    Let me just say it plainly:
    I. Want. To. Feel. Normal.

    Is that so unreasonable?
    To wake up with energy?
    To know who I am and what day it is?
    (At this point, I’d settle for getting one of those right.)

    And honestly—
    some days my inner toddler wakes up before I do.

    She wants to march into Wal-Mart (where else),
    plop down in the middle of the stupid seasonal aisle,
    and unleash a Big-Ass Deluxe Super-Sized Tantrum™
    complete with foot stomping,
    arm flailing,
    and a dramatic,
    “I WANT THIS TO BE O–VER, DAMMIT!”

    I want to scream it so loud
    they hear it in Sporting Goods.

    But then…
    I re-read what I wrote.

    And suddenly the tantrum isn’t quite as adorable as it sounded in my head.
    Because WOW.
    Who knew I was the spoiled brat in this equation?

    Here I am whining about wanting the finish line closer,
    when some people don’t even get a finish line—
    just more road.
    More fight.
    More pain.
    More “keep going even though you’re tired down to your soul.”

    Talk about a perspective slap.

    Meanwhile I’ve got a lightning bug blinking at me
    from the end of my tunnel,
    like,
    “Hey girl, I’m tiny but I’m TRYING.”

    And if I get even a flicker of light,
    I damn well want to help somebody else
    spot theirs.

    So instead of melting down in Wal-Mart
    (tempting though it still is),
    I’m redirecting that dramatic energy
    toward something useful:

    How to Help Someone Who’s in the Dark

    • Send a meal (or a DoorDash code).
    A cancer patient receiving a no-cook dinner is basically the Oscars of kindness.

    • Text them with ZERO expectation of reply.
    “Thinking of you—don’t answer this or I’ll fight you.”
    Perfect.

    • Learn other people’s stories, not just mine.
    Sites full of real humans being brave and messy:

    • The Mighty
    • Stupid Cancer
    • Cancer Support Community (legit, not woo-woo)
    • American Cancer Society (the grown-up in the room)

    • Volunteer without leaving your recliner.

    • Letters Against Isolation → send love to lonely seniors
    • Imerman Angels → one-on-one support mentoring

    • Donate if you can. Share if you can’t.
    No guilt. Just options.

    And maybe the biggest one:

    When you have even ONE lightning-bug moment,
    hold it up.
    Let someone else borrow the glow.

    Because tantrums feel good for a minute.
    But helping someone else find their light?
    That feels good for a long time.

  • 🐾 Sassy Walks: Mistletoe Madness

    Oh. My. Dog. Did we have fun today!

    Now that I’ve cracked the code on how to trick Mama into walking, we are getting it done. Today’s adventure: something called a “Mistletoe Market.” Don’t ask me what mistletoe is, but apparently it’s festive and doesn’t taste like chicken.

    I proudly walked Mama on the leash (because obviously someone has to take charge), while Makenzie pushed my bestie, Hennie, in her stroller. Hennie is a Chiweenie—a 7-pound diva who thinks “strolling” means standing still while everyone adores her. Walking her is worse than walking Mama. Sooooo slow. And you have to watch where you step. Every. Single. Second.

    The Market was outside with rows of tents full of people, sparkly things, and—best part—FOOD. And even better—DOG TREATS! I led Mama up and down the hills, in and out of tents, showing her how it’s done. Everyone stopped to talk to me and Hennie (because, hello, stars of the show). A photographer even took our picture—we might be famous soon. I’ll let my people handle the press release.

    It was hot out though, and Mama started sweating and huffing like she was pulling a sled team in July. I made her sit down and drink water—hydration is key, folks.

    We didn’t buy much, but looking was fun. Then we hit Wal-Mart! Hennie and I got the royal buggy treatment and sniffed our way through the aisles while Mama shopped. So many smells, so many admirers. People kept stopping to say how cute we were, which I think is good for Mama—it makes her slow down, smile, and remember how to be nice to people. Cancer brain, you know.

    All in all, I’d call today a total success. Mama got her steps in, Hennie and I worked the crowd, and the Mistletoe Market will never be the same.

    Stay tuned—me and Hennie have big plans for tomorrow. Gotta keep Mama moving!

  • 🐾 SASSY WALKS: TJ MAX ADVENTURE EDITION 🛍️

    Hey everybody, it’s me — Sassy the Wonder Dog!
    I just want y’all to know that I have really been trying to get Mama out of the house. Every single day it’s the same old excuses:
    “It’s too hot.” ☀️
    “It’s too cold.” 🥶
    “I’m too tired.” 😴
    “Let me rest.” 😒

    Excuse me, ma’am? You never accept those excuses from me!

    But today… I found the secret weapon.
    Two words: TJ MAXX.

    Oh. My. Dog.
    Do you even know how much STUFF is in that place?

    At first, I was nervous (strangers, you know). Mama got this big rolling thing — she calls it a “buggy” — and put her jacket in it like a little nest, then lifted me right in.
    Now listen, she’s kinda short and I’ve got long legs, so there was a minute there where we both looked like a circus act.

    Then the doors whooshed open and I thought, “Welp, this is it. I’m gonna die.”
    And just when I was trying to be brave, some fool turned on a vacuum cleaner. 😳

    But I kept saying to myself, this is for Mama.
    Mama needs to walk around and see people.
    Mama needs exercise.
    Mama needs Sassy time.

    And then… something magical happened.
    The SMELLS.
    Good smells. Bad smells. Food smells. Treat smells. I sat up like the brave girl I am, nose in the air, tail wagging, ready for adventure.

    Every corner had a new smell and something shiny to look at.
    And then people started saying, “Oh, what a good girl!”
    You better believe I was proud.

    Mama let me pick out a treat (I chose wisely), and the nice lady at the counter gave me another one.

    So now we have a new plan:
    When Mama needs exercise, we go to TJ MAXX.
    Because let’s face it — a girl’s gotta sniff, strut, and shop. 💅🐶

  • Sassy the Wonder Dog Goes to Work

    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.

  • 💚 Chemo Chronicles V4: Chair Wars and the Pork Chop & Watermelon Solution

    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!

  • Too Tired to Lift a Blanket, But Still Fighting the Battle

    When was the last time you slept in and still woke up so tired that even pulling the blanket off felt like a full-body workout? I’m talking Olympic-level fatigue here. The kind where you just lie there negotiating with gravity like, “Listen, I’ll move if you move first.”

    So there I was, having a full-blown hostage situation with my comforter. The only reason I didn’t stay trapped under it forever was because my bladder started yelling like a toddler in a grocery store. I tried to ignore it, but biology always wins. So I turned sideways, feet to the floor, and slid out like a slow-motion seal escaping a sand trap. It wasn’t pretty, but it was effective.

    After surviving that adventure, I scrubbed my hands for the required 20 seconds (because apparently 19 seconds is where all the germs party), and fully intended to crawl back into bed. But then I looked down. My blanket mountain had avalanched to the floor. There was no freaking way I was lifting that mess.

    So, off I wobbled to my sacred recovery spot—the couch. My couch never lets me down. It knows my shape. It cradles me. It always has that one blanket ready for action. But before I could collapse into its loving embrace, I stumbled into the kitchen to pour myself a cup of ambition. 🎶 (Yes, that’s a Dolly Parton lyric. Yes, my brain just sings now. No, there’s no off switch.)

    Today’s ambition doesn’t involve board meetings or productivity charts. Nope. My ambition is to mix the perfect recipe of rest, healing foods, hydration, determination, and pure, unfiltered fierceness.

    So, what’s the moral of this story? I’m too tired to pick up a blanket—but not too tired to keep showing up for the fight. I’m weary, yes. But I’m not out.

    Now if someone could just invent self-folding covers, I might finally win a round.

  • Hearing Your Heart

    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.

  • Planes, Ports, and Protruding Feet

    Planes, Ports, and Protruding Feet

    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!!

  • Chemo Chronicles -V2

    Dateline: Infusion Center. Chair 4—my lucky spot, my turf, my assigned recliner throne.

    This visit was a little different. But that’s the thing with cancer—you can’t trust it. Just when you think you’ve got the routine down, it switches things up.

    Fridays appear to be the “Quick Lane” days. (It’s a Ford thing, IYKYK). Folks breeze in for one-and-done infusions or quick little shots. It’s basically the drive-thru menu version of cancer treatment. And surprise—this week I landed in the quick lane too! (Who knew this disease had an express option? Now if only they handed out fries with that stuff…)

    Of course, I managed to put my papers in the wrong place—again. I was gently “re-instructed” on proper sign-in performance, because apparently there’s a choreography to this. Reminder: pole dancers do not play!

    The People of Recliner Row

    • Chair 2 was occupied by a shot-and-go pro. She brought her own blanket, clocked in under 30 minutes, and left with the efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew.
    • Chair 7 hosted a gentleman who nodded off before his bag was even hooked up. Snoring achieved decibel levels impressive enough to drown out an infusion pump alarm.
    • Chair 11 is the only chair that faces the hallway. I would never sit there. But as an older lady (okay, my age) was wheeled into that chair, her daughter loudly announced that Mama loves this chair so she can see all the comings and goings. Hmmmm. Maybe I would sit there after all.
    • The Nurses: still pirouetting between poles, juggling syringes, and keeping everyone moving through the lanes. Gold medals, every one of them.

    Meanwhile, I picked up a lot of new info this visit. Same me, just older me—learning the ropes all over again, taking more naps, heading to bed earlier, and laughing at my own clumsy lack of sign-in etiquette.

    Chair 4, quick lane, and still me. Cancer may not be trustworthy, but my stubborn streak is rock solid.

  • Sassy Walks

    Saving Mama, One Pee at a Time

    Hi. I’m Sassy, and I’ve got news about my Mama.

    I’m what you’d call a dog of many cultures (and questionable ancestry), weighing in at 26 pounds—prime size for “emotional support bestie,” “fitness trainer,” and “professional poop-bag logistics manager.”

    But let me tell you—this last week hasn’t been a walk in the park. Mama is back in chemo-land. Two months shy of 69 and wrestling lymphoma again. She says she’s “been badder and gooder, thinner and fatter, younger but never this old before.” To me? She mostly smells like hand sanitizer, Band-Aids, and pure stubborn.

    Now, Mama’s on this kick about “flushing the poison out.” She downloaded an app with a cartoon llama that cheers every time she drinks water. A llama. As if my tail wagging isn’t motivation enough! Anyway, she’s guzzling 100 ounces a day—which means I’ve now memorized every bathroom within a two-mile radius.

    But apparently water isn’t enough. Studies show (insert Mama’s dramatic eye roll here) that exercise helps. And that’s where I come in. She straps on her shoes, clips on my leash, and declares we’re going on “short walks of torture and exhaustion.”

    I call them SWALKS—Sassy Walks.
    And here’s how they go:

    • Minute 1: Mama is all business. I’m busy sniffing the grass like it’s a fine wine tasting.
    • Minute 5: Mama is huffing, cussing at “fucking studies.” I’m still auditioning pee spots.
    • Minute 10: Mama looks like she’s negotiating with Death. I’m prancing like a show pony.
    • Minute 20: Mama is swaying like a drunk flamingo, but don’t worry—I know the way home.

    Chemo is rough. My Mama feels awful. But she’s still out here—sweating, swearing, stumbling forward. And I’m her furry sidekick: sniffing, peeing, cheerleading, making sure she doesn’t face-plant on the neighbor’s driveway.

    So, if you see us out there on a SASSY WALK, give Mama a honk, a wave—or, better yet, toss me a chicken-flavored treat. We’ll take all the encouragement we can get.

    Because adventures aren’t always mountain hikes or big vacations. Sometimes they’re just a stubborn woman and her determined little dog, trudging through the Georgia heat, refusing to quit.

    And don’t worry—I’ve got more stories. Next time I steal the keyboard, I’ll tell you about the killer mosquitos the size of Labradors.

    🐾 Until then, nose boops and tail wags,
    Sassy