What if I had nothing to say,
Just wandered on my merry way—
Accepted life for what it is,
And sat alone to mind my biz?
But you know I can’t do that.
We’ve all got storms we’re walking in.
And maybe it’s lighter when we share the pain—
Sit together in the rain—
And dance when the sun comes out again.
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. 💅🐶
It’s still dark outside.
But I know this will be a good day.
I’m awake—
and more importantly, my brain is awake.
(If you’ve ever had chemo fog, you know that’s headline-worthy news.)
I can hear it churning again,
where sometimes there’s been nothing but silence.
Thoughts forming, sparks flickering,
that little hum of life coming back online.
The air feels almost electric—
like the world is holding its breath
waiting for me to exhale.
It’s still dark outside.
But I feel alive.
And that, my friends,
is how you know the light’s already winning.
Three days after long chemo is a weird neighborhood to live in.
You don’t quite exist so much as melt slowly into the recliner.
Exhaustion hits like a drunk elephant — you can’t stay awake, but you’re also too wired (and too achy) to sleep.
The poison’s doing its sacred little dance —
burn, heal, destroy, rebuild — all at once.
My stomach’s auditioning for a horror movie:
hungry but disgusted by every option.
If it smells good, it’s probably coming back up.
So I sip, nibble, and call that “fine dining.”
The world spins a little, my eyelids weigh a ton,
and focusing on anything longer than thirty seconds feels like graduate-level concentration.
But still — under all the blur and ache — there’s the whisper of hope.
That fierce, stubborn little spark that keeps saying,
“Better days are coming. Hang on. The poison’s working.”
And that’s enough to make me smile… before my next nap
From a cherry to a pinto bean,
From an almond to a pea—
I watch the numbers fall,
the nodules fade,
the poison do its sacred burn.
Shrink.
Dissolve.
Disappear.
Your're disssolving,
Youu should never have thought that I play.
Go Away
And don’t come back
another day.
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!)
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.
I promised you the news when I got it.
It’s not the news I wanted, but it’s the closest it can be — which, in this world, counts as awesome.
Thank you all for your crossed fingers and toes, your thoughts and prayers, and your pleas to Mother Earth. I appreciate every single effort on my behalf.
Luke and I waited in that small little room for what seemed like hours (but was probably fifteen minutes). Me — my usual version of “calm,” meaning foot pumping, standing, sitting, standing again, stomping, sighing, repeat. And Luke — sitting perfectly still with his trademark Starfighter calm.
Finally, the doctor came in — and her radiant smile told it all before she even spoke.
I won’t bore you with the doctor/scientist version, but here’s the simple truth: I had two affected lymph nodes, and they are now much smaller. And much less bright.
PET scans use an isotope that “lights up” the cancer — and where I once glowed like a neon sign at 14, I now barely shimmer at 3.
Hallelujah.
So, when you look at the photo — the left side is the first PET scan and the right side is the new one.
A cherry became a pinto bean.
An almond became a little English pea.
Normally, I hate peas.
But I love this one.
As for brightness — the first scan could shine in full sunlight, and the new one? You’d barely spot it under a quarter moon.
So here we are — halfway done, and if all goes as planned, it should be over by Christmas.
🎃 Happy Halloween to all — from your half-lit, pea-loving, halfway warrior. 💚
I’m still feeling great — even heading out today to vote and grab a coffee with a friend. I refuse to ruin a day where I feel good by worrying about things I cannot change. I’m assuming this “feeling good” is for great reasons (not just because I’ve been chemo-free for two weeks).
I believe in good things. I believe in healing.
At least today, I do.
Tomorrow I’ll head to oncology, ready for what’s supposed to be a long chemo day — and ready to hear the results of the PET scan. My hope? That the conversation goes something like:
“We didn’t see anything, but let’s finish this course to make sure we get anything that thinks it might be trying to change cell type.”
That’s the script I’m holding onto.
Because today, I refuse to consider any other option.
Why borrow trouble? (As our grandmothers would say.)
Why speak that into the universe? (As our Gen Z family would say.)
Why the hell think about it on your last feel-good day for a few weeks? (As every cancer patient would say.)
So today, we wait — and celebrate the good. ☀️💚
It’s been a few days since I posted, and I hope you weren’t worried that I was feeling awful — because I wasn’t! From Saturday through right now, I’ve felt surprisingly great. No pain pills, no nausea meds, no reason for nausea meds. It’s been a fabulous stretch — almost enough to make me forget I’m fighting Cancer Boy. Almost.
But when you’re in this battle, even the good days come with a shadow. No matter how great you feel, that little voice in your head never quite shuts up:
“Is this working?”
“Am I getting better?”
“Will I have to ditch this chemo and start all over again?”
It’s always there, quietly humming along in the background of every moment.
Today is PET scan day — the big one. The test that tells us if things are getting better, holding steady, or spreading. It should feel exciting, but honestly? It’s terrifying. More terrifying than a haunted house.
So after a few blissful days “off,” I’m suiting up again — lucky shirt on, battle mind engaged, and (in theory) my best poker face in place. (In reality, I’m about as unreadable as a Hallmark card.)
Cross your fingers. Cross your toes. Whisper to Mother Earth or pray to your God — I’ll take all the good vibes you can send.
And know that I’m deeply grateful for every single one of you who cares. 💚
Second Battle, Same Me 