Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: fight cancer

  • Sleeping Is Hard Work (and Apparently, So Am I)

    Sleeping all day is a lot of work.
    I mean really. No one actually wants to spend all day in bed. Or all day asleep on the couch. It’s not glamorous. There are no trophies for “Most Consecutive Hours Horizontal,” though at this point I’d probably win that one — by medical recommendation, no less.

    But apparently, this is what my body needs. Rest to restore. Recharge. Rebuild. Yada yada yada.
    Meanwhile, my brain — the same brain that still thinks it’s 35 and capable of running errands, writing blogs, and alphabetizing the spice rack — has a fit every time I even consider a nap.

    Because let’s face it: sleeping feels like giving in. Like waving the white flag and whispering, “Okay cancer, you win this round.”
    But here’s the twist — it’s actually the opposite. Sleeping is fighting. It’s strategic rest. It’s a battle tactic. My body is rebuilding cells like a factory on night shift.

    So when I’m under the covers at noon, drooling on my pillow and surrounded by snack wrappers, don’t pity me.
    Applaud me.
    I am not lazy — I am regenerating.
    I’m resting my way to rebellion.

    And when I finally wake up, eyes crusted, what hair I have left at full scarecrow level, I’ll be ready for the next round — fully armed with coffee, sarcasm, and just enough energy to yell,
    “Take that, chemo boy!”

  • 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.

  • The Cost of Cancer vs. The Currency of Compassion”

    Have you ever stopped to think about the actual cost of fighting cancer? Not the emotional toll — we all know that part is priceless — but the real dollars and cents.

    When I first began this journey, I had no idea how expensive staying alive could be. The surgery to remove the lump that started it all: $1,700. Not terrible, right? That’s what I thought too.

    Then came the PET scan — the big one that lights up your insides like a Christmas tree to find out where the cancer might be hiding. Price tag? $14,000. (And yes, it found something glowing.)

    Next up: the regular oncology visits. I’ve stopped trying to calculate every single one, but let’s just say each appointment includes a series of blood tests— about $4,000 a pop.

    And finally, chemotherapy. The heavy hitter. Average cost: $54,000.

    Those are the numbers when everything goes well.

    Now, before you panic, here’s the good news: I am incredibly fortunate to have a Medicare gap plan through AARP. My out-of-pocket costs are less than $1,000 a year. It’s not free — it’s actually a bit pricey upfront — but that plan has been worth every penny for the peace of mind it brings.

    I’m not sharing this to scare anyone. I’m sharing it to prepare you. Because one of the biggest lessons cancer has taught me is that being informed is a form of self-care.

    If you don’t have coverage that will protect you in a crisis — start asking questions now. And if you’re already in the middle of the fight and feeling overwhelmed, don’t hesitate to ask for help. Every cancer center has a social worker who can help you navigate the maze of costs, grants, and support programs. There are even organizations that will send volunteers to clean your house for free.

    Yes — free. Sparkling kitchen, courtesy of kindness.

    And to those of you who are fortunate enough to have extra, please donate to a cancer cause. There are so many worthy causes – find one and donate. Even $20 helps.

    The truth is, no one fights cancer alone. And no one should have to.

    If you ever find yourself sitting on hold trying to sort out insurance, bills, or assistance — call me. I’ve practically earned a Ph.D. in waiting on hold. 😊

    Because helping each other through this is the real currency of healing. 💚

    As stated many times, I cannot draw and I rely on AI to draw the pictures as I describe them. I did not describe two phones – or at least I did not think I did. But they are awesome anyway!

  • Dizziness, Diagnosis, and Dumb Google Holes

    It’s funny — when you don’t have a serious illness, you can hop out of bed a little dizzy and think, “must’ve stood up too fast.”

    If you’re me, and you do have cancer, your immediate response is: clearly the cancer has gone to my brain. Or — because I never miss a chance to overachieve — maybe it’s a brand-new cancer. Or possibly a brain-eating worm brought on by sneaking too many M&Ms.

    Either way, it calls for hours of internet research to confirm my impending doom.

    So this morning, that’s exactly how I woke up — dizzy, dramatic, and ready to self-diagnose. I opened my laptop to “write a blog” and two hours later, I was somewhere deep in the Google hole, no closer to a definitive answer but 100% sure I was dying.

    Exhausted from all that medical detective work, I did what any rational adult would do: I pulled one of my mother’s old tricks and went back to bed.

    And wouldn’t you know — when I woke up again, there on my nightstand were two medicine bottles, the same ones I’d taken before bed. I picked one up and read the fine print: “May cause drowsiness or dizziness.”

    Well, damn. Turns out it wasn’t a brain-eating worm or a rare, one-in-a-billion cancer after all. It was the damn medicine.

    Welcome to my every day. 💚

  • Today I Choose Joy

    This morning I sat in the almost-dark and watched the sky split itself open. Every day really is a blank canvas, but let’s be honest—most of the strokes are thrown on by things I’ll never control. Life doesn’t exactly wait for my approval before it slaps paint around.

    So I start where I can: ordering the little pieces that actually belong to me. Call it self-care, call it survival, call it refusing to let the day turn beige.

    As the sky softened into light, I decided—resolved, even—that I’d throw some light of my own around today. Maybe for myself, maybe for anyone who crosses my path. The geese flew overhead in their messy V, reminding me that forward is the only direction that counts. And the blue heron strutted across the water like it owned the place, reminding me to stay exactly where I am, no apologies.

    So here’s the palette I’m grabbing: joy.

    • Joy in the fact that I woke up vertical.
    • Joy in feeling well enough to move, not just moan.
    • Joy in time with my granddaughter—even at 25, when she’s not giggling but building her own damn life and still making me proud.
    • Joy in collapsing for a nap without guilt.
    • Joy in dancing if the music insists, even if it looks like a medical emergency.

    That’s today’s order. Joy, bold strokes, no beige allowed. Maybe you should order some too.

  • My Idea of the Perfect Date!

    For me, today—October 2, 2025—was the perfect date.

    The sun was warm but the breeze carried just enough autumn chill to keep the leaves dancing off the trees. It was one of those days where you can breathe deeper, walk slower, and not feel guilty about either.

    I woke up with a song in my head—sorry, no romance here—it was Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah. My dad used to sing that to me when I was little, and this morning it felt exactly right: My oh my, what a wonderful day.

    Here’s the kicker: no part of my body hurt. That alone could’ve made it the perfect day. But then—bonus points—I was gifted the most relaxing massage. Afterwards I got time with my precious granddaughter, the kind that fills your heart without draining your energy.

    Later, I drove peacefully to the lake, with my girl Sassy, watching leaves twirl and tumble in their autumn dance. At one point I stopped at a store and, without shame, practically Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah‘d from the car to the store and back again. Sassy was likely mortified.

    By late afternoon, I had time to sit outside. I even took a nap out there, wrapped up in the perfect mix of warmth and breeze. And now, as I watch the sun slide down the sky, I can say it again: today was the perfect date.

    It wasn’t too hot. It wasn’t too cold. I didn’t need a light jacket.
    And best of all—I didn’t think about cancer all damn day.

    I want to take a moment to acknowledge something important. The movie Song of the South and its song Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah have not stood the test of time, and I understand the hurt it can represent. That film came out long before I was born, but my connection to the song is personal—I loved it because my Daddy used to sing it to me when I was little. That memory still brings me joy.

    I never want to cause offense, so please accept my apology if my reference to the song was upsetting in any way. 💚

  • Self Care This Morning

    Photo by Photo By: Kaboompics.com on Pexels.com

    There is no blog post today because, at this very minute, I’m enjoying the most relaxing massage — a gift from a very dear friend.

    After listening to my heart, I realized I need more of this: more quiet moments, more relaxing adventures, and more time with dear friends who remind me to pause. 💚

  • October is my birthday MONTH

  • Sassy Walks V3

    Three for Three

    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.

    Sassy Ready And Waiting

  • 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.