Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: fight cancer

  • The Faces We Carry

    Oncology waiting rooms are strange places. You sit there surrounded by people—hopeful faces, broken bodies—and after a while, you stop really seeing them. It’s a survival trick, I think. If you really looked at every single person, every limp, every hollow cheek, every set of nervous fingers tapping, you’d fall apart before they even called your name.

    But today, that survival trick failed me.

    I saw her. Alone. Perched on the edge of a chair like she was ready to bolt, feet tapping with enough energy to power the hospital’s lights. Small, fragile even, but still holding herself upright with a kind of dignity cancer hasn’t managed to steal yet. Thin hair. Paper-thin skin. A cane she leaned on like it was her last good friend.

    And then it hit me—I knew her. Not this version of her, not this worn-down, cane-clutching, chemo-room version. I knew her from before. She was a woman who always swayed to the music and made the entire room come alive, entertaining us all. She lost her partner to cancer decades ago. Life had already sucker-punched her once, and here she was again, still standing—well, sitting—but damn it, still here.

    As these things go, she disappeared into a lab, and I disappeared into the oncologist’s office. But later, chemo brought us side by side, two chairs apart, IV poles standing guard like silent executioners. Our escorts had been banished back to the waiting room (because some women do not share their strongest moments with the people they love the most – we need the space to breathe.)

    The nurse asked her name, and I knew without a doubt the beautiful vital woman she had been. The woman she still was, somewhere inside.

    I tried to talk to her, but chemo cocktails don’t mess around. They dragged her into that deep, heavy sleep we all know too well. So I sat. And I watched. And I remembered.

    And then, without even meaning to, I prayed.

    I prayed she’d have another chance to dance. To laugh. To feel like herself again.

    Mostly, I prayed we’d all get even just one more shot at being the people we were before cancer barged in. Whole. Carefree. Alive in ways that don’t come in IV bags.

    Because cancer wants you to think it’s all loneliness and loss. But sitting there, two chairs apart, I realized remembrance, hope, and healing are stubborn little things. They stick. Even here.

  • What do I really really want

    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.

  • Sassy Walks V3: Mailbox Marathons & Midnight Patrols

    Y’all, my mama could use some good thoughts (and maybe a few extra licks). She’s moving slower than a turtle on a hot day. If I didn’t have her on this leash, I swear she’d just wander right off into the woods. Good thing I’ve got her back—well, her front, too.

    The other day, we only made it to the mailbox. THE MAILBOX. I can cover that in about five leaps, no problem. Mama? Not so much. She’s only got two short legs, and let’s just say her butt doesn’t exactly help with the leaping situation.

    But don’t get me wrong—she’s doing her best. She takes her medicine, putters around the house, and always makes sure I get my potty breaks. Sometimes she just opens the back door and sends me solo into the yard. I don’t love it, but I get it. She’s tired.

    At night, I take my nursing duties seriously. I tuck Mama in real tight, then patrol between her and Daddy. I probably wake him up with my “check-ins,” but hey—somebody’s gotta keep an eye on the humans. That’s my job.

    Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Mama’s got chemo again at the end of the week, so I’m saving up my licks and my favorite toys to share with her. Maybe y’all could do the same—send her some good vibes, belly rubs, or squeaky toys from afar.

    💚
    — Sassy

  • Dry Mouth, Dark Humor, Still Alive

    The day after: the poison comes back to visit like an unwanted in-law.
    It wades where it pleases — stabs, jabs, puddles of outrage in my bones.
    The shoulder cedes first, a tiny drill bit burrowing in until it’s bored its way to the middle of my back.
    My head’s a foggy TV zone and all I want is a long nap, but then the hips join the pity party.

    Is there a silver lining? Sure — it’s passing through. Slowly. Like a moving train that refuses to be quiet.
    Nausea tags along like a bad joke. Dry mouth, too. The more I drink, the more my stomach stages a protest.
    I don’t want to sleep away the days I still own. I don’t want chemo to be the weather report for my life.

    No Tylenol, no Motrin, no miracle dime-store fix. The pain pools and pounds and nobody gets to leave early.
    But here’s the part I keep repeating until I believe it: I am stronger than the fear in my head.
    I can fight harder than my doubts allow. I am more than a count on a lab sheet.
    More than nausea. More than a chair in an infusion room.

    I want to live — not someday, not after the list of “ifs” — today.
    I will live. And if the poison thinks it can make me quiet about that, it can try.

  • The Power of Female Friendships

    Every now and then, my friends and I manage to pull off a miracle—we get together. Not the everyday friends you bump into at the grocery store. Nope. These are the women I see maybe three times a year, if the planets align and nobody’s kids, grandkids, or husbands derail the schedule. We missed some friends this time, but we will catch up next time.

    But here’s the thing: they are my friends. The kind that, when you finally sit down together, it feels like no time has passed at all. This time, we even had a new lady join us—and boom, instant friend. That’s how women work. We don’t need a blood oath or a secret handshake. Just pass the coffee, and welcome to the circle.

    We started with breakfast, and when the sun hit us full in the face, we moved tables. When the sun found us again (because apparently it was stalking us), we moved again. And we just kept talking—about life, kids, grandkids, husbands, hopes, frustrations, the whole messy, beautiful pile. I never really thought much about cancer at all that day.

    There’s something magical about these kinds of conversations. They flow so naturally with women who care, who understand, who aren’t afraid to be real. You don’t need warm-up questions or polite small talk—you just jump right in. And somehow, even though we don’t see each other all the time, there’s always too much to say and never enough time.

    Because here’s the truth: women need other women.
    And I need these women.

    So thank you, my friends, for the laughter, the honesty, the tears, the shifting tables, and the reminder that I’m not doing this life , or in this battle, alone.

    I love you all. (You too Dougie.)


  • My Luke Skywalker

    Is My Hero

    Sitting on the plane,
    mask strapped tight,
    sounding like Darth Vader 
    just for the luxury
    of chasing a normal life.

    Exhaustion hit.
    I was out cold—
    missed the food, missed the snacks,
    missed most of the flight.

    But here’s where the story flips.
    While I was passed out in my personal cloud of exhaustion,
    my own personal Luke Skywalker was on guard.
    Not for the galaxy.
    Not for the greater good.
    For my snacks.

    He saved them. Protected them.
    Like the Rebel Alliance depended on it.

    So sure, Denver was waiting outside the window.
    But the real view?
    The reminder that even when I’m down for the count,
    my own personal Luke has my back.

    That’s not sappy.
    That’s survival.
    That’s love in our language.
    And that’s why Luke is my hero!

  • 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!!

  • Live Life or Stay

    Photo by Jenny Uhling on Pexels.com

    Today is the day.
    What will the numbers say?
    Do I pack my bag for a trip,
    Or do I, once again, stay?

    Plans were made—
    Before he arrived.
    Plans for living life,
    Not just fighting for it.

    If the numbers are good,
    I’m going.
    Because life is too short.

    If the numbers are bad,
    I’m staying put,
    Gearing up,
    And fighting for life.

    So y’all—say a prayer,
    Send a wish to the universe.
    This girl needs to get out and live.
    Because life is too short.

  • Sassy Walks: V2

    Turtle Edition 🐾🐢

    Hi y’all, Sassy here—your faithful reporter on all things Mama. And doggone it, I’ve got a tale to tell.

    Mama is not exactly burning up the sidewalks these days. I spent the whole weekend trying to talk her into a walk, and today she finally caved. Honestly? I think she just wanted me to quit bugging her. Because let me tell you—this woman was moving slower than a turtle on vacation. (Which, come to think of it, explains why the turtle is totally her spirit animal. Mystery solved.)

    And the soundtrack? Lord help me. She huffed and puffed like a herd of elephants stomping through the Sahara. I know chemo makes her tired, but nobody warned me it would be that embarrassing to walk her in public.

    But I stuck with her. We managed to make it all the way to the street and back. Sure, I’ve got four legs and she’s only got two—but even if I crawled on my belly, I’d still have lapped her. (And trust me, three weeks ago she could’ve belly-crawled faster than she walked today!)

    Don’t worry, I didn’t tease her. Nope, I was a good girl. I stopped to sniff and pee on every single blade of grass I could find, just to give her a breather. Between us, I faked a few of those stops—but hey, she never suspected. The highlight of the whole trip? My big ol’ poop. Mama was oddly proud, like I’d just won a medal. You’re welcome.

    Before we got back inside, she promised we’d do it again tomorrow. And I’m holding her to it. Taking care of Mama is my job—even if she still can’t speak fluent Dog. Maybe tomorrow I’ll convince her to cross the street. Baby steps, right?

    Here’s to four legs, endless patience, and dragging Turtle Mama along one block at a time. 🐕💚

  • Cancer Food

    The Not-So-Gourmet Guide

    You’d think that when you get diagnosed with cancer, the rules of eating would go right out the window. Like, “Congrats—you’ve got cancer! Please enjoy your unlimited pass to nachos, milkshakes, and midnight drive-thru feasts.” Sadly, no. Apparently, I still have to care about what goes into my mouth.

    It’s the same logic as the chain-smoker who says, “The damage is already done,” except my version involves cookies and french fries. And let’s be real: I’ve been chubby/fat/obese-all-my-life. I know my way around a snack aisle like it’s a second home. I’ve dieted enough to lose at least three entire humans along the way, but the chart still says I’m not “normal.” (Oh Honey, in so many ways! That’s a whole ‘nother blog!)

    So no, this is not the time to “diet.” If I couldn’t do it when my biggest stress was whether to order cake or pie, I’m sure as hell not doing it while juggling cancer and chemo.

    Here’s the thing, though: food really does matter. Not in the Pinterest-perfect “green smoothie in a mason jar” way, but in the “your body is being poisoned, so maybe give it a fighting chance” kind of way. My granddaughter calls me daily, demands pictures of my meals, and lectures me about vitamins. She’s basically my own personal food parole officer.

    So I’ve made a deal with myself. Every time I look at food (and I use that word loosely—Oreos count in my world), I ask: “Will this hurt me or heal me?” Sometimes I actually listen and grab salmon and broccoli, or fruit. Other times? The cake wins. I’m aiming for balance—lots of vegetables and protein at meals, fruit for snacks, and yes, an occasional cookie to keep me from becoming a menace to society. Or less of a menace, my sharp tongue has been particularly slicing these days.

    Am I perfect? Absolutely not. Do I sneak junk? You bet your Dairy Queen I do. But here’s the truth: eating well gives me energy, helps me feel less like a zombie, and maybe—just maybe—helps the chemo do its dirty work.

    So yeah, I’m trying. And if anyone asks, I’ll tell them: I’m basically a spinach smoothie away from sainthood. (But don’t you dare touch my Oreos—I’m not that holy.)

    If you have any suggestions or healing recipes you’d like to share, I’d love to see them!