Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: health

  • The Return of Leg Shaving

    The Return of Leg Shaving

    Today I shaved my legs for the first time since last August.

    Not because I’m lazy.

    Well.

    Not entirely because I’m lazy.

    The real reason is that chemotherapy comes with both curses and blessings.

    One of the blessings?

    No leg hair.

    For ten glorious months, I have not shaved my legs.

    Not once.

    No balancing on one foot in a slippery shower. No discovering halfway through that the razor is dull. No realizing I somehow missed an entire stripe down the back of one calf.

    Nothing.

    Just smooth legs and one less thing on my list.

    Of course, the curse is that chemotherapy doesn’t stop at your legs.

    It takes all the hair.

    And while there are certainly parts of that experience I do not recommend, there was something oddly satisfying about crossing “shave legs” off my to-do list for ten straight months.

    At some point during treatment, I stopped even thinking about it.

    Then recovery happened.

    Slowly.

    Quietly.

    The fuzz on my head started coming back.

    The eyebrows that had apparently quit without notice started showing up for work again.

    (As much as any eyebrows can after surviving the unforgivable tweeze craze of the 1970s.)

    The eyelashes decided they might stick around after all.

    Every little bit of regrowth felt like a victory.

    Proof that my body was finding its way home.

    And I was grateful for every bit of it.

    Until this morning.

    This morning I looked down in the shower and thought:

    “Well, apparently we’ve brought back the leg hair.”

    Now, to be fair, I should probably be celebrating.

    This is evidence of healing.

    Recovery.

    Progress.

    The return of normal bodily functions.

    But instead, I found myself standing there with a razor thinking:

    “Couldn’t we have left this one behind?”

    Then I dug my razor out of the back of the bathroom drawer and actually stopped and stared at it.

    The blade looked exactly the same as it had ten months ago.

    Which led to an important scientific question:

    Does a razor get dull just sitting there?

    Because if so, this one should have been worn slap out by now.

    Then I remembered.

    I had put that blade on the day my port was installed.

    Not the week before.

    Not sometime that month.

    The actual day.

    And suddenly I wasn’t looking at a razor anymore.

    I was looking at a timestamp.

    Back then, I had no idea how many doctor’s appointments, PET scans, infusions, steroids, naps, night sweats, and worried conversations stood between that shower and this one.

    If you had told me that morning that the next time I used that razor I would be cancer-free and standing in my shower complaining about leg hair, I would have taken that deal in a heartbeat.

    Then there was the shaving cream.

    The good shaving cream.

    The extra-foamy, sensitive-skin, smells-really-good shaving cream.

    The can was almost empty.

    Which raises another question.

    Does shaving cream evaporate?

    Or has someone in this house been secretly using my expensive shaving cream while I wasn’t paying attention?

    I’m not naming names.

    But there are only two people who live here, and one of them is a 6-foot-7 semi-retired male.

    The evidence seems compelling.

    Anyway.

    The shaving is done.

    The legs are smooth.

    The era of effortless maintenance appears to be over.

    And that got me wondering.

    Is this a thing for men who have gone through chemo, too?

    Because back in my day—and yes, I am officially old enough to say that—a man shaved his face and called it good.

    That was the entire grooming plan.

    Nowadays it seems like the only thing some men don’t shave is their face.

    So I’m curious.

    Men who have been through chemo, was there any hair you were perfectly happy to lose?

    Any hair you were relieved to see return?

    Or maybe more importantly…

    Was there any hair that came back and made you think:

    “Seriously? Of all the things that could have stayed gone forever, you picked THIS?”

    Because ladies, let’s not pretend we don’t have opinions here, too.

    By a certain age, some hair starts showing up in places nobody ordered it from.

    And it arrives with the confidence of a long-awaited guest.

    One day you’re minding your own business.

    The next day you’re standing in front of a magnifying mirror wondering how a single chin hair managed to grow three inches overnight without your knowledge.

    The human body is a mystery.

    Recovery is a mystery.

    And apparently hair is determined to remind us who’s really in charge.

    So today I shaved my legs for the first time in ten months.

    It wasn’t particularly exciting.

    It wasn’t especially meaningful.

    But it was one of those ordinary little moments that quietly reminded me how far I’ve come.

    Ten months ago, I was sitting in chemo.

    Today, I’m complaining about shaving my legs.

    I’ll take that trade every single time.

    Even if the leg hair is making a comeback tour that absolutely nobody requested.

    -Pattie

    P.S. This post is cross-posted here and on my new blog, Third Act With Pattie.

    Second Battle Same Me was the story of getting through cancer.

    Third Act With Pattie is the story of everything that comes after.

    These days you’ll find me, Richard, and Sassy navigating lake life, retirement, family adventures, quilting projects, and whatever chaos shows up next.

    Nature has a lot to say.

    So does Sassy.

    Come join us at Third Act With Pattie and subscribe so you don’t miss a story.

    My Creative Brain Was Hiding… in the Fabric

  • Crescent Walking Away From Cancer Girl…

    How long will it be before I stop introducing myself as
    “Hi, I’m Pattie, recent cancer patient currently in remission”?

    Like it’s my job title.

    Like the rest of my personality is temporarily out to lunch.

    Or, to put it another way…
    How long do I play the cancer card to justify:

    • the 50-pound souvenir
    • the puffy eyes
    • and my gold-medal commitment to sitting on my ass

    Asking for a friend. (It’s me.)

    In a bold and possibly delusional move toward “rejoining society,” I joined a tai chi class.

    And because apparently I cannot help myself, during introductions I blabbed the whole cancer saga.

    “Hi, I’m Pattie. I’m a few months out from chemo, in remission.”

    WHY.

    The sweet southern ladies nodded with sympathy and concern, and I immediately thought: Why is that still my headline?

    It’s been ten weeks since my last poisoning, yet I’m still oeprating in Cancer First Mode.

    This is not a place I want to linger.

    And yet…

    So I paid good money for a Tai Chi For Everyone class— IN ADVANCE — because nothing motivates like prepaid shame.

    Let’s discuss the bold stupidity of this decision:

    What kind of woman lounges on the sofa for eight months and then says, “You know what sounds fun? Coordinated public movement,”

    This woman.

    Somewhere in my head I must have believed that if I could defeat cancer —TWICE — I could absolutely dominate a slow, gentle, old -people tai chi class.

    WRONGWRONGWRONGWRONG.

    We started with breathing.

    Which I felt strong about, since I’ve been practicing that for 69 years.

    Then came something called a “kidney wake-up,” involving sweeping my hands around to my back, down to my feet, and back up again… while continuing to breathe.

    Apparently bending cancels breathing.

    Who knew.

    Then came the “simple” bend-over-hands-flat-on-the-floor-and-hold.

    Now. I am 4’10”. The floor is not geographically far away.

    But between being short armed, round in the middle and freshly deconditioned, there was no way my hands were going flat.

    And HOLD?

    Ma’am, please.

    This was still the warm-up.

    Next came tai chi walking.

    Left foot.
    Right foot.
    Crescent moon.
    Heel touch.
    Toe touch.

    I have already forgotten the sequence.

    My thighs have not.

    And then…

    Cloud hands.

    Let me tell you something about cloud hands.

    The only cloud I experienced was the one my brain floated off on while everyone else moved in slow, graceful harmony.

    By the end, the class looked like synchronized swans.

    And I looked like I was trying to land a small aircraft.

    Today I am supposed to be practicing cloud hands.

    Instead, I will be watching instructional videos.

    Possibly fifty.

    Possibly from the sofa.

    But here’s the part that maters.

    I did not join tai chi to become graceful.

    I joined because I do not want to be “cancer girl” anymore.

    Okay.

    “Cancer older woman.”

    I don’t want that to be my first descriptor in a room.
    Or in my head. Or in my body.

    If awkward crescent-moon-walking is what it takes to shift identities, then so be it.

    My palms may not be flat on the floor.

    But I showed up.

    And right now, that counts.

    I go back tomorrow.

    Wish me lots of luck.

    And maybe a laminated cheat sheet.

    ☁️ 🌈🧘‍♀️☁️

  • The No-Judgment Gym (Where I Judge Myself First)

    Now that I’m no longer physically aching every minute of every day, I made a decision.
    A grown-up decision.
    A health-oriented, responsible decision.

    I decided to go to the gym to rebuild my stamina.

    Let me be very clear about something:
    I hate the gym.

    I am a 4’10”, short, round, senior woman. I do not look like the gym loves me. I do not look like I love the gym. The gym and I have never been in a committed relationship. At best, we are polite acquaintances who actively avoid eye contact.

    But decide I did.

    So I went to the “NO JUDGMENT” gym.

    Have you ever been there? Because I can assure you—people are judging.

    Okay. Fine.
    It was me.
    I am people.

    That said, there were quite a few seniors at the No Judgment Gym, which helped. There were also quite a few young people. While I was not judging (I was absolutely observing), I noticed something important:

    The young people were in far better physical shape than the seniors.

    BUT—and this is key—the seniors were having way more fun.

    They stopped and talked to each other. About working out. About hating it. About the weather. Possibly about grandchildren, medications, and who had knee surgery last year. I’m sure they discussed other topics, but that’s what I caught.

    I also noticed people with very obvious physical challenges still working out. Again, mostly seniors. And I found myself oddly inspired watching their determination. They weren’t trying to be impressive. They were just… showing up.

    The first time I went, I walked on the treadmill for 15 minutes and went home like I’d run a marathon and deserved a parade.

    Now?
    I’m up to 15 minutes on the recumbent elliptical and 15 minutes on the recumbent bike. That’s a full 30 minutes, which also provides ample time for people-watching and internal commentary.

    I plan to do more equipment and maybe even free weights. Eventually.
    But the poison of chemo still lives rent-free in my muscles and back, so we’re negotiating.

    Here’s the truth:
    I am slow.
    I sweat a LOT.
    I have zero speed on any machine.
    No one has spoken to me yet.

    I know. Shocking.

    To be fair, I don’t always give off a “Hi! Please chat with me while I gasp for oxygen!” vibe.

    Still—it’s helping. I feel more confident. More relaxed. I might even lose some weight. Or at least earn the right to eat snacks without guilt.

    So despite my many misgivings, my official judgment is this:

    JUST. DO. IT. (Ooops, don’t tell Nike I said that!)

    Slowly. Sweaty. Judging quietly.
    But do it anyway.

  • Congratulations, You’re Cancer-Free. Now Go Figure It Out.

    When you’re in active cancer treatment, you have a whole damn professional posse.

    A cancer treatment team.
    Oncologist. Nurses. Techs.
    Dieticians. Counselors. Social workers.
    People who actually answer the phone at 2 a.m.

    Feel a little warm? Call.
    Feel weird? Call.
    Feel like your toe might fall off or your brain might be melting? Call.

    They’ve got you. Constantly. Comfortingly. Competently.

    And then one day you ring the bell, get your all-clear PET scan, and—SURPRISE!—they send you home with a smile, a pat on the head, and instructions to “come back in three months.”

    Three.
    Whole.
    Months.

    No one says, “Hey, by the way, we’re still here.”
    No one says, “Call us if your brain loses its damn mind.”
    The oncologist doesn’t say, “Questions? Anxiety? Existential dread?”
    The dietician does not check in.
    The team doesn’t disappear… but they sure stop waving you back in.

    Meanwhile, your friends and family are THRILLED.
    You’re cured! You won! You should be HAPPY!
    Grateful!
    Sparkly!
    Full of bubbles and light and inspirational Instagram captions!

    Except… you’re not.

    Because you just spent six months—or years—fighting a war in hell.
    You survived.
    But your brain and emotions are still in the foxhole.

    So you cry.
    You worry.
    You spiral.
    You do not feel happy happy joy joy. Instead, you feel guilty.

    The first time I landed in this weird no-WOman’s-land, I developed a crippling fear of going outside. Anywhere. Ever. I couldn’t walk out my apartment door without a full-blown anxiety attack.

    I lived like that until my first three-month checkup. I finally told my oncologist.

    He said, “Don’t worry. It’ll go away.”
    (Oncologists are very chill about things that are not life or death – to them.)

    But the nurse?
    She leaned in and said, “You still have access to the team. Let me set you up with a counselor who will COME TO YOU.” (No virtual reality in 2003.)

    And she did.
    For a month, we worked through it.
    The fear faded—just like the doctor said it would.

    But here’s the thing: how long would it have taken without the team?
    How much unnecessary suffering happens because no one tells you that you’re allowed to keep asking for help?

    This time around, I’m doing better—because I knew this part was coming.
    Some days I’m genuinely happy.
    Some days I’m absolutely not.

    And that is VERY confusing for the people who love me.

    Let’s get one thing straight:
    I am a KICK-ASS WARRIOR.
    And if you’re standing where I’m standing right now—so are YOU.

    But even warriors get tired.
    And scared.
    And emotionally wrecked.

    So don’t beat yourself up.

    Celebrate when you can.
    Cry when you need to.
    Sleep.
    Be sad.
    Do nothing at all if that’s all you’ve got.

    This part will pass.

    And when it does—
    you will still be a
    KICK. ASS. WARRIOR. 💥

    Sun on the water,
    sparkling like diamonds—
    I wish I could make them
    the thoughts in my head.

    I don’t remember
    when my mind was unburdened,
    when nothing pressed in
    or demanded to stay.

    Once there was only
    the shine of what’s coming,
    sparkling water ahead—
    a future of light.

    So I sit with the water,
    borrow its quiet persistence,
    letting each small sparkle
    remind me how to look forward again.

  • Normal (After Cancer Packs Up and Leaves… For Now)

    I haven’t thought about cancer much in the last three days.
    And apparently that makes me feel guilty.

    Is that normal?

    Hell if I know.

    Was I normal while I was going through chemotherapy — when cancer occupied every waking thought, every appointment, every nap, every Google search at 2 a.m.?
    And now that I haven’t thought about it much for a few days, am I suddenly not normal?

    Or… am I now normal because I’m not actively right now being poisoned by modern medicine in an effort to save my life?

    See how I slipped in right now?

    That little phrase is doing a lot of emotional heavy lifting.

    Because right now quietly implies this could change.
    Which means not thinking about cancer might be suspicious.
    But thinking it might come back is also exhausting.
    So which one is normal — not thinking about it, or thinking about it lurking around the corner like an uninvited guest who knows where you live?

    Honestly, cancer messes with your internal compass.
    When it’s gone, you don’t get a clean handoff to “regular life.”
    There’s no exit ramp labeled WELCOME BACK TO NORMAL.
    It’s more like you wander around asking, “Am I allowed to enjoy this?” and “Should I be more afraid right now?”

    And here’s the thing: I’ve never been normal normal anyway.

    As the saying goes, “Normal” is just a setting on the washing machine.
    (Which isn’t even a thing anymore, but I remember when it was. Right next to Permanent Press and Whatever This Fabric Is.)

    So maybe this is normal now — forgetting for a few days.
    Laughing.
    Living.
    Feeling weird about not feeling terrified.

    Maybe normal after cancer isn’t peace or fear — it’s the awkward, clumsy space in between, where you’re alive, suspicious of calm, and learning how to exist without an enemy to fight every minute of the day.

    If that’s normal… I guess I’ll take it.

  • Ringing the Bell Is a BIG DAMN DEAL

    Let me start by saying this: ringing the bell is a BIG DAMN DEAL in the cancer world.

    I did not believe this.
    At all.

    Twenty-one years ago, I didn’t get to ring a bell. I was in the hospital, chemo just… stopped happening one day, and there was no grand finale. No ding-ding, no applause, no “Congratulations, you survived.” Just Okay, good luck out there. So when I heard about bell-ringing later, I filed it neatly under Cheesy Sentimental Woo Woo Designed to Make People Feel Better.

    And listen, I’m not anti–woo woo. I just don’t like tempting the cancer goddesses. Those bitches have excellent hearing and questionable senses of humor.

    So when I finished chemo this time and they offered me the bell, I said no. Not because I didn’t want joy—but because I wasn’t about to celebrate prematurely. I wanted to sneak quietly into remission, make no sudden movements, and wait until cancer was fully distracted by someone else.

    But then… this week happened.

    I was offered the bell again.
    And I rang the HELL out of it.

    I mean rang it. With enthusiasm. With purpose. With the kind of vigor usually reserved for emergency fire alarms and last-call announcements. And OH. MY. GOSH. The relief.

    Turns out that dumb, symbolic, woo-woo bell is magic.
    Plop plop, fizz fizz—who knew emotional antacids were audible?

    The moment it rang, something shifted. Like my brain finally accepted the memo that this might actually be over. Not “over for now,” not “let’s not jinx it,” but really really over. The kind of over where you’re allowed to dream again. Where you can scheme, plan, and casually assume you’ll still be alive for future events.

    I swear I dropped ten pounds of worry in that moment. And I’m pretty sure Luke did too, just standing there watching me ring like a lunatic.

    So here we are.
    Done with chemo.
    Done holding our breath.
    About to get busy living and planning for the future again.

    Turns out, ringing the bell isn’t cheesy at all.

    It’s a BIG DAMN DEAL.

  • Do Not Ever Contact Me AGAIN!

    Friday morning, my phone rang.

    Caller ID said it was my oncologist’s office.

    Now — I already had an appointment scheduled for Monday, so my first thought was, maybe they’re calling to reschedule because of the weather.
    My second thought was, or maybe they’re calling to ruin my entire day, week, and remaining sanity.

    So I did what any seasoned cancer veteran does:
    I stared at the ringing phone like it was a live grenade.

    I watched it ring.
    And ring.
    And ring.

    Because once you’ve had cancer, you learn this important life skill: never answer a medical call unless you’re emotionally prepared to spiral.

    Finally, I picked it up.

    I released the breath I’d apparently been holding since 2024 and squeaked out,
    “Th-this is Pattie.”

    On the other end came a voice I now refer to as Ms. Spill-the-Tea from the C-A-N-C-E-R doctor’s office.

    Yes. She spelled it in my head. Slowly. With dramatic pauses.

    I swear I almost stopped breathing, which would have been bad because I really needed to hear the rest.

    Because the tea was this:

    My PET scan was completely clear.

    Completely.
    Clear.

    That’s right.

    Cancer?
    Gone.

    Bye bye, cancer.
    Do not pass Go.
    Do not collect $200.
    Do not ever contact me again.

    I immediately called Luke and told him, and for a few glorious minutes we were both flying high — the kind of high that comes from hearing the words you’ve been begging the universe for six long months to say out loud.

    But when I hung up the phone…

    Reality showed up.

    Not the happy kind.

    The sneaky kind.

    Because here’s the part nobody warns you about: when you finally hear the good news, your brain doesn’t throw confetti.

    It squints at it.

    Suspiciously.

    I didn’t think, I’m free!
    I thought, …are we sure though?

    That’s the curse cancer leaves behind.
    It doesn’t just attack your body — it rents space in your mind and refuses to move out.

    Last time, it took me 20 years to stop worrying.

    And then it came back in year twenty-one.

    So yes — joy came first.
    And then fear crept in wearing sensible shoes and carrying a clipboard.

    So now what?

    Now this:

    No fear. I will not allow fear to drive me!
    No regrets. I will do anything and everything I can to enjoy my life!

    I’m starting fresh — again — but this time with more wisdom, more gratitude, and absolutely zero patience for bullshit.

    I have a whole lot more life to live.

    And ohhhh…
    the adventures coming our way.

    Cancer may have tried to write my ending —
    but I’m still holding the pen. ✨💪

  • 33 Days Post Poisoning

    It has been 33 days since my last official poisoning by chemotherapy.
    Yes, poisoning. Let’s not sugarcoat it — this was not a spa treatment.

    And yet… the effects are still hanging around like an unwanted houseguest who “just needs one more night” and has now been here a month.

    Exhaustion, I have learned, is not just being tired.

    No no.

    Exhaustion is a personality.

    Some days I wake up feeling like a fully functioning human. I do all the things.
    Laundry? Done.
    Errands? Conquered.
    Cooking? Look at me being domestic.

    This energetic miracle can last for several days and I start thinking wildly optimistic thoughts like:

    “Well hell, maybe I’m fine now.”

    That is when the reckoning arrives.

    For the next day or two, I am emotionally and physically paralyzed — like every energetic molecule has been vacuumed straight out of my body. The only known treatment is full vegetation on the couch.

    Not resting.
    Not relaxing.

    Vegetating.

    My brain refuses to form orderly thoughts, so I watch television shows I’ve already seen. Not because they’re good — but because they require absolutely no participation. I cannot handle plot twists. I cannot meet new characters. I cannot commit.

    I need television that says,
    “Don’t worry. You already know how this ends.”

    Looking back, this happened the last time too. I just assumed it was because I had an open wound trying to kill me from the inside. Reasonable conclusion.

    This time, though, there’s no open wound.
    There is, however, the minor detail that I am 21 years older.

    So naturally I thought,
    “Oh. This must just be because I’m 69.”

    But no.

    Turns out it’s not age.
    It’s chemo — still swinging long after the bell rang.

    If history repeats itself (and cancer does love consistency), this phase will pass too.

    Which brings me to my current burning question:

    What the hell comes after this?

    Do I get energy?
    Brain cells?
    Motivation?
    A complimentary tote bag?

    No idea.

    But for now, I will remain on the couch, staring blankly at familiar TV characters who ask absolutely nothing of me — and waiting for my body to remember how to be human again.

    One day at a time.
    Preferably with snacks.

  • The View From Right Now

    It’s been almost three weeks since my last chemotherapy treatment, and I am feeling… so many feels.
    Like, Costco-sized feelings. In bulk.

    On the bright side, I haven’t had a night sweat in five whole days. FIVE.
    That alone deserves a parade. Or at least fresh sheets that don’t feel like they were wrung out by a lifeguard.
    I feel better. My mind is a little clearer. I’ve even started tiptoeing into that dangerous mental neighborhood called “Life After Cancer.”
    You know—the place where people make plans. And assumptions. And maybe even buy concert tickets more than a month out.

    But then there’s the other hand.
    I’m still tired. A lot.
    Like, do one thing and need a lie-down tired.
    My motivation seems to have a strict one-activity-per-day policy, and my brain shuts down the moment exhaustion shows up—which is often and without notice. Concentration just packs up its little suitcase and says, “Nope. I’m out.”

    And then there’s the third hand.
    Which I don’t technically have, but my anxiety has graciously supplied.

    This hand is busy worrying.
    Worrying that I’m not cancer-free yet.
    Worrying while I wait for a test that hasn’t even been scheduled because insurance is apparently on a scenic route.
    Worrying that even if I am cancer-free now, what about next year?
    This was my second round—does that mean I get a punch card? A loyalty program? Do I do this forever?
    Will it be a long life?
    A shortened one?
    Is all this mental ping-pong the reason I sometimes feel completely frozen, like my body just hits the pause button?

    Probably.

    The truth is, the view from right now keeps changing.
    Sometimes it’s hopeful.
    Sometimes it’s foggy.
    Sometimes it’s downright scary as hell.

    But here’s the thing I’m trying to hold onto: right now is not the whole story.
    Right now includes dry sheets, a clearer mind, and small signs that my body is still trying—still healing.
    Right now doesn’t require me to solve next year, or the rest of my life, or every possible outcome.

    Right now just asks me to sit here.
    Breathe.
    Do one thing.
    And trust that the view will change again.

    And maybe—just maybe—the next version will be even better.

  • Night Sweats

    I am sick and tired of night sweats. Sick. Sick. Sick. There, I’ve said it out loud.

    And no, I am not talking about menopausal night sweats.
    I conquered those decades ago like the warrior woman I am.

    I am talking about the clothes-drenching, sheet-drowning, middle-of-the-night baptismal pool night sweats caused by lymphoma and chemotherapy.
    The double whammy.
    The overachiever of bodily betrayal.

    Three, four, sometimes five times a night.
    Every night.
    For weeks.
    Every. Single. Night.

    Bedtime is no longer bedtime. It is logistics.

    Before bed, I line up five sets of pajamas like I’m staging a quick-change Broadway show. Each stack is carefully oriented so when I grab it half-asleep, the front is actually the front. This is not my first rodeo.

    Next: towels. Five or six of them.
    Last time I used sheets and realized this time… I don’t care that much anymore.

    You fall asleep hopeful (rookie mistake), having turned the air down because surely this will be the night it doesn’t happen.
    Spoiler alert: it happens.

    You wake up drenched. Absolutely soaked.
    And somehow also freezing, because the air is blasting and your body has turned itself into a swamp.

    So you sneak out of bed, shaking and shivering, and stumble over to the stash.
    You peel off the wet clothes.
    Put on the dry ones.
    Repeat this process while trying very hard not to wake up too much or fully question your life choices.

    First towel: hair.
    Fortunately—thanks to chemo—I don’t have much hair, so that’s efficient at least. That towel goes back with the stack.

    Second towel: to the bed.
    It gets laid over the bottom sheet.
    You flip the pillow.
    Then you wad up the wet top sheet and shove it to the foot of the bed under the covers.

    I’m short. I don’t need that part anyway.

    Two hours later… you do it all again.
    And then again.
    And then again.

    Eventually it’s after 4 a.m., and anything after that is officially get-up time, whether you like it or not.

    The interesting thing—at least for me—is that this doesn’t start at the beginning, when the cancer is at its strongest.
    It starts later.
    With the cumulative effect of the chemo.
    Like a delayed punchline no one asked for.

    I am very grateful the chemo is over.

    And I will be extra glad—borderline celebratory—when the night sweats finally decide to pack up their towels and leave.

    Until then, I’ll be over here, running a one-woman overnight laundry service, wondering how it’s possible to be both soaked and freezing at the same time.

    Again.