Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: life

  • 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.

  • Third Time’s the Charm (Or: I’m Too Tired to Be a Hero)

    Do you ever think about what you’d do differently with your life if you were given a second chance?
    Or a third?

    Because let me tell you, cancer recovery gives you plenty of time to design your imaginary TED Talk about How You Became a Better Human.

    The first time around, I had plans. Big ones.
    I was going to help everyone.
    I would join cancer support groups.
    I would mentor.
    I would inspire.
    I would claw my way back up the career ladder like a woman possessed.
    I would be wonderful. I would be awesome. I would be in great shape and radiate purpose and gratitude and probably some kind of soft glow.

    I was going to be worthy of my second chance.

    And honestly? I did some of that.
    But then I went back to work.
    And had bills.
    And needed groceries.
    And liked sleeping.
    And eventually realized that being alive and paying your mortgage takes up a shocking amount of time.

    So I settled into regular life.
    Not heroic life.
    Just… life.
    And I was happy enough to be breathing and functional without needing to save the world before lunch.

    Fast forward 22 years.

    Here we are again.
    Another chance.
    My third chance.

    Only now I’m 69, not 47, and I can say with confidence that I no longer wish to conquer anything—especially the business world. I do not want to climb ladders. I do not want to mentor (no offense). And I definitely do not want to be wonderful and awesome in any way that requires pants with buttons or sustained enthusiasm.

    This time around, my definition of wonderful has… evolved.

    I want to be wonderful in the low-energy, high-peace way.
    The sit-down-frequently way.
    The spreads calm instead of ambition way.

    I want to visit family and friends.
    I want to swim with manatees and dolphins (both of whom seem to have life figured out).
    I want to walk through nature and marvel—marvel—at how beautiful and quiet it can be.
    I want to sit on my dock, watch the geese do whatever judgmental thing geese do, listen to birds, and feel at peace.

    No glow.
    No mission statement.
    No inspirational hashtag.

    Just… peace.

    And I honestly don’t know if this shift is because I’m older, or wiser, or finally learned that rest is not a moral failure.

    Or maybe I’m just tired.

    But if this is what my third chance looks like, I think I’ll take it.

  • 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.

  • Getting Away (Wheelchairs, Wind, and Unexpected Victories)

    Getting away from home is always fun.
    Getting away from home with great friends is even better.

    So we met some friends in Key West — because apparently my post-chemo self still believes in optimism and ocean breezes.

    When I left home, my stamina was kaput — as my mother would have said. Completely gone. Missing in action. Possibly hiding under the bed.

    I even agreed to a wheelchair ride through the Atlanta airport.

    Now let’s be clear: the wheelchair was hard, uncomfortable, and absolutely not what you’d call luxurious.
    BUT — being whisked through crowds like airport royalty and taking the elevator instead of the escalator?

    Well. For once, the last six months offered a perk.

    The Key West airport is MUCH smaller, so I walked out on my own two feet.

    I didn’t realize it at the time, but that little walk turned out to be a metaphor.

    The first day the weather was beautiful. Luke and I enjoyed the resort, met up with friends, ate, drank, laughed, and had one of those rare days where cancer didn’t get an invitation.

    The next morning was even better.
    We rented a golf cart and spent three glorious hours touring the island — which is now officially my favorite form of transportation. Minimal exertion. Maximum joy.

    We returned around three and did what mature adults with medical trauma do.

    We took a nap.

    Around five, we heard what sounded like a pack of wild children racing through the hallway. As we opened the door to head to an outdoor reception and dinner on the beach, the wind hit me so hard I thought:

    “Well. This might be it. Blown clean into the Atlantic.”

    And that wind?
    It stayed.
    All week. And brought temperatures in the fifties! In Key West!
    Relentless. Rude. Completely unimpressed by my beachy dreams.

    That did not stop us from walking and playing and enjoying ourselves!

    Naturally, the day we were leaving was perfect.

    Of course it was.

    But here’s the thing — despite the wind and the cold, we had a fabulous time.

    Luke and I spent real time together.
    We laughed with friends.
    We lived instead of just enduring.

    And when we returned home, I walked through the Atlanta airport on my own two feet.

    No wheelchair.
    No escort.
    Just me — stronger than when I left.

    Sometimes the miracle isn’t sunshine or calm seas.
    Sometimes it’s realizing you’re walking forward again — even when the wind is trying to knock you over.

    And that made it a wonderful time. ❤️

  • 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.