Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: life

  • 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.

  • On the Edge of a New Year

    As I sit on the precipice of a new year, I’m having trouble letting the last one go.
    I’m also having trouble being completely honest.

    So here it is.

    I spent the last six months of 2025 terrified. Sick. Lost. Unable to imagine a life that didn’t revolve around chemotherapy schedules and side effects and fear.

    People, as people do, eventually grew tired of the constant ups and downs. Life went on for them. I, as I often do, withdrew further and further into myself—quietly convincing myself that I didn’t want to be a burden, while simultaneously wondering why I felt so alone.

    On the days when it all became too much, I cried in the solitude of my own making, telling myself I had no one—despite knowing that wasn’t entirely true.

    I wanted to leave 2025 with a victory lap.
    With a clear test result.
    With a doctor saying, Yes, you’re in remission.

    Chemo is over, but that one final test hasn’t happened yet. And because of that, I brooded. I whined. I pouted privately. I obsessed over the ending I didn’t get instead of honoring the story I survived.

    And honestly? I disgusted myself a little for that.

    Because here’s what I did get in 2025.

    I got a cancer caught so early it didn’t even show up in my regular bloodwork.
    I got a chance to fight before it had time to take more from me.

    I was never alone.

    My husband—my partner—did not miss a single doctor’s visit or chemotherapy session. Not one. He showed up every day, steady and unflinching, even when I couldn’t be.

    My granddaughter kept me anchored to life itself—reminding me that I was still here and still needed to live.

    Family members and friends checked in, called, texted, cared. One friend made it her personal mission to send me an encouraging message every single day.

    And Sassy—sweet, intuitive Sassy—took it upon herself to care for me daily, in all the quiet ways only a dog can.

    So yes, I didn’t get the final word in 2025.

    But I got something far greater.

    I got love.
    I got presence.
    I got another chance at living.

    And now, I’m ready.

    Ready to put the last six months behind me.
    Ready to step into 2026 with gratitude—for life, for family, for friends, and for Sassy.

    Whatever happens in 2026, I will meet it knowing this:

    I am still here.
    And that matters more than any test result ever could.

    And as I step into 2026, I do so believing that healing doesn’t always arrive with certainty—but it always begins with hope.

  • 🐾 Sassy the Wonder Dog Walks Again 🐾

    Hello everyone.
    It’s me. Sassy. The Wonder Dog.
    Since Mama has been suspiciously quiet for about a week, I have taken over communications. You’re welcome.

    Here’s the scoop.

    That last chemo?
    Yeah. It flattened Mama like a pancake you accidentally sat on. Since then, it’s been an up-down-up-down situation. Christmas was… not normal. But Daddy? Oh my dog. Daddy WORKED that kitchen like he was auditioning for a Food Network special. Mama noticed. I noticed. I supervised closely from floor level. We really appreciate Daddy.

    I do keep seeing Mama try to write sometimes. She sits down, types a bit… and then suddenly runs off to that horrible room where they attempt to drown me with soap and water and where she sits on a strange white throne. I do not approve of this room. AT ALL. I try not to even look in there.

    Now we are up at the lake, Mama’s Happy Place, and let me tell you—Mama is slowly getting her mojo back. She sits on the deck soaking up sunshine (excellent life choice), and I lay nearby pretending I am a decorative rug but watching her every move. She walks around the property a little, tries to be “normal” going up the stairs, and then immediately remembers that breathing is still optional but highly recommended.

    BUT THEN.
    YESTERDAY HAPPENED.

    Mama let ME take HER for a walk.

    We walked all the way around the yard.
    AND up the driveway.
    AND all the way to the community mailboxes.

    People, this was BIG.
    She was exhausted afterward and took a two-hour nap. Naturally, I napped with her to ensure survival. It’s called being responsible.

    Now she says later today we might walk all the way to “the green thing.”
    I don’t know what that is.
    I don’t care what that is.
    What I know is Mama is determined, and when she decides to do something, she usually does it—even if she has to stop and huff and puff and lean on me (which is fine, I am very sturdy).

    So until Mama gets her writing brain fully rebooted, here’s the official Sassy Update:

    ✔️ Mama is okay
    ✔️ Mama is getting stronger
    ✔️ Mama is walking again
    ✔️ Mama is even talking about cooking food someday (Daddy is VERY excited).

    Stick with us.
    We’re walking forward—one mailbox, one green thing, and one nap at a time.

    Love,
    🐾 Sassy the Wonder Dog
    Head of Walks, Naps, and Mama Supervision

  • Punkinhead SquarePants Goes to a Holiday Party 🎄

    Last weekend was a very important Christmas party/Retirement Party — one of those annual, can’t-miss gatherings with a special twist. So I made a promise to myself that I would do everything possible to go.

    Let me tell you — this was no small feat.
    I am deep in the chemo weeds right now. The cumulative effect (plus the rain and dreariness) has been chewing on my sanity like Sassy on a leftover dog toy. For the first time in my later years, I can honestly say I hate the way I look.

    Between the steroids, the sitting, and the snacks that mysteriously keep finding their way into my hands, my face has turned into a full-blown pumpkin, and my body into SpongeBob SquarePants — complete with square legs and all. Nothing fits. The round-faced lady in the mirror doesn’t look like me… she looks like she swallowed me. Yes, I know I’ve whined about this before. It is a minor problem to be sure – but apparently I am a petty petty girl these days!

    But I’d promised. So off we went.

    The Great Wardrobe Expedition

    Enter Makenzie, my beautiful 25-year-old granddaughter and personal fashion therapist. She could tell I was about to cancel before I’d even started trying on clothes. So she stepped in — part stylist, part nurse, part therapist — helping me find something I could stand to be seen in public wearing. Pettiness, I know – I am fortunate to be able to go out in public, I know! And yet, I whine!!

    We finally landed on a flowing top, soft slacks (the only pair that fit), a fluffy scarf that doubled as both festive accessory and emergency warmth (since my jackets are all in witness protection) and sneakers. No slipping and falling on my Squarepants for this Punkinhead.

    Arrival of the Square-Bodied Elf

    It was cold that night, and by the time we walked to the door, I was already wheezing like a 90-year-old accordion. The place was decked out to the heavens — twinkling lights, poinsettias, and one of those towering trees that looks like it came straight from a Hallmark movie budget.

    We found a table in the corner (prime real estate for introverts and chemo warriors alike) and settled in. I smiled, chatted, and tried my best to remember what it felt like to be the life of the party.

    The food was amazing. There was laughter, music, the sound of high heels clicking across hardwood, and a few questionable renditions of “Jingle Bell Rock.”

    The Great Escape

    After an hour or two, the energy — and my stamina — ran low. Makenzie and I slipped out to the car for a quiet break, both of us just sitting in silence, watching our breath fog up the windows. No words, just a peaceful truce between exhaustion and effort.

    Then we went back in.

    My Early December Christmas Miracle

    And by then, the dance floor was alive. Everyone twirling, laughing, glowing in the warmth of the season. I stood on the sidelines, watching them move — the old me itching to join, the current me just grateful to feel the want again, a true Christmas Miracle for me.

    As I watched them dance, I made myself a quiet little vow:
    Next time, if there’s music playing and I have half the energy — I’m not sitting out.

    I may be Punkinhead SquarePants for now, or forever, but this ol’ square body still remembers how to move and be alive and kicking – okay maybe not actual kicking.

    And when I finally do — you can bet your mistletoe I’ll be celebrating the blessing of living!!!!

    🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁

    Oh, and today the sun is SHINING!!!! Happy Holidays!!!

  • Digging Toward the Light

    So, you haven’t heard from me for a while.
    But trust me, I’ve been thinking about you.

    I’ve been down in a deep, dark hole — the kind that swallows up your days, your plans, and your sense of humor. Pain took the wheel for a while, and confusion rode shotgun. It wasn’t pretty.

    But here’s the thing about holes: if you can’t climb out, you can at least start digging toward the light.
    And thanks to some pain meds that actually work, I’m doing just that — one shaky, stubborn scoop at a time.

    You’d think that being this close to finishing chemo (only two more on the schedule!) would have me doing cartwheels down the hallway. Spoiler: it doesn’t.
    Instead, I’m more afraid now than I was at the start.
    Because what happens after?
    What will the next PET scan show?
    Will this be the end of treatment — forever, for now, or not at all?

    So many questions, none with clear answers. And when you’re tired, those questions echo louder.

    I’ll be honest: I look like I’ve been through a war zone — round-faced, square-bodied, and about seventy-five years older than my birth certificate says. Nothing fits, not my jeans, not my energy, not even my reflection some days.
    But maybe that’s okay.
    Maybe this version of me — the one with no eyelashes, no patience, and no filters — is exactly who I’m supposed to be right now.

    Because here’s what I’ve learned in the dark:
    Hope doesn’t live on the surface.
    It hides deep down in the cracks of you, where the light can reach only when you’re still enough to notice.

    And I think — just maybe — I’m starting to see a glimmer again.

    So if you’re in your own hole right now, hold on.
    Take the meds. Ask for help. Complain loudly. Laugh when you can.
    And when the light starts to peek through, even just a little — don’t question it.
    Just climb toward it.

    I’ll meet you there.

  • Tantrums & Lightning Bugs

    Let me just say it plainly:
    I. Want. To. Feel. Normal.

    Is that so unreasonable?
    To wake up with energy?
    To know who I am and what day it is?
    (At this point, I’d settle for getting one of those right.)

    And honestly—
    some days my inner toddler wakes up before I do.

    She wants to march into Wal-Mart (where else),
    plop down in the middle of the stupid seasonal aisle,
    and unleash a Big-Ass Deluxe Super-Sized Tantrum™
    complete with foot stomping,
    arm flailing,
    and a dramatic,
    “I WANT THIS TO BE O–VER, DAMMIT!”

    I want to scream it so loud
    they hear it in Sporting Goods.

    But then…
    I re-read what I wrote.

    And suddenly the tantrum isn’t quite as adorable as it sounded in my head.
    Because WOW.
    Who knew I was the spoiled brat in this equation?

    Here I am whining about wanting the finish line closer,
    when some people don’t even get a finish line—
    just more road.
    More fight.
    More pain.
    More “keep going even though you’re tired down to your soul.”

    Talk about a perspective slap.

    Meanwhile I’ve got a lightning bug blinking at me
    from the end of my tunnel,
    like,
    “Hey girl, I’m tiny but I’m TRYING.”

    And if I get even a flicker of light,
    I damn well want to help somebody else
    spot theirs.

    So instead of melting down in Wal-Mart
    (tempting though it still is),
    I’m redirecting that dramatic energy
    toward something useful:

    How to Help Someone Who’s in the Dark

    • Send a meal (or a DoorDash code).
    A cancer patient receiving a no-cook dinner is basically the Oscars of kindness.

    • Text them with ZERO expectation of reply.
    “Thinking of you—don’t answer this or I’ll fight you.”
    Perfect.

    • Learn other people’s stories, not just mine.
    Sites full of real humans being brave and messy:

    • The Mighty
    • Stupid Cancer
    • Cancer Support Community (legit, not woo-woo)
    • American Cancer Society (the grown-up in the room)

    • Volunteer without leaving your recliner.

    • Letters Against Isolation → send love to lonely seniors
    • Imerman Angels → one-on-one support mentoring

    • Donate if you can. Share if you can’t.
    No guilt. Just options.

    And maybe the biggest one:

    When you have even ONE lightning-bug moment,
    hold it up.
    Let someone else borrow the glow.

    Because tantrums feel good for a minute.
    But helping someone else find their light?
    That feels good for a long time.

  • 🐾 Sassy Walks: Mistletoe Madness

    Oh. My. Dog. Did we have fun today!

    Now that I’ve cracked the code on how to trick Mama into walking, we are getting it done. Today’s adventure: something called a “Mistletoe Market.” Don’t ask me what mistletoe is, but apparently it’s festive and doesn’t taste like chicken.

    I proudly walked Mama on the leash (because obviously someone has to take charge), while Makenzie pushed my bestie, Hennie, in her stroller. Hennie is a Chiweenie—a 7-pound diva who thinks “strolling” means standing still while everyone adores her. Walking her is worse than walking Mama. Sooooo slow. And you have to watch where you step. Every. Single. Second.

    The Market was outside with rows of tents full of people, sparkly things, and—best part—FOOD. And even better—DOG TREATS! I led Mama up and down the hills, in and out of tents, showing her how it’s done. Everyone stopped to talk to me and Hennie (because, hello, stars of the show). A photographer even took our picture—we might be famous soon. I’ll let my people handle the press release.

    It was hot out though, and Mama started sweating and huffing like she was pulling a sled team in July. I made her sit down and drink water—hydration is key, folks.

    We didn’t buy much, but looking was fun. Then we hit Wal-Mart! Hennie and I got the royal buggy treatment and sniffed our way through the aisles while Mama shopped. So many smells, so many admirers. People kept stopping to say how cute we were, which I think is good for Mama—it makes her slow down, smile, and remember how to be nice to people. Cancer brain, you know.

    All in all, I’d call today a total success. Mama got her steps in, Hennie and I worked the crowd, and the Mistletoe Market will never be the same.

    Stay tuned—me and Hennie have big plans for tomorrow. Gotta keep Mama moving!

  • 🐾 SASSY WALKS: TJ MAX ADVENTURE EDITION 🛍️

    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. 💅🐶

  • The Worst Part of Having Cancer

    One would think the obvious answer is that the cancer—or the treatment—could kill you. But for me, that’s not it. Not yet, anyway. The possibility of death, even with the diagnosis and the poison, still feels far away. Which is, frankly, my preference.

    It’s not the constant sickness or nausea. It’s not the hours of shivering and chills, or the sliding-down-a-razor-blade thrill of eliminating bodily waste.

    It’s not the isolation—both physical and internal. It’s not that most food tastes like metal, or that eating and drinking enough each day sends you right back to that razor-blade ride.

    It’s not even the endless naps, the half-conscious fog, the 8 p.m. bedtime, or the sense that life’s fun is happening somewhere else without you.

    But I digress. The question was: what is the worst part of having cancer?

    Your hair is gone. Your face looks puffier. Your body changes. You tell yourself those are just shallow things—but then you start forgetting words, and where you were going, and why. You can’t recall names you’ve known for years. You sit in the dark and cry for any reason—or no reason at all.

    And the biggest thing you lose? Your common sense.

    Take a few days ago, for example. A fine case study in cognitive chaos.

    I got up early, determined to leave by 8 a.m. because Sassy the Wonder Dog had a 9 o’clock grooming appointment. (Sassy’s favorite hobby is rolling in the stinkiest piles imaginable.) With Luke’s help, I loaded the car and finally got dressed—only to realize my diamond ring was missing.

    Common sense immediately exited the premises.

    I went to grab my phone to call Luke—only to discover that it, too, was missing. Lost ring. Lost phone. Obviously Luke’s fault.

    So I ran outside and started tearing apart everything he had just loaded into the car. Found the phone, not the ring. Maybe not Luke’s fault after all. But I called him hysterical anyway, and he promised to rush home.

    Meanwhile, I ransacked the house: dishwasher, clean sheets, folded blankets—nothing. Luke arrived, calm and logical (as usual), and asked where I was when I first noticed it was gone. He checked the dressers while I tore apart the blankets on my side of the bed—still mid-meltdown, crying about how useless I am, how I keep losing everything, how I’m losing my brain, and what if I never get back to—

    And then I looked under the bed.

    “FOUND IT!” I shouted, with what can only be described as a psychotic smile.

    Luke looked up. “Found what?”

    “My ring!” I chirped.

    He didn’t actually say this, but I swear I heard:

    “Hm. Thought maybe you found your senses.”

    It was only 8 a.m., and I was already crazy.
    Sad to say, the crazy lasted all day.

    And let’s be honest—it’ll be back tomorrow.
    Because common sense is not a product of chemotherapy.