Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: love

  • Too Tired to Lift a Blanket, But Still Fighting the Battle

    When was the last time you slept in and still woke up so tired that even pulling the blanket off felt like a full-body workout? I’m talking Olympic-level fatigue here. The kind where you just lie there negotiating with gravity like, “Listen, I’ll move if you move first.”

    So there I was, having a full-blown hostage situation with my comforter. The only reason I didn’t stay trapped under it forever was because my bladder started yelling like a toddler in a grocery store. I tried to ignore it, but biology always wins. So I turned sideways, feet to the floor, and slid out like a slow-motion seal escaping a sand trap. It wasn’t pretty, but it was effective.

    After surviving that adventure, I scrubbed my hands for the required 20 seconds (because apparently 19 seconds is where all the germs party), and fully intended to crawl back into bed. But then I looked down. My blanket mountain had avalanched to the floor. There was no freaking way I was lifting that mess.

    So, off I wobbled to my sacred recovery spot—the couch. My couch never lets me down. It knows my shape. It cradles me. It always has that one blanket ready for action. But before I could collapse into its loving embrace, I stumbled into the kitchen to pour myself a cup of ambition. 🎶 (Yes, that’s a Dolly Parton lyric. Yes, my brain just sings now. No, there’s no off switch.)

    Today’s ambition doesn’t involve board meetings or productivity charts. Nope. My ambition is to mix the perfect recipe of rest, healing foods, hydration, determination, and pure, unfiltered fierceness.

    So, what’s the moral of this story? I’m too tired to pick up a blanket—but not too tired to keep showing up for the fight. I’m weary, yes. But I’m not out.

    Now if someone could just invent self-folding covers, I might finally win a round.

  • Hearing Your Heart

    Today, a friend I haven’t seen in a long while reached out. She didn’t know my cancer was back. She didn’t know I was in treatment again. She just said, “I would love to hear your heart.”

    That line stopped me cold.
    Not “let’s catch up.” Not “tell me what’s been going on.”
    She wanted to hear my heart.

    And that got me thinking: what kind of peace, what kind of love does a person carry when they care less about your circumstances and more about your heart?

    Do I even listen to mine?
    Sure, when it comes to the big-ticket items—marriage, kids, family, love. Those are the moments when you’re “supposed” to listen to your heart.

    But do I listen to it daily?
    When I wake up bone-tired.
    When the chemo wall hits and knocks me flat.
    When Sassy drags me down the driveway like a reluctant sled dog.
    Do I stop and check in?

    Truth: most days, my head is way louder than my heart. My head is bossy. It says:

    • Take the meds.
    • Keep walking.
    • Don’t puke in public.
    • Try to be funny about this so people aren’t uncomfortable.

    Meanwhile, my heart whispers. And I ignore it. Because sometimes, my heart says stuff I don’t want to hear—like “rest” when I’d rather power through, or “cry” when I’d rather throw up a sarcastic one-liner. Or, “it’s ok to be mad about this” when I don’t want to think about that.

    But my friend’s words have been simmering all day.
    Maybe what she really offered me was permission.
    Permission to pause. Permission to tune in. Permission to let my heart speak, even if it doesn’t have the right words, even if it stutters.

    So I asked myself: what does my heart say right now?

    And here’s the messy, beautiful, unfinished truth:

    • I’m still here, even if this is not what I planned to do this year.
    • I’m still fighting, and will not stop.
    • I still love, and need to show myself a little more of that.
    • I still have stories to tell.

    That’s my heart.
    Maybe small. Maybe quiet. Maybe shaky.
    But it’s still beating. And today, someone wanted to hear it.

  • Sassy Walks

    Saving Mama, One Pee at a Time

    Hi. I’m Sassy, and I’ve got news about my Mama.

    I’m what you’d call a dog of many cultures (and questionable ancestry), weighing in at 26 pounds—prime size for “emotional support bestie,” “fitness trainer,” and “professional poop-bag logistics manager.”

    But let me tell you—this last week hasn’t been a walk in the park. Mama is back in chemo-land. Two months shy of 69 and wrestling lymphoma again. She says she’s “been badder and gooder, thinner and fatter, younger but never this old before.” To me? She mostly smells like hand sanitizer, Band-Aids, and pure stubborn.

    Now, Mama’s on this kick about “flushing the poison out.” She downloaded an app with a cartoon llama that cheers every time she drinks water. A llama. As if my tail wagging isn’t motivation enough! Anyway, she’s guzzling 100 ounces a day—which means I’ve now memorized every bathroom within a two-mile radius.

    But apparently water isn’t enough. Studies show (insert Mama’s dramatic eye roll here) that exercise helps. And that’s where I come in. She straps on her shoes, clips on my leash, and declares we’re going on “short walks of torture and exhaustion.”

    I call them SWALKS—Sassy Walks.
    And here’s how they go:

    • Minute 1: Mama is all business. I’m busy sniffing the grass like it’s a fine wine tasting.
    • Minute 5: Mama is huffing, cussing at “fucking studies.” I’m still auditioning pee spots.
    • Minute 10: Mama looks like she’s negotiating with Death. I’m prancing like a show pony.
    • Minute 20: Mama is swaying like a drunk flamingo, but don’t worry—I know the way home.

    Chemo is rough. My Mama feels awful. But she’s still out here—sweating, swearing, stumbling forward. And I’m her furry sidekick: sniffing, peeing, cheerleading, making sure she doesn’t face-plant on the neighbor’s driveway.

    So, if you see us out there on a SASSY WALK, give Mama a honk, a wave—or, better yet, toss me a chicken-flavored treat. We’ll take all the encouragement we can get.

    Because adventures aren’t always mountain hikes or big vacations. Sometimes they’re just a stubborn woman and her determined little dog, trudging through the Georgia heat, refusing to quit.

    And don’t worry—I’ve got more stories. Next time I steal the keyboard, I’ll tell you about the killer mosquitos the size of Labradors.

    🐾 Until then, nose boops and tail wags,
    Sassy