I’m still feeling great — even heading out today to vote and grab a coffee with a friend. I refuse to ruin a day where I feel good by worrying about things I cannot change. I’m assuming this “feeling good” is for great reasons (not just because I’ve been chemo-free for two weeks).
I believe in good things. I believe in healing. At least today, I do.
Tomorrow I’ll head to oncology, ready for what’s supposed to be a long chemo day — and ready to hear the results of the PET scan. My hope? That the conversation goes something like:
“We didn’t see anything, but let’s finish this course to make sure we get anything that thinks it might be trying to change cell type.”
That’s the script I’m holding onto.
Because today, I refuse to consider any other option. Why borrow trouble? (As our grandmothers would say.) Why speak that into the universe? (As our Gen Z family would say.) Why the hell think about it on your last feel-good day for a few weeks? (As every cancer patient would say.)
It’s been a few days since I posted, and I hope you weren’t worried that I was feeling awful — because I wasn’t! From Saturday through right now, I’ve felt surprisingly great. No pain pills, no nausea meds, no reason for nausea meds. It’s been a fabulous stretch — almost enough to make me forget I’m fighting Cancer Boy. Almost.
But when you’re in this battle, even the good days come with a shadow. No matter how great you feel, that little voice in your head never quite shuts up: “Is this working?” “Am I getting better?” “Will I have to ditch this chemo and start all over again?” It’s always there, quietly humming along in the background of every moment.
Today is PET scan day — the big one. The test that tells us if things are getting better, holding steady, or spreading. It should feel exciting, but honestly? It’s terrifying. More terrifying than a haunted house.
So after a few blissful days “off,” I’m suiting up again — lucky shirt on, battle mind engaged, and (in theory) my best poker face in place. (In reality, I’m about as unreadable as a Hallmark card.)
Cross your fingers. Cross your toes. Whisper to Mother Earth or pray to your God — I’ll take all the good vibes you can send. And know that I’m deeply grateful for every single one of you who cares. 💚
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.
What do you call a room with four women and no talking?
I’ve been thinking about it. It’s clearly the chemo room, but that doesn’t begin to cover it.
It might be a nap salon — where no one asked for a blow-out but we all left a little lighter.
Or maybe a spa for the terminally exhausted, featuring the latest in drip-infused “glow from within” technology.
Some days it feels like the quiet car on the Cancer Express — no loud talking, no snacks, and you’re not sure where you’ll end up, but everyone’s ticket cost too much.
The Waiting Room for the Brave, perhaps, except there’s no waiting. We’re doing the thing. Just quietly.
This week there were four of us. All women. All lined up in our recliners like power stations plugged into perseverance. Within minutes of the “pre-drug” drip, every single one of us was out cold. No chatter. No reality TV. Not even the usual IV-pole squeaks. Just four warriors in soft socks, drifting off under fluorescent halos.
I had about ten minutes before my own eyelids surrendered, so I took inventory: – Chair 4 had really good hair and shoes. Definitely winning chemo couture. – Chair 3 was already asleep—basically a blanket with a pulse. – Chair 6 chatted with the nurse, then disappeared under her pillow. Relatable.
And then silence. The kind of deep, unbothered quiet you don’t get anywhere else.
When it was over, we rose like polite zombies—unplugged, gathered our stuff, and shuffled out with the reverence of churchgoers leaving midnight mass. No words necessary. We knew.
Whatever this room is—a sanctuary, a spa, a silent sorority—it’s ours.
Until next time—may your drips be steady, your naps restorative, and your IV poles never squeak at the wrong moment.
It could be said that when you’re fighting cancer, every day is a self-care day — you know, since you’re literally ingesting poison to stay alive. Cute concept, but no. That’s not my idea of self-care.
Real self-care is what I’ve been doing these last few days: sitting on the deck, watching the geese, and soaking up the warm sunshine like a lizard on vacation.
Today’s agenda? Massage. Because sometimes “healing” looks less like IV poles and more like someone working the knots out of your shoulders while your soul exhales.
So… no post today. Unless you count this one. Which, honestly, you should.
Time is weird. I’m calling this Day 2, even though the calendar swears otherwise. But my cells, my soul, my spinning little chemo-altered molecules—they insist Thursday was Day 1. So Day 2 it is.
Yesterday’s question: Do you ever wake up and wonder where YOU went? Today’s realization: apparently, “becoming” requires traveling somewhere else entirely—no luggage, no return ticket, just a brain on shuffle.
Chemo was short, mercifully. I even came home with my jet-pack—my white-cell superstarters ticking quietly on my arm, a tiny biochemical fireworks show set for 1 p.m. And then… I disappeared.
I slid into bed like melting butter. Shivering, sweating, freezing, burning. Fan on. Fan off. Every molecule arguing with its neighbor about the thermostat of existence.
Time folded in on itself. When I woke, the light had shifted but nothing else had. I drifted to the couch, a parallel universe where gravity hums louder and blankets weigh more than regret. I didn’t eat. I barely sipped water. I just floated in and out of body, like my brain had clocked out for interdimensional maintenance.
Around 6:30, Luke appeared—steady, sun-warm—and said, “Come sit by the water.” He might as well have said, Come back to Earth. I sat beside him, blinking at the ripples like they were breathing.
My mind was mushy honey. My thoughts, ping-pong balls in zero gravity. Winnie the Pooh would’ve understood. He said it loud and clear “Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?
So yeah, I was here yesterday. Physically. But mentally? I was off somewhere between the stars and the shivers. Maybe that’s what becoming really is—your brain goes on a field trip to rearrange the furniture while your body holds down the fort.
I wonder what version of me will step off the bus next time. I wonder if there will be a green sofa,
You ever wake up and wonder where you went? Because I do. Every damn day lately.
When I started this blog — Second Battle, Same Me — I really believed that. That I could go through cancer again and still come out the same woman. But lately I’m not so sure.
Twenty-one years ago, I fought this battle once before. Back then, I don’t remember if I became someone else — or if I just put on a stronger version of myself to survive it. But now, walking through it again, I can feel the shift happening all over.
Chemo is stealing things from me. My ability to stand up for myself. My ability not to cry at every damn thing. My ability not to apologize for not being superwoman. I used to be strong. I used to be in charge. I used to juggle ten things at once and still have enough left to carry someone else’s load too.
Did I become that woman after the first battle? Or was she always in there — the warrior, the doer, the fixer? And if she was, does losing her now mean I’m losing me… or just becoming something new?
Because right now, I feel like a shell of her. I cry too easily. I apologize too much. I’m angry enough to break glass. And some days, I want to lie on the floor, blanket over my head, and just stop being brave for a minute.
Yeah, that’s where I am. Chemo stole my personality — or maybe it’s stripping me down to what’s left underneath it. The parts I never had time to meet when I was too busy being “fine.”
Here’s the thing no one tells you: When everything that made you you gets blasted away, you find out who’s hiding underneath the noise. And maybe that’s the quiet kind of hope — not in the old me, or the strong me, or the version that looked like she had it all together — but in the woman who’s still standing here anyway. Still showing up. Still writing. Still trying.
Maybe chemo didn’t steal everything after all. Maybe it just peeled me back to real.
And that woman — broken, teary, tired, messy — she’s still here. She’s still me. And I think she might be becoming someone even stronger than before.
I wonder who she’ll be next. But for once, I’m not afraid to find out. 💚
There’s this moment — sometimes it’s an hour, sometimes it’s just a breath — when the dark starts to loosen its grip. It’s quiet at first, just a small flicker. A reminder that the flame inside me never really went out, it was just waiting for air.
And then the sun comes out. And everything changes.
I can see the flame again. I can feel the power I thought I’d lost start to stretch, yawn, and whisper, “Hey girl, I’m still here.”
Isn’t it crazy how the dark can hide your will and confuse your heart? It convinces you you’re out of fight, when really you’re just out of light.
But a little light — just a crack through the blinds, a kind word, a wagging tail, a red bird on a branch — is all it takes. And suddenly, you’re not sinking. You’re rising. You can see yourself take flight.
Because even after the longest night, the sun still shows up. And so do I. 💚
It’s the middle of the night, and nothing feels right. I’m awake. I’m asleep. I’m cold—then sweating through the sheets.
The body can’t decide which crisis to lead with. The mind keeps score. The stomach’s staging a riot. And somewhere deep inside, the question whispers again:
“The poison is poisoning… but is it winning?”
I shift, stretch, ache, repeat. Get up, sit down, open the laptop, search for answers I already know aren’t there. The clock blinks 3:17 a.m.—mocking me in neon red.
Middle of the night. Middle of the cycle. Middle of the fight.
The poison does what it does. And I do what I do— stay, breathe, endure, and keep asking the question, even when I already know the answer.
Because I’m still here. Still fighting. Still standing. Still winning.
Hey y’all — it’s me, Sassy the Wonder Dog, checking in with breaking news from the home front.
Mama is almost halfway through her chemo protocol! Which is amazing, but let me tell you — the woman looks really, really tired. Like, couch-is-now-her-best-friend tired.
I’ve had to get creative with my motivation tactics. My favorite trick? Barking like there’s a stranger at the door until she hauls herself up to go check. Hey, a motivation dog’s gotta do what a motivation dog’s gotta do. 💪🐶
Now, about last night — when they came home from chemo, I jumped in Mama’s lap and gave her the full deluxe lick-down package. That’s when I noticed something, she’s losing more hair. Not bald yet, but I can see some shiny spots starting to peek through. I tried to ask Dad if we’re supposed to act cool about it, but he doesn’t speak fluent Dog. So I said nothing.
This morning, I spotted more hair on her pillow. So I did what any loyal companion would do — I rubbed all over it. If Mama’s hair is going anywhere, I’m taking some with me. ❤️
Anyway, the real story is my mission to get her moving again. Lately, her walks are shorter and her breathing’s shallower. I know humans like rewards just like dogs, but apparently not bones (weird, right?). I heard they like stickers on a calendar — which, if you ask me, sounds like a rip-off. Not even edible! 🍖
So I’m planning to make Mama a Sassy Sticker Chart — one paw print for every time she takes me outside. I’m starting my data collection today. When she lets me out for my morning business, I’m gonna pull out my best acting — big eyes, tail wag, full drama — and beg her to walk down the street. She’ll cave. She always does. She loves seeing what’s going on in the neighborhood. (I call it “people-watching.” She calls it “getting fresh air.” Tomato, tomahto.)
So keep wagging your tails and sending those good thoughts and prayers. Mama says I can’t ask for licks again — apparently it’s “unsanitary.” Whatever that means.
Until next time — Sassy the Wonder Dog, signing off. 🐾💚
Second Battle, Same Me 