Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: non-hodgkins lynphoma

  • Cancer Food

    The Not-So-Gourmet Guide

    You’d think that when you get diagnosed with cancer, the rules of eating would go right out the window. Like, “Congrats—you’ve got cancer! Please enjoy your unlimited pass to nachos, milkshakes, and midnight drive-thru feasts.” Sadly, no. Apparently, I still have to care about what goes into my mouth.

    It’s the same logic as the chain-smoker who says, “The damage is already done,” except my version involves cookies and french fries. And let’s be real: I’ve been chubby/fat/obese-all-my-life. I know my way around a snack aisle like it’s a second home. I’ve dieted enough to lose at least three entire humans along the way, but the chart still says I’m not “normal.” (Oh Honey, in so many ways! That’s a whole ‘nother blog!)

    So no, this is not the time to “diet.” If I couldn’t do it when my biggest stress was whether to order cake or pie, I’m sure as hell not doing it while juggling cancer and chemo.

    Here’s the thing, though: food really does matter. Not in the Pinterest-perfect “green smoothie in a mason jar” way, but in the “your body is being poisoned, so maybe give it a fighting chance” kind of way. My granddaughter calls me daily, demands pictures of my meals, and lectures me about vitamins. She’s basically my own personal food parole officer.

    So I’ve made a deal with myself. Every time I look at food (and I use that word loosely—Oreos count in my world), I ask: “Will this hurt me or heal me?” Sometimes I actually listen and grab salmon and broccoli, or fruit. Other times? The cake wins. I’m aiming for balance—lots of vegetables and protein at meals, fruit for snacks, and yes, an occasional cookie to keep me from becoming a menace to society. Or less of a menace, my sharp tongue has been particularly slicing these days.

    Am I perfect? Absolutely not. Do I sneak junk? You bet your Dairy Queen I do. But here’s the truth: eating well gives me energy, helps me feel less like a zombie, and maybe—just maybe—helps the chemo do its dirty work.

    So yeah, I’m trying. And if anyone asks, I’ll tell them: I’m basically a spinach smoothie away from sainthood. (But don’t you dare touch my Oreos—I’m not that holy.)

    If you have any suggestions or healing recipes you’d like to share, I’d love to see them!

  • 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

  • What Did Chemo Brain Steal This Week

    Chemo Brain Stole My Salt

    So here’s the deal: I’ve had exactly one chemo treatment so far. One. And already I’m asking myself—do I get to blame my senior moments on chemo brain?

    I vote yes.

    Honestly, I’d much rather believe it’s the poison coursing through my veins than the slow, depressing rot of my aging corpus. Chemo brain sounds quirky. Aging brain sounds tragic. And I’m sticking with quirky.

    Case in point: the great Salt and Baking Soda Debacle.

    The Plan (So Simple. Too Simple.)

    Every cancer veteran knows the drill—mouth rinse with salt + baking soda + water. Prevents sores, keeps your mouth from turning into a war zone. Easy peasy.

    So I head to the store. The list? Just two items: salt and baking soda. That’s it. Nothing fancy.

    The Execution (Or Lack Thereof)

    Twenty minutes later, I’m wandering the aisles like a confused raccoon. Suddenly I’ve got a buggy (that’s southern for “cart,” by the way) full of groceries I didn’t mean to buy.

    Fine. No big deal. I drag myself to self-checkout. Don’t even get me started on that circus. The “attendant” was a cute blonde who thought her actual job was ignoring crotchety old ladies while gossiping with her co-workers.

    But whatever—I scan my stuff, wrangle my bags, and haul everything home. Victory!

    The Punchline (Guess What’s Missing)

    SALT And BAKING SODA.

    Not in the bags. Not in the car. Not in the house. I even gave the dog the side-eye like, “Did you eat it?” Nope.

    Did the cute blonde steal them for margarita night? Did I hallucinate them into my buggy? Did the universe just decide, “Nope, sweetheart, we want your mouth to suffer”? Who knows.

    The Moral (Or Excuse)

    It will be a cold day in hell before I march back into that store with my receipt and admit I forgot to pick up the only two things I came to the store to purchase. Not happening.

    So yes—chemo brain gets the blame. Because “the poison stole my salt” sounds way better than “grandma forgot her stuff.”

    💡 Stay tuned for the next thrilling episode of “What Did Chemo Brain Steal This Week?”

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  • Happy Birthday Mom


    Today, Patricia “Patti” Harned Probst would’ve turned 90.  She was 95 lbs of dynamite,  tough as nails and soft as a hug, rolled into one. Cancer came for her three times. Each time she  said: “Not without a fight.”

    Her Battles:
    •	Breast cancer. She white-knuckled through surgery and scars, the cancer rattled her body but couldn’t touch her sass.
    •	Tongue cancer. Talking, eating, smiling — all harder. Did she quit? Nope. She still showed up at the table and kept talking, even if shorter and sharper. Cancer didn’t shut her up.
    •	Throat cancer. The cruel one. It took her breath, then her life. But it never took her dignity. She still laughed, forgave, and loved on her own terms — even when the terms sucked.

    What She Taught Me:
    Now it’s my turn. I’m in the chemo chair, on my “second battle.” Same smells, same fear, same exhaustion. But I’ve also got her grit — and a sharper tongue. Every time I think I can’t, I remember: she did. Three times. With humor, grace, and definitely with swear words.
    Her lesson? Don’t just survive cancer. Live anyway. Laugh. Love. Show up. And if all else fails — pour a drink, roll your eyes, and flip cancer the bird.

    So today,  Mom, on your birthday: I raise my glass. To your strength, your sass, and your love that still carries me.  Happy Birthday. Keep teaching me how to live loud, laugh hard, and fight dirty when I need to!


  • Cancer Days

    Cancer days good.
    Cancer days bad.
    You never really know
    Which day you had.

    Massage in the morning,
    Constipated afternoon.
    Laughing on sunny roads,
    Then a mental monsoon.

    Peaceful nap
    in a comfortable bed,
    Waking up   
    with worms in your head.

    Tears.
    Laughter.
    Lightness.
    Pain.
    It’s never the same—
    Never explained.

    Cancer days good.
    Cancer days bad.
    You never really know
    Which day you had.
  • Cancer again

    Cancer again

    Hi, I’m Pattie—and yep, I’ve got cancer. Again.

    Not the polite, slow-growing Stage I small-cell, “sorry-to-bother-you” non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma I had 21 years ago. Oh, hell no. This time it’s the loud, obnoxious asshole cousin: Diffuse Large B-cell non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Can we say here comes trouble? This dumb jock of a cancer is sprinting through my body, knocking over furniture, spilling beer on the carpet, and generally trashing the place. I’m calling him Biff Tannen, because of course I am. Extra points if you can name the movie from which I stole this name.   

    People ask if I’m okay, and I tell them, “Don’t worry. It’s just two little lymph nodes—way smaller than the apologetic baseball-sized lump I had way back then.” And I am okay. I mean… what the hell else am I going to be? This is where I live now.

    But seriously—twenty-one years later? Are you kidding me? I’m 68, just retired, and ready to live the good life: sleeping in, days on the water, learning new things, going on adventures. And now? Well… that plan’s been shot to hell.

    Or… maybe not. I’m still here. I’m still me. I’m learning plenty—granted, mostly about cancer right now, but still. I can still sleep in (the meds are great for that). The water’s still there, whether I’m floating on it or just watching from the deck. And adventures? They still await. They might not look exactly like I’d pictured, but they’re mine, and I’m still living them.

    So, follow my blog. Let’s see where this road through cancersucksland takes us—as we attempt to leave Biff in the dust. Screw you, Biff!

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