Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: Same Me

  • 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.

  • Dancing Alone (and Liking It)

    Sometimes I just want to be alone.
    I think I’ve always been this way.

    There’s something deeply peaceful about sitting in my own silence — just me and my thoughts, no noise, no small talk, no expectations. It’s not lonely. It’s re-energizing. I actually like my own company.

    When I was a little girl, I used to sneak into the living room, put on my mother’s Tchaikovsky album, and dance with the door shut tight. I didn’t have a clue how to dance — but oh, the freedom! The music would fill the air, and I’d twirl until I fell over laughing. It was my secret world, just me being me.

    Now, after days of chemo exhaustion, I’ve found myself sitting quietly again — just like that little girl, alone but content. My body might be tired, but my mind is still stretching its arms toward all the other versions of me waiting in the wings:

    The sewist. The reader. The dancer. The cook.
    The comedian. The writer. The helper. The friend.

    I’m ready for those me’s to come back out to play.
    Because underneath this worn-out chemo girl is still that same dreamer — the one who dances when nobody’s watching.

  • 🐾 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!

  • Overdoing It (and Owning It)

    So yesterday, in all my excitement, I did too much.
    And I’m a little pissed about that—because “too much” shouldn’t include two naps (one during short chemo, for heaven’s sake), lunch out, and an hour at Belk. One hour.

    Apparently that’s my new limit.

    As the store lights got brighter and the music louder, I realized I’d entered that fuzzy zone where everything blends together—people, hangers, sparkly sweaters, the smell of perfume from twenty feet away. Basically, I became Sassy the Wonder Dog at TJ Maxx—overstimulated and wandering the aisles like I might discover enlightenment behind the clearance rack.

    Then came lesson number two of the day: hydration.
    I didn’t drink enough because I didn’t want to play “Find the Bathroom” every ten minutes. Rookie move. Dehydration turns your brain into mashed potatoes.

    Luckily, my caretaker-extraordinaire granddaughter was with me. Without her, I might still be lying in a pile of comforters humming “Help Me Rhonda.” Instead, she not only kept me upright but also managed to find several things that fit—which, thanks to prednisone, now means “round and rounder.”

    And you know what? That’s okay.

    Because even though I overdid it, I also did it.
    I had lunch. I went shopping. I walked around under my own power and even laughed a few times.

    So yes, I’m mad that I can’t do what I used to do.
    But I’m also grateful that I can still do something—especially when “something” comes with family, laughter, and a good reminder that this journey isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up, wobbling through the store, and letting the people who love you steer the cart when you start to drift.

  • Chemo Protocol: Closer to the End Than the Beginning

    So here’s the deal:
    My chemo protocol is like a bad sitcom that just won’t get canceled.
    Each “season” (a.k.a. cycle) has three episodes:
    One long chemo day, one short chemo day, and one week off for “recovery” — or as I like to call it, pretending I’m normal again.

    I’ve now trudged past the halfway point — and that fantastic PET scan says the poison is working its magic. Translation: the little monsters are shrinking, I’m still standing, and there’s a flicker of light glowing at the end of this tunnel.

    Last week’s long chemo kicked off Cycle 4, and today’s short one ties it up in a neat little bow — well, a slightly wrinkled, possibly IV-leaked-on bow. Then I get my glorious “off” week (hallelujah and pass the mashed potatoes).

    That leaves only two more cycles, which — if my body and the calendar cooperate — means I’ll be done before Christmas.

    Can you even imagine the joy of a chemo-free holiday? I might just wrap myself in twinkle lights and call it a miracle. Likely completely bald by then, I can wear a Santa Hat!

    I’m not counting chickens yet — chemo loves a plot twist — but I’m hopeful enough to start fluffing their feathers.

  • Together in the Rain

    What if I had nothing to say,
    Just wandered on my merry way—
    Accepted life for what it is,
    And sat alone to mind my biz?

    But you know I can’t do that.
    We’ve all got storms we’re walking in.
    And maybe it’s lighter when we share the pain—
    Sit together in the rain—
    And dance when the sun comes out again.

  • 🐾 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. 💅🐶

  • Before the Sun

    It’s still dark outside.
    But I know this will be a good day.

    I’m awake—
    and more importantly, my brain is awake.
    (If you’ve ever had chemo fog, you know that’s headline-worthy news.)

    I can hear it churning again,
    where sometimes there’s been nothing but silence.
    Thoughts forming, sparks flickering,
    that little hum of life coming back online.

    The air feels almost electric—
    like the world is holding its breath
    waiting for me to exhale.

    It’s still dark outside.
    But I feel alive.

    And that, my friends,
    is how you know the light’s already winning.

  • Three Days After Chemo: The Strange Place Between Nap and Nausea

    Three days after long chemo is a weird neighborhood to live in.

    You don’t quite exist so much as melt slowly into the recliner.
    Exhaustion hits like a drunk elephant — you can’t stay awake, but you’re also too wired (and too achy) to sleep.

    The poison’s doing its sacred little dance —
    burn, heal, destroy, rebuild — all at once.
    My stomach’s auditioning for a horror movie:
    hungry but disgusted by every option.
    If it smells good, it’s probably coming back up.
    So I sip, nibble, and call that “fine dining.”

    The world spins a little, my eyelids weigh a ton,
    and focusing on anything longer than thirty seconds feels like graduate-level concentration.

    But still — under all the blur and ache — there’s the whisper of hope.
    That fierce, stubborn little spark that keeps saying,

    “Better days are coming. Hang on. The poison’s working.”

    And that’s enough to make me smile… before my next nap

  • Cherries, Almonds, and a Smart-Mouthed Sidekick

    Two days ago, I got the happiest kind of news: the chemo is working!

    Cue the confetti cannons, lime-green ribbons, and one happy little red bird doing loop-de-loops over my head. After weeks of wondering, worrying, and silently negotiating with the universe, I finally got the word that things are shrinking. Me! Shrinking things!

    The celebration continued with a long but surprisingly pleasant day in the always-entertaining chemo room — that magical land of heated chairs, cold IV poles, and nurses who could moonlight as comedians. All was well in my soul.

    Luke and I drove home talking about the future again, like normal people do. I could actually breathe again. I swear I felt my shoulders drop three inches from relief. For the first time in months, we weren’t just surviving the moment — we were daring to plan what comes next.

    And then came yesterday.

    Apparently my brain didn’t get the “we’re okay now” memo. Between the pre-programmed crazy in my head, the toxic cocktail dripping through my veins, and the endless wisecracks from that internal smart-aleck I call Chemo Boy, peace didn’t last long.

    My “quick nap” turned into a full-blown horror flick.
    Somewhere between hour two and four, I dreamed I was being attacked from the inside — an Invasion of the Body Snatchers situation starring… wait for it… cherries and almonds.

    Yep. In my subconscious, the once-monstrous “cancer nodes” became produce aisle invaders. They multiplied, pressed, and squeezed until I thought I’d explode into a fruit salad. I don’t do horror movies. And now, apparently, I don’t do long naps either.

    When I woke up, sweating and slightly homicidal toward Chemo Boy, I did what every rational cancer fighter does: I reread the PET scan report and the doctor’s notes. Twice. Okay, maybe three times.

    And here’s the reassuring truth: I am no longer invaded by cherries and almonds. The latest scan says it’s down to a pinto bean and a pea.

    That’s right — my invaders have been demoted to side-dish size.

    So I can stop holding my breath again.

    Because here’s what I know for sure:
    I am in this battle until the very end.
    I’m going to beat this cancer.
    And one of these days, I’m going to silence that sarcastic little Chemo Boy once and for all.

    (Maybe I might miss him a little. NOT A CHANCE!)