It’s been a while since I’ve felt like writing. Halfway through treatment felt like a victory lap — confetti, trumpets, maybe even a parade float with me waving from the top. I had a few good days and thought, well, maybe I’ve got this chemo thing down.
Ha. Rookie mistake.
Because then came treatment number “just past halfway,” and it marched in like a mean girl with a grudge. It ripped through my veins like it was late for a meeting in hell — leaving pain, misery, and a new appreciation for modern pharmaceuticals.
That one was Friday. Today — finally — is the first morning I woke up without the chemo fog. You know the one — that fuzzy-brained nonsense where you wake up asking, Where am I? What day is it? And why does everything taste like pennies and regret?
So, as the sacred chemo cycle goes, I’ll start feeling a little better each day until the next treatment rolls around and knocks me flat again. Then we rinse, repeat, and call it progress.
But here’s the thing: each round means I’m that much closer to the end of this part of the ride. Closer to breathing without that fog. Closer to tasting coffee that actually tastes like coffee. Closer to being done.
Halfway there — still standing, still snarky, and still me.
One minute I’m cold. One minute I’m hot. The next minute I’m absolutely burning up. And then—because my body likes to keep things interesting—I’m right back to cold again.
It’s got to be the drugs running through me, because when I had cancer 21 years ago, they treated me to the delightful combo-platter of treatment plus “going through the change.” Nothing like night sweats and hot flashes tag-teaming you at 3 a.m.
So honestly? This time is better. I’m not going through the change, and I’ve only had a little night-sweat nonsense.
And I am absolutely certain that Don Williams’ “It Must Be Love” has nothing to do with it — no matter how much the universe tries to convince me otherwise.
Just last night—because life loves a well-timed coincidence—I stepped out the restaurant door with my takeout order (I do not eat inside anymore; the service is too slow, and my patience has officially filed for retirement – Not to mention they won’t let me take off any clothes). The moment that fresh, cool breeze hit my face, I let out the happiest little sigh.
A woman sitting nearby looked over and said, “Oh, I remember that… needing cool air, then blankets, then cool air again.”
We both laughed the kind of laugh only people on this strange path understand. Two chemo sisters, bonded instantly by the universal language of temperature chaos.
By: Pattie Presswoman, your roving, slightly woozy, always-observant reporter
Ladies, gentlemen, and all you brave souls tuning in from the comfort of your recliners, heating pads, or emotional support snacks—welcome back to another thrilling episode of Chemo Chronicles, brought to you live from the bustling (or not) newsroom of Infusion Room 3.
Let’s set the scene.
Last week, the chemo room was—how shall I put this delicately?—slower than a sloth on Benadryl. My side of the room was so still I swear I heard my own thoughts echo. (I know… “dead.” I said it. I apologize to the universe immediately.)
Chair 8 Guy? He got thirty minutes of whatever they were pumping into him, hopped up like he had a dinner reservation, and evaporated. Lady across from me? Same story. Whoosh. Gone before my IV pole could say goodbye.
Meanwhile, yours truly sat there marinating—slow-cooking like a pot roast.
Five minutes before I was finished, a woman was wheeled in, clearly looking at me like I was sitting in her rightful throne. I told her and her daughter, “Promise, I’ll be out in five.” But people on drugs—I mean this with all the love in my heart—have the patience of caffeinated toddlers. They want the show started and they want it now. She picked another chair.
When I was done I gathered my blanket, the nurse unplugged my little robot helper, and I strutted out like a seasoned pro. And that’s when I realized…
I had been in the ghost town half of the chemo room. When I walked toward the exit, suddenly things got loud. Busy. Alive. The right side of the room? PACKED. I mean, it was like they were hosting a tailgate party over there.
Chairs filled. Voices chatting. One lady knitting like she was in a speed competition. A man crunching ice like he was digging for gold. The nurse on that side looked like she needed a medal… or a margarita.
People are funny like that. No assigned seats, but we all swear we have a spot that’s ours. Whole empty row? Doesn’t matter. If someone’s in “your chair,” the universe feels slightly misaligned.
As I passed the bustling side, my friend spotted me and waved with the enthusiasm of someone finally seeing civilization after wandering the desert. I waved back, we both grinned…
…and then I got the hell out of there before anyone tried to assign me a seat, a job, or a conversation about their neighbor’s cousin’s hairdresser’s cancer journey.
And that, dear readers, concludes this week’s thrilling broadcast from Chemo Central.
Until next time— This is Pattie Presswoman, signing off and rolling out
I remember dreaming about this for years. Decades even.
If I could just have weeks and weeks to sit still… To rest without guilt, To look out at the lake and let the birds entertain me, To sleep in a warm sunbeam like Sassy, To learn fascinating things I’d never heard of before.
If only I had the time.
Well guess what? Now I do have the time. The universe delivered it—wrapped in chemo, brain fog, and a recliner chair—but still, technically: Time.
And what do I do with this golden opportunity? I sit. I rest. I binge-watch TV shows that are so dumb I lose IQ points just hearing the theme song. Some days I think my brain is slowly melting into the couch cushions.
So here I am, being productive in the only way I can muster: I’m making a “Later, When I’m Energetic and Less Foggy” list.
A list of things Future Me can do once the exhaustion lifts, the brain fog thins, and my body stops feeling like it’s held together with duct tape and stubbornness.
The problem? At this very moment, I can’t think of a single thing to put on the list. Not. One.
So I’m asking you—yes, you reading this— Drop some ideas for my coming energetic, fog-free life. Big ideas, tiny ideas, ridiculous ideas, peaceful ideas… I’ll take them all.
Help me build the list that Current Me can’t quite pull out of this sleepy, chemo-brain haze.
Because someday soon, the fog will lift, the energy will return, and I want to be ready. PLEASE DROP SOME IDEAS!
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
Second Battle, Same Me 