Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: Same Me

  • One Week In

    It’s been a week since I sat back down in the chemo chair after 21 years away. A lot has changed in my life since then — and yes, a lot has changed in me too. Here’s what this first week has taught me.

    The Mouth Situation

    Chemo and mouths don’t get along, and mine is proof. My taste buds have left the building. Everything tastes like pennies or cardboard, which makes eating more of a chore than a comfort. Even chocolate cake — which I hated before — is still useless. I’d give anything for a piece of toast that doesn’t taste like I’m chewing tinfoil.

    Old, Cranky, and Tired

    The last time I did this, I was 48 and thought I was old. Now, at nearly 69, I actually am old — and cranky to match. My body aches, my energy is on permanent low, and most days I’m too tired to do much beyond shuffling between the bed and the recliner. I’m hoping that part changes soon, because right now my world feels very small.

    The Strange Gift of New Hours

    Fatigue has its own rules. I crash in the middle of the day and then find myself wide awake at 3 a.m. It’s not ideal, but sometimes there’s a gift in those hours — quiet, stillness, even a sunrise I wouldn’t normally see. I wouldn’t have chosen this new schedule, but it’s reminding me that life doesn’t stop just because mine has slowed down.

    Gratitude, Even from a Grouch

    And here’s the part I didn’t expect: gratitude still sneaks in. I’m grateful for naps that give me a little reset. I’m grateful for friends who reach out, who show up, who keep me connected even when I feel like hibernating. I’m deeply grateful for my husband, whose steady support is a constant in all of this — helping, encouraging, and reminding me I’m not doing this alone. And I’m grateful for the odd, quiet moments that remind me there’s still light in the middle of all this mess.

    One Week Down

    So that’s one week in. My mouth is a disaster, my energy is unreliable, and my mood is… let’s just say “salty.” But I’ve also got support, humor, and small reasons to be thankful. And maybe that’s what I’ve learned most this week: it’s not about pretending to be positive — it’s about noticing what’s still here, even when so much feels hard.

    If you’ve read this far, maybe take a moment and think about the small things keeping you going right now — the unexpected comforts, the quiet gifts, the people who show up. Those are worth holding onto.

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  • 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.

  • Good Morning

    It’s dark thirty o’clock here, and I am up and half-assed ready to face the day. Taking in my poison to kill cancer boy and fluids to flush him out. I just wanted to thank all of you who are reading and following this journey. Please continue to share your comments if you have any. It’s going to be a beautiful day!

  • Chemo Chronicles

    Dateline: Infusion Center (Chemo Room) Day One

    This is Pattie Presswoman, reporting live for the first time from the tranquil trenches of Recliner Row.

    Breaking News: the recliners are fully occupied, the blankets are scarce, and Chair 3 has been officially declared the coziest corner of the room. Patients across the row are—prepare yourselves—all asleep. The synchronized snoring is bordering on “barbershop quartet” levels, though the harmony is nearly drowned out by the steady hum of infusion pumps.

    Meanwhile, the nurses glide between IV poles like (dare I say? Yes.)pole dancers in sensible shoes—armed with blood pressure cuffs, vinyl gloves, and bags filled with solutions both innocuous and deadly. Their mission: keep everyone calm and breathing while handing out poison like peppermints.

    The Official Report

    • Patients — 1 point for unconscious endurance.
    • Nurses — 10 points for maintaining peace and pillows without a single saline spill.
    • Notable Event — Chair 2 lost his phone, sparking a full-chair search party. The phone was ultimately recovered… in Chair 6’s pocket. It’s the drugs folks – these are just normal people. We’re not crazy – we’re on chemo.
    • Cancer — zero points. And may the odds be never in its favor!

    In Summary: spirits are stable, vitals are good, and the only drama today is whether the sweet lady in Chair 4 will wake up before her drip is done. And she DID!

    This is Pattie Presswoman, bringing you the news you didn’t know you needed—from the quiet frontlines of Day One chemo. This is Pattie Presswoman saying “Good day, and may the good news be yours”. 

  • Partners

    Photo by Cem Gizep on Pexels.com

    I wrote this for my husband, who carries a copy in his pocket. I love this man!

    I'm grateful for his love and support,
    But love isn't proven by easy words.
    It's tested in the mess - 
    When I throw up, will he help me clean?
    When I awake, soaked in sweat, 
    will he stay close or walk away?
    Will he carry some of the chaos
    so I don't bear it all? 

    I don't want pity.
    I want a partner.
    Someone who can hold my truth
    without breaking in half.
    Someone who can face my fear
    without turning away.

    I've battled alone before.
    I can fight again.
    But partnership means sharing the weight -
    not protecting each other with silence. 
    If I reveal the storm inside me,
    will he still stand tall beside me?
    Can he fight this fight with me,
    not just watch from the edges?

    Some days I will not rise from bed.
    Other days, I'll insist on living hard,
    pushing through exhaustion,
    chasing pieces of the life we had.
    And yes, people will stare.
    Yes, the world will feel too heavy.
    But I refuse to shrink.

    So I won't hide and I won't pretend.
    I'll speak my truth, even when it shakes.
    And if he is truly my partner, 
    he'll grow with me through the fire.
    Because is not just my battle, 
    it's ours.

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  • 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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