Not gonna lie: I tried every filter I could find. When “they” were done, the pic didn’t even look like me.
All I really wanted? Eyes a little more open. Neck a little less wrinkled. But apparently “they” saw so much more that needed to be blurred, smoothed, and fixed.
And it made me wonder: is this what happens when we sign up for surgery to erase a bump in the nose, or a little tweak here and there? Do we walk out feeling less like ourselves?
For me, this photo is staying real. The only edit here is a solid background.
Because wrinkles, tired eyes, and all… it’s still me.
And speaking of staying real—today is chemo day for me. So expect a report from Pattie Presswoman soon, straight from the trenches of Recliner Row.
How much of my self-esteem is wrapped up in my hair? When I was a young woman, I had long red hair all the way to my bottom. (It was the 70s—every woman had long, long hair. It was practically in the dress code.)
The first time cancer boy came for me, 21 years ago, the thought of losing my hair was devastating. Hair meant youth, beauty, identity. I tried being Rapunzel with a chemo drip – not a good look.
But now? Not so much.
After my first chemo battle, when my hair grew back, I reveled in it. I grew it as long as I could stand it… which, it turned out, wasn’t much past my neckline. Something surprising happened during that phase: I realized how glorious it was to not have hair. No routine. No products. No hours wasted with hot rollers or blow dryers. Except for that brief, ridiculous love affair with my hair’s comeback tour, I’ve been perfectly happy with “trouble-free” hair ever since.
But trouble-free hair is not the same as no hair. And here I am again, standing at the edge of the cliff. Which would I hate more:
a) the actual baldness, or b) enduring people’s sympathy, their pitying looks, and their unsolicited “it will grow back” pep talks while I shed like a mangy dog in public?
Knowing me? It’s a strong, emphatic B. The comments and clucking would make me go full crazy-bitch mode, and nobody needs that.
So, this afternoon I’m taking control. I’m buzzing this older-lady short hair down to a tidy buzz cut. Yes, that will fall out too, but it’s easier to manage and—most importantly—my choice.
How do I know it’s time? Easy. Two days ago I wore my buff (you know, the all-purpose “Survivor” headband/armband/head covering/halter top if you’re braver and skinnier than me). When I went to nap, I laid it on the nightstand. The entire nap was a continous dream with me lifting up the buff and watching all my hair come with it.
Dream logic or not, I woke up knowing: it’s time.
Because let’s be real—nobody in this house needs me shedding more than Sassy the Wonder Dog.
So today, Rapunzel’s letting her hair down one last time. And tomorrow? She’s rocking the buzz.
✨ Have you gone through the hair-loss rollercoaster yourself—or stood beside someone who has? How did you handle the first buzz, the first scarf, the first bald-glare reflection in the mirror? Drop your story in the comments. Let’s trade survival tips, snark, or even just solidarity.
To me, it sounds less like a diagnosis and more like a bad Scrabble hand—or the world’s worst Wi-Fi password. The doctors say it like it’s just another Tuesday. I hear it and wonder if I need a translator, a medical degree, or maybe just a stiff drink.
Knowledge: Comfort or Chaos?
Do I need more knowledge? Less? Enough to build a binder with color-coded tabs?
Here’s the problem: information cuts both ways. Too little, and I feel like I’m strapped in the backseat of my own life. Too much, and I’m wide awake at 2 a.m., Googling things that I cannot unsee.
So I aim for the middle ground. Learn enough to ask smart questions. Enough to push back when I need to. Enough to carry a flashlight in the dark without blinding myself with every grim statistic.
Structured Uncertainty
Every day hits reset like a game I didn’t sign up to play. One round: emotions bouncing from high to low like a malfunctioning carnival ride. Next round: nausea (front-row seat), then suddenly—no nausea (intermission!). Add in a generous sprinkle of worry, repeat as needed.
So how do I structure uncertainty? I can’t tame it—it’s like trying to leash a tornado. But I can give it boundaries. And I’ve learned that structure doesn’t fix everything, but it keeps me from completely unraveling. Less “perfect schedule” and more “duct tape and bubblegum holding the day together.”
Here’s what I try to do:
Morning: a few stretches (bonus points if I don’t fall over).
Hydration: gallons of water cheered on by a cartoon llama. (Yes, it’s silly. But it’s working.)
Movement: multiple swalks outside with Sassy, the wonder dog!
Social Rule: only one possible encounter with strangers a day. I don’t have the energy for small talk and cancer.
Evening: rant, write, laugh, cry. Hit publish.
Does it erase the nausea, the brain fog, or the exhaustion? Nope. But it gives my days shape. And shape means I’m trudging instead of free-falling. Trudging may not sound glamorous, but it’s still forward.
Fighting the Battle
So how do I fight cancer? Not with perfect pronunciation of “diffuse large B-cell lymphoma.” Not with toxic positivity or “good vibes only.”
I fight by being stubborn. By giving uncertainty limits. By letting others hold me up when I can’t. By laughing when everything sucks. By crying when I need to. By stretching myself just enough to remind myself I’m still here, still moving, still me.
In a battle where the finish line moves every day – This is how I win.
Did you know September is #BloodAwarenessMonth? This is our chance to shine a light on lymphoma and raise awareness about this rare cancer. I’m getting involved by [customize what you’re doing]—join me in helping spread the word! Learn how you can make an impact: lymphoma.org/BCAM💜
Join me in advancing lymphoma research, education, and support services by donating or fundraising for the @LymphomaCommunity this #BloodAwarenessMonth! Your contribution makes a difference in the fight against lymphoma. Together, we can create a world without lymphoma. Learn more here: lymphoma.org/BCAM💜
Today is #WorldLymphomaAwarenessDay, a time to come together in support of the more than one million people worldwide living or in remission from lymphoma. I’m helping raise awareness today to advance lymphoma research, education, and our search for a cure. Please join me in supporting the @lymphomacommunity and sharing this message. Together, we can create a world without lymphoma. 💜
Make a Commitment to the Cure
If the link above does not work, don’t give up. I’ll find another link.
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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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.
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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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!
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!
Second Battle, Same Me 