There is no blog post today because, at this very minute, I’m enjoying the most relaxing massage — a gift from a very dear friend.
After listening to my heart, I realized I need more of this: more quiet moments, more relaxing adventures, and more time with dear friends who remind me to pause. 💚
This morning, Mom was in the kitchen acting all kinds of crazy — singing, dancing, twirling around like humans do when they think they’re having “fun.” I knew right away: if she had that much energy, she was definitely ready for a walk.
I tried to wrangle her immediately, but then came the eggs. Eggs are my weakness. She always shares a bite, so of course I had to wait it out.
Next distraction? That computer. She muttered to herself for a full hour before prancing off to the printer like it was Christmas morning. Perfect ambush spot. I trapped her at the doorway of “her” room (aka the Cave of Crap) and pushed her straight toward the front door. She knew what I meant. Leash on, drizzle outside, painfully slow loop around the yard — but hey, we did it.
After that, she needed a nap. I stretched out right beside her, on guard. When she stirred, I pounced — ears up, eyes locked, leash ready. Yard loop number two.
Later, I noticed her clutching the railing after just two steps. Okay, Wonder Dog knows when to call it. I let her rest. No toys, no snack raids. I just waited. And waited. Through 50 phone calls (ugh, she never shuts up).
Finally, the blankets rustled. My moment. I unleashed the Sad Dog Eyes™. A tiny whine. Boom — success. Yard loop number three.
Three walks in one day. Who’s the best motivator, protector, and leash-wielding life coach? Me. They don’t call me Sassy the Wonder Dog for nothing.
Mom was wiped out but still managed to hand over a big treat. Score for both of us. Tomorrow? Road walk. I’ve got plans.
Today, a friend I haven’t seen in a long while reached out. She didn’t know my cancer was back. She didn’t know I was in treatment again. She just said, “I would love to hear your heart.”
That line stopped me cold.
Not “let’s catch up.” Not “tell me what’s been going on.”
She wanted to hear my heart.
And that got me thinking: what kind of peace, what kind of love does a person carry when they care less about your circumstances and more about your heart?
Do I even listen to mine?
Sure, when it comes to the big-ticket items—marriage, kids, family, love. Those are the moments when you’re “supposed” to listen to your heart.
But do I listen to it daily?
When I wake up bone-tired.
When the chemo wall hits and knocks me flat.
When Sassy drags me down the driveway like a reluctant sled dog.
Do I stop and check in?
Truth: most days, my head is way louder than my heart. My head is bossy. It says:
Meanwhile, my heart whispers. And I ignore it. Because sometimes, my heart says stuff I don’t want to hear—like “rest” when I’d rather power through, or “cry” when I’d rather throw up a sarcastic one-liner. Or, “it’s ok to be mad about this” when I don’t want to think about that.
But my friend’s words have been simmering all day.
Maybe what she really offered me was permission.
Permission to pause. Permission to tune in. Permission to let my heart speak, even if it doesn’t have the right words, even if it stutters.
So I asked myself: what does my heart say right now?
And here’s the messy, beautiful, unfinished truth:
That’s my heart.
Maybe small. Maybe quiet. Maybe shaky.
But it’s still beating. And today, someone wanted to hear it.
Within 24 hours of slamming face-first into The Wall, it retreated.
I give full credit to the tiny (yet monstrous) contraption known as the Udenyca On-Body Injector—a device slapped onto my arm right after chemo. Supposedly, it waits 18 hours before releasing its magical (and slightly terrifying) payload of medicine. If you’d like the medical mumbo-jumbo, you can check the official site here: udenyca.com.
But if you’d rather hear it the way it really went down, buckle up.
On Friday, they stuck this little white box on the fatty part of my arm (nurse’s words, not mine). Imagine half a computer mouse, only bulkier, and now imagine me banging it into every wall, chair, or doorframe in my house. Chemo makes me clumsy; add a plastic box to my arm and I become a human demolition derby.
The device waits. Then, exactly 18 hours later—2 p.m. on Saturday in my case—it explodes into action. Note the description explodes please!
I was napping, minding my own business, when suddenly:
For one delirious second, I thought I’d dreamed it all. But the little green light that had been flashing turned solid—meaning the beast had done its job. No dream. 100% real. WTF.
Once the pain subsided and the device wheezed its last mechanical breath, I lay there still trying to understand what happened
Of course, being the overachiever I am, I immediately read the list of possible side effects. Big mistake. (Pro tip: if you don’t want to imagine yourself sprouting hobbit-feet hair or growing elf-ears, don’t read the fine print. These are not actual side-effects, but they are more desirable than the actual possible effects. Just saying.)
This morning, I realized something shocking: I actually felt better. The nausea and exhaustion that had pinned me to the floor the day before started lifting.
So here I am—up, moving, and cautiously optimistic. The Wall may have knocked me flat, but with a little help from science, samurai swords, and jet engines, I got back up.
This cancer fight is brutal, unpredictable, and weirdly comical at times. Yesterday was down. Today is up. Tomorrow? I’ll keep fighting.
👉 Every day is a battle. Some days I hit the Wall. Some days I walk away from it. But I’m still here—and that’s what matters.
Every cancer patient who’s ever taken chemo knows about the Wall.
It’s out there—lurking around the corner—just waiting to remind you that chemo doesn’t f***ing play. It can show up once, twice, or stick around to let you know things are about to get real for a long-ass time.
Yesterday, I slammed right into it.
Clue #1: Standing up, minding my own business, feeling like my body was about to collapse straight to the floor.
Clue #2: My personal favorite—great waves of liquid exiting my body from all possible orifices, burning like I was sliding down a razor blade the whole way.
When that was over, I slept five more hours like a baby. (There’s always a blessing somewhere, right?)
The rest of the day was almost normal. I ate. I kept it down. I slept well last night—though don’t get the idea that sleep was some natural miracle. It came courtesy of prescribed medication. I took the pills. I slept. I was happy with that.
This morning, I’m trying to figure out if I’m still clinging to the Wall. Dizzy when I stood up—clue? Spilled a glass of water and felt exhausted cleaning it up—another clue?
And then I thought of the hundreds of thousands of people who were taken on death marches by their enemies—tired, confused, sick, exhausted—yet still driven forward by the will to live.
I have that will to live too.
If I keep meeting the Wall day after day, I’m not going to give up. But I know I’m going to need your encouragement along the way.
And if someone could whip up some real mashed potatoes like Grandma used to make—and a bowl of real brown gravy—and drop them off, I’m sure it would help me fight the Wall. (Or maybe it would just fly right through me. Either way, it would taste like heaven going down and that would be good enough for today.)
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Oh my gosh, oh my gosh you guys—guess who drew the short straw again? 🙋♀️ Yep, me.
But hold on—this time the universe threw me a bone.
I don’t know if it was my lucky shirt, or maybe channeling my mom calling out “Big Money!” before she rolled the dice at the kitchen table. But somehow, today the chemo room was a blink instead of a marathon.
The nurses strapped a new little gadget onto my arm—like some weird futuristic bracelet—that’s set to shoot “life juice” into my veins tomorrow. Supposedly, it’ll beef up my white counts. Honestly, it feels a little sci-fi, but hey, if it works, I’m in.
The chemo room itself was pretty calm today—no drama, no chaos. To my left, a husband stayed by his wife’s side the whole time. Sweet as pie, and a good reminder that not all superheroes wear capes—sometimes they sit quietly in vinyl chairs.
And then there was the new lady in Lookout Chair #11. Let me tell you, she showed up like it was Fashion Week. Gorgeous dress, killer high heels that would’ve sent me face-planting in under thirty seconds. I loved it. She wasn’t here to look sick—she was here to shine. And it worked.
No chemo next week, which means I get a break from the chair and a chance to rest up for whatever adventures are waiting. (Spoiler: probably not heels that high. Ever.)
Oncology waiting rooms are strange places. You sit there surrounded by people—hopeful faces, broken bodies—and after a while, you stop really seeing them. It’s a survival trick, I think. If you really looked at every single person, every limp, every hollow cheek, every set of nervous fingers tapping, you’d fall apart before they even called your name.
But today, that survival trick failed me.
I saw her. Alone. Perched on the edge of a chair like she was ready to bolt, feet tapping with enough energy to power the hospital’s lights. Small, fragile even, but still holding herself upright with a kind of dignity cancer hasn’t managed to steal yet. Thin hair. Paper-thin skin. A cane she leaned on like it was her last good friend.
And then it hit me—I knew her. Not this version of her, not this worn-down, cane-clutching, chemo-room version. I knew her from before. She was a woman who always swayed to the music and made the entire room come alive, entertaining us all. She lost her partner to cancer decades ago. Life had already sucker-punched her once, and here she was again, still standing—well, sitting—but damn it, still here.
As these things go, she disappeared into a lab, and I disappeared into the oncologist’s office. But later, chemo brought us side by side, two chairs apart, IV poles standing guard like silent executioners. Our escorts had been banished back to the waiting room (because some women do not share their strongest moments with the people they love the most – we need the space to breathe.)
The nurse asked her name, and I knew without a doubt the beautiful vital woman she had been. The woman she still was, somewhere inside.
I tried to talk to her, but chemo cocktails don’t mess around. They dragged her into that deep, heavy sleep we all know too well. So I sat. And I watched. And I remembered.
And then, without even meaning to, I prayed.
I prayed she’d have another chance to dance. To laugh. To feel like herself again.
Mostly, I prayed we’d all get even just one more shot at being the people we were before cancer barged in. Whole. Carefree. Alive in ways that don’t come in IV bags.
Because cancer wants you to think it’s all loneliness and loss. But sitting there, two chairs apart, I realized remembrance, hope, and healing are stubborn little things. They stick. Even here.
I just want it to be over — magically over. Not some haunted, never-leaving-for-good over, but over like I don’t have to do this anymore. Plain and simple. No more appointments, no more counting pills like prayer beads, no more scheduling my life around naps and pukes. Is that too fucking much to ask?
I know the truth: you have to go through the damn thing to get past it. You can’t short-circuit the mess. You have to slog. So here I am — slogging. Hazy brain days that feel like I’m moving through molasses. Brainless moments where I stand in front of the fridge like it’s a conspiracy. Rest when my bones beg for it; heal when my body remembers how; poison because science says so; repeat because the calendar is a cruel comedian.
Between the bleak and the boring, what I really want is the tiny, ridiculous stuff: to write in peace and light without the guilt that I should be “doing something productive” while I wait for the next appointment. To sit at the kitchen table with my laptop and not have the cloud of “what if” hovering over every line. To drink coffee that’s still hot. To walk outside and not count steps like they’re a report card. To have a normal week that does not begin and end with an IV drip and a list of side effects.
Also? I want to shoot a fire arrow into this cancer and blow it the fuck up. There. I said it. There’s the part of me that wants to be dramatic and violent and victorious all at once. I want a literal and metaphorical kaboom — lights, confetti, the whole over-the-top ending to this chapter. Tell me that’s unreasonable and I’ll roll my eyes and bring the fireworks anyway.
And listen: I’m conflicted. I can want peace and quiet and also want to scream and torch the thing that put me here. I can be grateful for the hands that hold me and furious at the time it steals. I can laugh at myself for crying over a lost sock and then sob over the way the chemo makes my bones feel like someone took a jackhammer to them. Cancer doesn’t come with an instruction manual that says “how to be graceful.” It comes with a lot of improvisation, a poor soundtrack, and the occasional emergency snack saved by a patient husband I nicknamed my own Luke Skywalker.
So I keep going. I show up for the naps and the meds and the ridiculous moments because there’s still light to find. There are small mercies — a friend who drops off a pie, a dog that insists on dragging me outside, a good TV show that distracts for forty blessed minutes. There are stories I didn’t think I could finish that surprise me by being halfway decent. There are mornings when my head clears and I can see color again, and those mornings are holy.
Mostly I keep going because I refuse to let this story end with me never coming back over it. I want the ending where I walk out the other side — bruised, scarred, wiser, still snarking — not looping back into the same damn place. That’s the stubborn part of me speaking: I want life after this. I want the pages after the battle. I want to play, to laugh, to be boring and ordinary and loud and alive.
So yeah — I’ll keep slogging. Hazy brain, brainless days, rest and heal, poison and repeat. I will draw in the light where I can. I will fire the arrow in my imagination and shout when I need to. And I will keep looking for the little lights that make the whole thing bearable until one day—God willing—the arrow does its job and this is over for real.
Y’all, my mama could use some good thoughts (and maybe a few extra licks). She’s moving slower than a turtle on a hot day. If I didn’t have her on this leash, I swear she’d just wander right off into the woods. Good thing I’ve got her back—well, her front, too.
The other day, we only made it to the mailbox. THE MAILBOX. I can cover that in about five leaps, no problem. Mama? Not so much. She’s only got two short legs, and let’s just say her butt doesn’t exactly help with the leaping situation.
But don’t get me wrong—she’s doing her best. She takes her medicine, putters around the house, and always makes sure I get my potty breaks. Sometimes she just opens the back door and sends me solo into the yard. I don’t love it, but I get it. She’s tired.
At night, I take my nursing duties seriously. I tuck Mama in real tight, then patrol between her and Daddy. I probably wake him up with my “check-ins,” but hey—somebody’s gotta keep an eye on the humans. That’s my job.
Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Mama’s got chemo again at the end of the week, so I’m saving up my licks and my favorite toys to share with her. Maybe y’all could do the same—send her some good vibes, belly rubs, or squeaky toys from afar.
💚
— Sassy
Second Battle, Same Me 