Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: second batttle

  • Chemo Chronicles -V2

    Dateline: Infusion Center. Chair 4—my lucky spot, my turf, my assigned recliner throne.

    This visit was a little different. But that’s the thing with cancer—you can’t trust it. Just when you think you’ve got the routine down, it switches things up.

    Fridays appear to be the “Quick Lane” days. (It’s a Ford thing, IYKYK). Folks breeze in for one-and-done infusions or quick little shots. It’s basically the drive-thru menu version of cancer treatment. And surprise—this week I landed in the quick lane too! (Who knew this disease had an express option? Now if only they handed out fries with that stuff…)

    Of course, I managed to put my papers in the wrong place—again. I was gently “re-instructed” on proper sign-in performance, because apparently there’s a choreography to this. Reminder: pole dancers do not play!

    The People of Recliner Row

    • Chair 2 was occupied by a shot-and-go pro. She brought her own blanket, clocked in under 30 minutes, and left with the efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew.
    • Chair 7 hosted a gentleman who nodded off before his bag was even hooked up. Snoring achieved decibel levels impressive enough to drown out an infusion pump alarm.
    • Chair 11 is the only chair that faces the hallway. I would never sit there. But as an older lady (okay, my age) was wheeled into that chair, her daughter loudly announced that Mama loves this chair so she can see all the comings and goings. Hmmmm. Maybe I would sit there after all.
    • The Nurses: still pirouetting between poles, juggling syringes, and keeping everyone moving through the lanes. Gold medals, every one of them.

    Meanwhile, I picked up a lot of new info this visit. Same me, just older me—learning the ropes all over again, taking more naps, heading to bed earlier, and laughing at my own clumsy lack of sign-in etiquette.

    Chair 4, quick lane, and still me. Cancer may not be trustworthy, but my stubborn streak is rock solid.

  • 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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