Second Battle, Same Me

Tag: writing

  • 🐾 SASSY WALKS: TJ MAX ADVENTURE EDITION 🛍️

    Hey everybody, it’s me — Sassy the Wonder Dog!
    I just want y’all to know that I have really been trying to get Mama out of the house. Every single day it’s the same old excuses:
    “It’s too hot.” ☀️
    “It’s too cold.” 🥶
    “I’m too tired.” 😴
    “Let me rest.” 😒

    Excuse me, ma’am? You never accept those excuses from me!

    But today… I found the secret weapon.
    Two words: TJ MAXX.

    Oh. My. Dog.
    Do you even know how much STUFF is in that place?

    At first, I was nervous (strangers, you know). Mama got this big rolling thing — she calls it a “buggy” — and put her jacket in it like a little nest, then lifted me right in.
    Now listen, she’s kinda short and I’ve got long legs, so there was a minute there where we both looked like a circus act.

    Then the doors whooshed open and I thought, “Welp, this is it. I’m gonna die.”
    And just when I was trying to be brave, some fool turned on a vacuum cleaner. 😳

    But I kept saying to myself, this is for Mama.
    Mama needs to walk around and see people.
    Mama needs exercise.
    Mama needs Sassy time.

    And then… something magical happened.
    The SMELLS.
    Good smells. Bad smells. Food smells. Treat smells. I sat up like the brave girl I am, nose in the air, tail wagging, ready for adventure.

    Every corner had a new smell and something shiny to look at.
    And then people started saying, “Oh, what a good girl!”
    You better believe I was proud.

    Mama let me pick out a treat (I chose wisely), and the nice lady at the counter gave me another one.

    So now we have a new plan:
    When Mama needs exercise, we go to TJ MAXX.
    Because let’s face it — a girl’s gotta sniff, strut, and shop. 💅🐶

  • Before the Sun

    It’s still dark outside.
    But I know this will be a good day.

    I’m awake—
    and more importantly, my brain is awake.
    (If you’ve ever had chemo fog, you know that’s headline-worthy news.)

    I can hear it churning again,
    where sometimes there’s been nothing but silence.
    Thoughts forming, sparks flickering,
    that little hum of life coming back online.

    The air feels almost electric—
    like the world is holding its breath
    waiting for me to exhale.

    It’s still dark outside.
    But I feel alive.

    And that, my friends,
    is how you know the light’s already winning.

  • Three Days After Chemo: The Strange Place Between Nap and Nausea

    Three days after long chemo is a weird neighborhood to live in.

    You don’t quite exist so much as melt slowly into the recliner.
    Exhaustion hits like a drunk elephant — you can’t stay awake, but you’re also too wired (and too achy) to sleep.

    The poison’s doing its sacred little dance —
    burn, heal, destroy, rebuild — all at once.
    My stomach’s auditioning for a horror movie:
    hungry but disgusted by every option.
    If it smells good, it’s probably coming back up.
    So I sip, nibble, and call that “fine dining.”

    The world spins a little, my eyelids weigh a ton,
    and focusing on anything longer than thirty seconds feels like graduate-level concentration.

    But still — under all the blur and ache — there’s the whisper of hope.
    That fierce, stubborn little spark that keeps saying,

    “Better days are coming. Hang on. The poison’s working.”

    And that’s enough to make me smile… before my next nap

  • Go Away…

    From a cherry to a pinto bean,
    From an almond to a pea—
    I watch the numbers fall,
    the nodules fade,
    the poison do its sacred burn.

    Shrink.
    Dissolve.
    Disappear.

    Your're disssolving,
    Youu should never have thought that I play.
    Go Away 
    And don’t come back
    another day.

  • Chemo Chronicles V5:

    Minions, Mama’s Chair, and the Great Heater Debate

    Today  was  a great day! After the great PET scan news, I skipped down to the Chemo Room. Even though it was long chemo day.  It was the first Chemo of the last of the protocol. Five more sessions in the plan!

    Entering the chemo room, my main concern was making sure that my chair was NOT under the heat.  It was hot as hell in there to me.  And I stayed hot.  In fact, I eventually took off my shoes and socks.  Three or four of the chairs under the heater had people with sweaters, heated blankets, and caps.  I am sure they were almost cooked before they left. 

    All the nurses were dressed for Halloween.  They were all Minions.  It was so cute.  But of course, since I can’t remember anything, including faces, I couldn’t tell them apart.

    There was lots of action in the chemo room today.  Off and on it was a full room, then emptied out to just me, tjrm a full room again. 

    Once again somebody took Mama’s chair.   It was a young man.   She sat right next to him and spread out her stuff, and then fell fast asleep –maybe with her mouth open.  I bet he won’t do that again. Why can’t these people learn – the minions should just put a taken sign on that chair.

    All in all, a long 7 hour day, but a good one.
    Minions, heaters, naps, and all — just another episode in the ongoing adventure of Chemo Chronicles.

  • Size Matters

    I promised you the news when I got it.

    It’s not the news I wanted, but it’s the closest it can be — which, in this world, counts as awesome.

    Thank you all for your crossed fingers and toes, your thoughts and prayers, and your pleas to Mother Earth. I appreciate every single effort on my behalf.

    Luke and I waited in that small little room for what seemed like hours (but was probably fifteen minutes). Me — my usual version of “calm,” meaning foot pumping, standing, sitting, standing again, stomping, sighing, repeat. And Luke — sitting perfectly still with his trademark Starfighter calm.

    Finally, the doctor came in — and her radiant smile told it all before she even spoke.

    I won’t bore you with the doctor/scientist version, but here’s the simple truth: I had two affected lymph nodes, and they are now much smaller. And much less bright.

    PET scans use an isotope that “lights up” the cancer — and where I once glowed like a neon sign at 14, I now barely shimmer at 3.

    Hallelujah.

    So, when you look at the photo — the left side is the first PET scan and the right side is the new one.
    A cherry became a pinto bean.
    An almond became a little English pea.

    Normally, I hate peas.
    But I love this one.

    As for brightness — the first scan could shine in full sunlight, and the new one? You’d barely spot it under a quarter moon.

    So here we are — halfway done, and if all goes as planned, it should be over by Christmas.

    🎃 Happy Halloween to all — from your half-lit, pea-loving, halfway warrior. 💚

  • PET Scan Day The Waiting Game

    It’s been a few days since I posted, and I hope you weren’t worried that I was feeling awful — because I wasn’t! From Saturday through right now, I’ve felt surprisingly great. No pain pills, no nausea meds, no reason for nausea meds. It’s been a fabulous stretch — almost enough to make me forget I’m fighting Cancer Boy. Almost.

    But when you’re in this battle, even the good days come with a shadow. No matter how great you feel, that little voice in your head never quite shuts up:
    “Is this working?”
    “Am I getting better?”
    “Will I have to ditch this chemo and start all over again?”
    It’s always there, quietly humming along in the background of every moment.

    Today is PET scan day — the big one. The test that tells us if things are getting better, holding steady, or spreading. It should feel exciting, but honestly? It’s terrifying. More terrifying than a haunted house.

    So after a few blissful days “off,” I’m suiting up again — lucky shirt on, battle mind engaged, and (in theory) my best poker face in place. (In reality, I’m about as unreadable as a Hallmark card.)

    Cross your fingers. Cross your toes. Whisper to Mother Earth or pray to your God — I’ll take all the good vibes you can send.
    And know that I’m deeply grateful for every single one of you who cares. 💚

  • The Worst Part of Having Cancer

    One would think the obvious answer is that the cancer—or the treatment—could kill you. But for me, that’s not it. Not yet, anyway. The possibility of death, even with the diagnosis and the poison, still feels far away. Which is, frankly, my preference.

    It’s not the constant sickness or nausea. It’s not the hours of shivering and chills, or the sliding-down-a-razor-blade thrill of eliminating bodily waste.

    It’s not the isolation—both physical and internal. It’s not that most food tastes like metal, or that eating and drinking enough each day sends you right back to that razor-blade ride.

    It’s not even the endless naps, the half-conscious fog, the 8 p.m. bedtime, or the sense that life’s fun is happening somewhere else without you.

    But I digress. The question was: what is the worst part of having cancer?

    Your hair is gone. Your face looks puffier. Your body changes. You tell yourself those are just shallow things—but then you start forgetting words, and where you were going, and why. You can’t recall names you’ve known for years. You sit in the dark and cry for any reason—or no reason at all.

    And the biggest thing you lose? Your common sense.

    Take a few days ago, for example. A fine case study in cognitive chaos.

    I got up early, determined to leave by 8 a.m. because Sassy the Wonder Dog had a 9 o’clock grooming appointment. (Sassy’s favorite hobby is rolling in the stinkiest piles imaginable.) With Luke’s help, I loaded the car and finally got dressed—only to realize my diamond ring was missing.

    Common sense immediately exited the premises.

    I went to grab my phone to call Luke—only to discover that it, too, was missing. Lost ring. Lost phone. Obviously Luke’s fault.

    So I ran outside and started tearing apart everything he had just loaded into the car. Found the phone, not the ring. Maybe not Luke’s fault after all. But I called him hysterical anyway, and he promised to rush home.

    Meanwhile, I ransacked the house: dishwasher, clean sheets, folded blankets—nothing. Luke arrived, calm and logical (as usual), and asked where I was when I first noticed it was gone. He checked the dressers while I tore apart the blankets on my side of the bed—still mid-meltdown, crying about how useless I am, how I keep losing everything, how I’m losing my brain, and what if I never get back to—

    And then I looked under the bed.

    “FOUND IT!” I shouted, with what can only be described as a psychotic smile.

    Luke looked up. “Found what?”

    “My ring!” I chirped.

    He didn’t actually say this, but I swear I heard:

    “Hm. Thought maybe you found your senses.”

    It was only 8 a.m., and I was already crazy.
    Sad to say, the crazy lasted all day.

    And let’s be honest—it’ll be back tomorrow.
    Because common sense is not a product of chemotherapy.

  • Becoming, Again (Day 2)

    (Or: Somewhere Between the Couch and the Cosmos)

    Time is weird.
    I’m calling this Day 2, even though the calendar swears otherwise.
    But my cells, my soul, my spinning little chemo-altered molecules—they insist Thursday was Day 1.
    So Day 2 it is.

    Yesterday’s question: Do you ever wake up and wonder where YOU went?
    Today’s realization: apparently, “becoming” requires traveling somewhere else entirely—no luggage, no return ticket, just a brain on shuffle.

    Chemo was short, mercifully.
    I even came home with my jet-pack—my white-cell superstarters ticking quietly on my arm, a tiny biochemical fireworks show set for 1 p.m.
    And then… I disappeared.

    I slid into bed like melting butter.
    Shivering, sweating, freezing, burning.
    Fan on. Fan off.
    Every molecule arguing with its neighbor about the thermostat of existence.

    Time folded in on itself.
    When I woke, the light had shifted but nothing else had.
    I drifted to the couch, a parallel universe where gravity hums louder and blankets weigh more than regret.
    I didn’t eat. I barely sipped water. I just floated in and out of body, like my brain had clocked out for interdimensional maintenance.

    Around 6:30, Luke appeared—steady, sun-warm—and said, “Come sit by the water.”
    He might as well have said, Come back to Earth.
    I sat beside him, blinking at the ripples like they were breathing.

    My mind was mushy honey. My thoughts, ping-pong balls in zero gravity.
    Winnie the Pooh would’ve understood. He said it loud and clear “Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?

    So yeah, I was here yesterday. Physically.
    But mentally? I was off somewhere between the stars and the shivers. Maybe that’s what becoming really is—your brain goes on a field trip to rearrange the furniture while your body holds down the fort.

    I wonder what version of me will step off the bus next time. I wonder if there will be a green sofa,

  • Becoming, Again

    You ever wake up and wonder where you went?
    Because I do. Every damn day lately.

    When I started this blog — Second Battle, Same Me — I really believed that.
    That I could go through cancer again and still come out the same woman.
    But lately I’m not so sure.

    Twenty-one years ago, I fought this battle once before.
    Back then, I don’t remember if I became someone else —
    or if I just put on a stronger version of myself to survive it.
    But now, walking through it again, I can feel the shift happening all over.

    Chemo is stealing things from me.
    My ability to stand up for myself.
    My ability not to cry at every damn thing.
    My ability not to apologize for not being superwoman.
    I used to be strong.
    I used to be in charge.
    I used to juggle ten things at once and still have enough left to carry someone else’s load too.

    Did I become that woman after the first battle?
    Or was she always in there — the warrior, the doer, the fixer?
    And if she was, does losing her now mean I’m losing me… or just becoming something new?

    Because right now, I feel like a shell of her.
    I cry too easily.
    I apologize too much.
    I’m angry enough to break glass.
    And some days, I want to lie on the floor, blanket over my head,
    and just stop being brave for a minute.

    Yeah, that’s where I am.
    Chemo stole my personality — or maybe it’s stripping me down to what’s left underneath it.
    The parts I never had time to meet when I was too busy being “fine.”

    Here’s the thing no one tells you:
    When everything that made you you gets blasted away,
    you find out who’s hiding underneath the noise.
    And maybe that’s the quiet kind of hope —
    not in the old me, or the strong me, or the version that looked like she had it all together —
    but in the woman who’s still standing here anyway.
    Still showing up.
    Still writing.
    Still trying.

    Maybe chemo didn’t steal everything after all.
    Maybe it just peeled me back to real.

    And that woman — broken, teary, tired, messy —
    she’s still here.
    She’s still me.
    And I think she might be becoming someone even stronger than before.

    I wonder who she’ll be next.
    But for once, I’m not afraid to find out. 💚