Sleeping all day is a lot of work. I mean really. No one actually wants to spend all day in bed. Or all day asleep on the couch. It’s not glamorous. There are no trophies for “Most Consecutive Hours Horizontal,” though at this point I’d probably win that one — by medical recommendation, no less.
But apparently, this is what my body needs. Rest to restore. Recharge. Rebuild. Yada yada yada. Meanwhile, my brain — the same brain that still thinks it’s 35 and capable of running errands, writing blogs, and alphabetizing the spice rack — has a fit every time I even consider a nap.
Because let’s face it: sleeping feels like giving in. Like waving the white flag and whispering, “Okay cancer, you win this round.” But here’s the twist — it’s actually the opposite. Sleeping is fighting. It’s strategic rest. It’s a battle tactic. My body is rebuilding cells like a factory on night shift.
So when I’m under the covers at noon, drooling on my pillow and surrounded by snack wrappers, don’t pity me. Applaud me. I am not lazy — I am regenerating. I’m resting my way to rebellion.
And when I finally wake up, eyes crusted, what hair I have left at full scarecrow level, I’ll be ready for the next round — fully armed with coffee, sarcasm, and just enough energy to yell, “Take that, chemo boy!”
When was the last time you slept in and still woke up so tired that even pulling the blanket off felt like a full-body workout? I’m talking Olympic-level fatigue here. The kind where you just lie there negotiating with gravity like, “Listen, I’ll move if you move first.”
So there I was, having a full-blown hostage situation with my comforter. The only reason I didn’t stay trapped under it forever was because my bladder started yelling like a toddler in a grocery store. I tried to ignore it, but biology always wins. So I turned sideways, feet to the floor, and slid out like a slow-motion seal escaping a sand trap. It wasn’t pretty, but it was effective.
After surviving that adventure, I scrubbed my hands for the required 20 seconds (because apparently 19 seconds is where all the germs party), and fully intended to crawl back into bed. But then I looked down. My blanket mountain had avalanched to the floor. There was no freaking way I was lifting that mess.
So, off I wobbled to my sacred recovery spot—the couch. My couch never lets me down. It knows my shape. It cradles me. It always has that one blanket ready for action. But before I could collapse into its loving embrace, I stumbled into the kitchen to pour myself a cup of ambition. 🎶 (Yes, that’s a Dolly Parton lyric. Yes, my brain just sings now. No, there’s no off switch.)
Today’s ambition doesn’t involve board meetings or productivity charts. Nope. My ambition is to mix the perfect recipe of rest, healing foods, hydration, determination, and pure, unfiltered fierceness.
So, what’s the moral of this story? I’m too tired to pick up a blanket—but not too tired to keep showing up for the fight. I’m weary, yes. But I’m not out.
Now if someone could just invent self-folding covers, I might finally win a round.
Have you ever stopped to think about the actual cost of fighting cancer? Not the emotional toll — we all know that part is priceless — but the real dollars and cents.
When I first began this journey, I had no idea how expensive staying alive could be. The surgery to remove the lump that started it all: $1,700. Not terrible, right? That’s what I thought too.
Then came the PET scan — the big one that lights up your insides like a Christmas tree to find out where the cancer might be hiding. Price tag? $14,000. (And yes, it found something glowing.)
Next up: the regular oncology visits. I’ve stopped trying to calculate every single one, but let’s just say each appointment includes a series of blood tests— about $4,000 a pop.
And finally, chemotherapy. The heavy hitter. Average cost: $54,000.
Those are the numbers when everything goes well.
Now, before you panic, here’s the good news: I am incredibly fortunate to have a Medicare gap plan through AARP. My out-of-pocket costs are less than $1,000 a year. It’s not free — it’s actually a bit pricey upfront — but that plan has been worth every penny for the peace of mind it brings.
I’m not sharing this to scare anyone. I’m sharing it to prepare you. Because one of the biggest lessons cancer has taught me is that being informed is a form of self-care.
If you don’t have coverage that will protect you in a crisis — start asking questions now. And if you’re already in the middle of the fight and feeling overwhelmed, don’t hesitate to ask for help. Every cancer center has a social worker who can help you navigate the maze of costs, grants, and support programs. There are even organizations that will send volunteers to clean your house for free.
Yes — free. Sparkling kitchen, courtesy of kindness.
And to those of you who are fortunate enough to have extra, please donate to a cancer cause. There are so many worthy causes – find one and donate. Even $20 helps.
The truth is, no one fights cancer alone. And no one should have to.
If you ever find yourself sitting on hold trying to sort out insurance, bills, or assistance — call me. I’ve practically earned a Ph.D. in waiting on hold. 😊
Because helping each other through this is the real currency of healing. 💚
As stated many times, I cannot draw and I rely on AI to draw the pictures as I describe them. I did not describe two phones – or at least I did not think I did. But they are awesome anyway!
Later this month, I’ll zone up to Level 69 (which doesn’t sound right, since you start life at Level Zero, but I don’t make the rules — I just play this weird game called Life).
Now that I’ve almost completed Level 68, I’ve learned something important: I apparently prefer struggling through things by myself over simply asking for help. Somewhere along the way, that became a mental defect — or maybe it’s written into the game rules none of us have access to. Either way, I seem to be a solo-quest kind of girl.
And when you add in my ongoing battle with Chemo Boy, well, asking for help feels like handing him bonus points. He feeds off weakness. I’m convinced if I ask for help, he levels up somewhere in the background, unlocking an “Extra Pain” weapon pack. And I am not giving him that satisfaction.
The Quest for Light
So this morning’s solo mission? Find light. I woke up early to write, the house was dark, and I thought to myself — “Self,” (and I knew it was me because I recognized my voice — I love that old joke, and yes, full credit to whoever first wrote it).
Anyway. Back to the quest.
I thought, I need a lighted keyboard. Do I have one? Hmm. I Google it. Google tells me to grab a flashlight and look for a “keyboard with lines through it” symbol. So I go on an actual flashlight hunt — in the dark — to look for a symbol that literally means “light.” You can’t make this stuff up.
Of course, there’s no symbol. Then Google says, press the Fn key and the wiggly keyboard key.
Excuse me — the what key? The Fn key? I swear I had never seen such a thing in my life. Level 68 or Chemo Brain — take your pick. But after a small archaeological dig across my keyboard, I found it! Because I am nothing if not determined not to ask for help.
The Magic Combo
Back to Google (which doesn’t count as asking for help — that’s a resource, like a library for the socially stubborn).
Turns out I just needed to press Fn + Space Bar. I do it. And — miracle of miracles — my keyboard lights up like Times Square.
Fn-tastic. Fn-bulous. Fn-nomenal.
I was so proud of myself… until the mouse died.
The Mouse That Mocked Me
No joke, the mouse that was working five minutes ago suddenly decided to retire. My first thought: batteries. Nope. I toggled the power switch back and forth like a maniac — nothing.
Finally, I realized the little Bluetooth light was off. Because of course it was. After a few rounds of trial, error, and mild cursing, I managed to reconnect it. Success! Mouse revived. Chemo Boy zero.
Wait… What Was I Doing Again?
There was just one more small problem. I have no idea what I originally got up to write about.
So here we are:
The sun’s coming up over the lake.
I’m feeling good.
Sassy has already informed me that she’s scheduling three walks today because, quote, “Mama, you’re making me fat.” Her words, not mine.
So, that’s today’s adventure: backlit victory, Bluetooth betrayal, and total topic amnesia.
Moral of the story: Never give up, never give in — and don’t underestimate the power of the Fn key.
This morning I sat in the almost-dark and watched the sky split itself open. Every day really is a blank canvas, but let’s be honest—most of the strokes are thrown on by things I’ll never control. Life doesn’t exactly wait for my approval before it slaps paint around.
So I start where I can: ordering the little pieces that actually belong to me. Call it self-care, call it survival, call it refusing to let the day turn beige.
As the sky softened into light, I decided—resolved, even—that I’d throw some light of my own around today. Maybe for myself, maybe for anyone who crosses my path. The geese flew overhead in their messy V, reminding me that forward is the only direction that counts. And the blue heron strutted across the water like it owned the place, reminding me to stay exactly where I am, no apologies.
So here’s the palette I’m grabbing: joy.
Joy in the fact that I woke up vertical.
Joy in feeling well enough to move, not just moan.
Joy in time with my granddaughter—even at 25, when she’s not giggling but building her own damn life and still making me proud.
Joy in collapsing for a nap without guilt.
Joy in dancing if the music insists, even if it looks like a medical emergency.
That’s today’s order. Joy, bold strokes, no beige allowed. Maybe you should order some too.
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. 💚
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:
Take the meds.
Keep walking.
Don’t puke in public.
Try to be funny about this so people aren’t uncomfortable.
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:
I’m still here, even if this is not what I planned to do this year.
I’m still fighting, and will not stop.
I still love, and need to show myself a little more of that.
I still have stories to tell.
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.
How It Works (According to Me)
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!
The Moment of Truth
I was napping, minding my own business, when suddenly:
A jet engine fired up inside my arm.
A samurai sword stabbed me in the exact same spot.
And then, as if I’d just licked a battery, I could taste the medicine.
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.
The Aftermath
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.)
Today
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.
Got up at 6, left the house at 7, dropped Sassy at the farm by 8:30. She about beat my leg red with that happy tail of hers—dog joy is a full-contact sport.
Then it was Atlanta Airport time. Biggest and busiest airport in the world . And because I’m apparently allergic to common sense, I refused Delta assistance. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. So my poor husband shuffled along at turtle pace, pushing both our suitcases and our bookbags, while I trudged like I was reenacting the Oregon Trail.
We don’t check bags. Don’t ask me why—WE just don’t.
TSA: Tales of Suspicion and Attitude
We have this fancy TSA Pre-Check Touchless thing where your driver’s license photo matches your real-time picture. Except mine didn’t. Cue the angry TSA man glaring at me like I was trying to sneak through in a Groucho Marx disguise.
“Why haven’t you updated your ID?” he barked. “Well, my hair was just cut…before it falls out. My numbers were low. I just found out yesterday I could even come.” Translation: zero sympathy, double lecture.
When he finally waved me through, I tossed a snark grenade: “Only my hair changed—the face is the same.” My husband, ever the helpful peanut gallery, asks, “Did you take your mask off?” No, my darling, I did not assume my license photo included a pandemic mask. Bless his heart.
Then came the security shuffle. Pockets emptied, bins filled, walk this way. I flashed my “I have a port” card like it was a backstage pass, got sent through the full-body scanner, endured the pat-down, and had my suitcase searched because prescription powder apparently = suspicious contraband. Never a dull moment.
Socks of Doom
Doctor’s orders: wear compression socks on the plane. Problem: my legs are 11 inches from knee to ankle and my calves are, let’s say, generous. Walmart and Walgreens had nothing. Husband’s compression socks? Way too long. Solution? Scissors. Cut those suckers down to size and made myself some footless Franken-socks.
I hated them. So I waited until almost time to board to wrestle them on in a bathroom stall. At one point my bare foot was sticking out into the neighbor’s stall while I grunted, groaned, and fought with fabric. Every time I bent over, the toilet flushed. I was basically starring in my own airport bathroom comedy show. Got them on, but never again. (Okay, once more on the flight home. Then never again.)
Sleeping Beauty, Airline Edition
Finally boarded, slapped on my hat, headphones, and neck wrap, and was asleep in less than five minutes. I honestly have no memory of taking off. Two glorious hours gone in a blink. Woke up just in time to find a bathroom and prepare for landing, only to find my husband had scored me two of the best cookies in the world. Keeper, that one.
Reverse and Repeat
Off the plane we did the reverse struggle—restrooms, escalators, trains, restrooms again—until we finally made it to the hotel. The room was perfect. I napped. We ate downstairs instead of prowling the streets, and miracle of miracles, the food was fantastic.
Bonus entertainment: a bridal party taking pictures and friends we came to see. By 6:00 local time (aka 9 past-my-bedtime o’clock), I was tucked back in bed. Asleep within the hour, no regrets.
Worth Every Awkward Moment
As Vegan Coach Naomi nailed it after a mountain-biking crash: “Doing shit you want to do is totally worth it—even if you fall.”
So yes, oncologist, I followed the rules. And yes, friends, the whole chaotic, exhausting, ridiculous day was worth every second (my shamelessly stolen motto). Even if it did end with my bare foot in a stranger’s bathroom stall.
P.S. I swear I did not wear those crocks! Or short pants. Imagine if the franken-socks were visible. Oh hell no!!
Second Battle, Same Me 