Cherries, Almonds, and a Smart-Mouthed Sidekick

Two days ago, I got the happiest kind of news: the chemo is working!

Cue the confetti cannons, lime-green ribbons, and one happy little red bird doing loop-de-loops over my head. After weeks of wondering, worrying, and silently negotiating with the universe, I finally got the word that things are shrinking. Me! Shrinking things!

The celebration continued with a long but surprisingly pleasant day in the always-entertaining chemo room — that magical land of heated chairs, cold IV poles, and nurses who could moonlight as comedians. All was well in my soul.

Luke and I drove home talking about the future again, like normal people do. I could actually breathe again. I swear I felt my shoulders drop three inches from relief. For the first time in months, we weren’t just surviving the moment — we were daring to plan what comes next.

And then came yesterday.

Apparently my brain didn’t get the “we’re okay now” memo. Between the pre-programmed crazy in my head, the toxic cocktail dripping through my veins, and the endless wisecracks from that internal smart-aleck I call Chemo Boy, peace didn’t last long.

My “quick nap” turned into a full-blown horror flick.
Somewhere between hour two and four, I dreamed I was being attacked from the inside — an Invasion of the Body Snatchers situation starring… wait for it… cherries and almonds.

Yep. In my subconscious, the once-monstrous “cancer nodes” became produce aisle invaders. They multiplied, pressed, and squeezed until I thought I’d explode into a fruit salad. I don’t do horror movies. And now, apparently, I don’t do long naps either.

When I woke up, sweating and slightly homicidal toward Chemo Boy, I did what every rational cancer fighter does: I reread the PET scan report and the doctor’s notes. Twice. Okay, maybe three times.

And here’s the reassuring truth: I am no longer invaded by cherries and almonds. The latest scan says it’s down to a pinto bean and a pea.

That’s right — my invaders have been demoted to side-dish size.

So I can stop holding my breath again.

Because here’s what I know for sure:
I am in this battle until the very end.
I’m going to beat this cancer.
And one of these days, I’m going to silence that sarcastic little Chemo Boy once and for all.

(Maybe I might miss him a little. NOT A CHANCE!)