Third Act With Pattie

Author: pattiegrogg

  • This Isn’t Goodbye — It’s the Third Act

    It’s been three months since my last intentional poisoning.

    Not a sentence I ever expected to say out loud… again.

    Physically, I’m starting to feel like myself again.

    Mentally… well… let’s not get carried away.

    Some things are just part of the brand.

    But somewhere between surviving, recovering, and figuring out what normal is supposed to look like now, I realized something important:

    I’m ready to move forward.

    Not because that chapter didn’t matter.

    It did.

    More than I can probably ever put into words.

    But I don’t want to live the rest of my life as “cancer woman.”

    I fought that battle.

    I rang that bell.

    And now… I want my life back.

    Here’s the part I didn’t see coming:

    I fell in love with writing.

    Not the polished, perfect kind.

    Just the kind where you sit down and tell the truth about what happened that day —
    the good parts, the hard parts, and the moments that make you laugh when you probably shouldn’t.

    Because I’m not a celebrity.
    I don’t have a grand platform or a special talent.

    I’m just me.

    And like all of you, my days are filled with real-life moments —
    some beautiful, some messy, some completely ridiculous.

    Turns out… that’s where the stories are.

    And once I started telling them, I realized something else:

    I’m not done.

    Not even close.

    So I’m opening a new door.

    Third Act With Pattie (insert link)

    This is where I’ll be now —
    writing about life after the bell.

    Retirement surprises I did not fully think through.
    Lake life (which looks peaceful but has opinions).
    Creative projects in various stages of “we’ll see how this goes.”

    And, of course, the daily observations of one very watchful — and slightly judgmental — dog:

    Sassy the Wonderdog.

    But before I go, there’s something I need to say.

    Because none of this — not one word of it — would have happened without my cousin, Robin.

    Robin has been writing stories for as long as I can remember. Honestly, probably since she first figured out how to hold a pencil.

    Years ago, when my thoughts were getting too jumbled, she gave me one simple piece of advice:

    Write a blog.

    I did what any reasonable person would do.

    I ignored her.

    For years.

    Because I was absolutely certain no one wanted to read anything I had to say.

    But Robin…

    Robin does not give up easily.

    Even when cancer got loud — and it did — she kept showing up with the same quiet, steady belief:

    Someone needs your voice.

    Eventually, I ran out of ways to ignore her.

    So I started writing.

    And somewhere along the way… it changed me.

    Thank you, Robin.

    For the nudge I resisted.
    For the encouragement I needed.
    And for believing in me long before I believed in myself.

    I am more grateful than I know how to say.

    And constantly amazed by the way your creativity shows up in the world.

    Writing under the names Celia Ashley, Jo Allen Ash, and Alyssa Deane, Robin creates stories that pull you in, carry you somewhere else, and somehow leave you feeling more human when you come back.

    Do yourself a favor, visit her blog at https://robinmaderich.blog and get lost in her stories.

    So this isn’t really goodbye.

    It’s more like…

    If you’ve been reading along,
    if you’ve laughed a little,
    or found yourself somewhere in these stories…

    come with me.

    Pull up a chair.

    We’re just getting started… and I have a feeling this part might be the best yet.

    You’ll find me here now Third Act With Pattie

  • I Rang the Bell. My Hair Revolted.

    I Rang the Bell. My Hair Revolted.

    I beat cancer.
    Nobody warned me my hair would come back for reveng    e.

    When you’re a cancer patient on chemo
    (also known as: medically sanctioned poisoning),
    the doctor will tell you whether your particular poison
    is the hair-killing kind.

    What they don’t tell you…
    is that your hair will remember.

    And it will extract its vengeance.

    Some people shave their heads early
    to avoid the heartbreak

    of waking up

    looking like you lost a fight with your own pillow…

    and the pillow has no regrets.

    Some of us think…  maybe it won’t fall out.

    So we keep it.
    We baby it.
    We speak kindly to it.
    (Some even try cold capping,
    which feels like negotiating with a hostage.)

    It doesn’t matter.

    The hair remembers.

    I’m convinced a full head of hair
    is deeply proud of itself.

    No one explains to it,
    “Hey… this poison is necessary so the rest of us can live.”

    And judging by what comes next,
    I’m not sure it would care.

    Eventually, you get to the bell.
    The glorious, emotional, hard-earned bell.

    I personally rang the hell out of it. That’s another story.

    The scan says: no evidence of disease.

    And you wait.
    Excited. Hopeful.
    For the hair to return.

    At first, it’s thrilling.

    Tiny sprigs show up
    and you think: we’re back.

    But around the one-inch mark…

    That’s when the vengeance begins.

    First: the color.

    Not silver gray.
    Battle-ax gray.

    Patchy.
    With pink scalp shining through
    like it was done on purpose.

    You finally have hair again…
    and somehow it’s worse.

    Then: the texture.

    Give it another inch
    and now it curls.

    The first time, it curled all over.
    I liked it.

    This time?
    It chose chaos.

    Curls in the back.
    At the crown.
    No pattern. No logic.

    Mostly it just sticks up
    like it’s trying to leave.

    That is not happening.

    Eventually it reaches my preferred length.

    Still gray.
    Still patchy.
    Still flashing scalp like a warning signal.

    So I went to my hairdresser
    and begged for help.

    Same color. Same process.

    In some places… nothing.
    In others…
    a deeply unfortunate yellow.

    So now I’m on a mission
    to earn my hair’s forgiveness.

    Expensive shampoo.
    Luxurious conditioner.
    Heat protection.

    Gentle brushing.
    Careful handling.
    No sudden moves.

    Because I finally understand:

    This is not my hair.

    This is a grudge.

    And I am just out here
    trying to negotiate a peace treaty

    with my own hair…
    which clearly has no interest in peace.  

    And somewhere in all of this—
    the gray, the curls, the absolute rebellion—
    you realize something important:

    You’re still here.

    So you take your coffee out to the deck,
    watch the water for a minute
    and decide… that’s enough.

    Pull up a chair.
    The water’s sparkling… and apparently, so is my attitude.

    -Pattie

    If you made it this far, we’re basically friends.

    No spam. No nonsense. Just stories.

  • Still Nobody Asked Me

    Still Nobody Asked Me

    🐕A Sassy Says Post

    I have concerns.

    Serious concerns.

    Let me explain.

    Do we live in the city house?

    Do we live at the lake?

    Because apparently..

    we live in two houses now.


    There are three people in this household.

    Three.

    And somehow, still nobody asked me.

    I have thoughts.

    Important and strategic thoughts.

    No one asked for them. But here we are.

    For example.

    I like the city house.

    It’s big.

    It has excellent laying-down spots.

    And I have my own section of the couch.

    That’s why they call it a sectional.

    I don’t make the rules.

    Now…

    I don’t hate the lake house.

    But it has a lot of steps.

    Mama says I’m fast on the steps because I have four legs.

    That is not how this works.

    Four legs is twice the effort.

    Also, while Mama had that “C” disease, I had responsibilities.

    I had to make sure she ate.

    Snacks.

    Lots of snacks.

    To prove they were safe, I sampled them first.

    Repeatedly.

    I sacrificed myself.

    Because, after all, I am a very good girl.


    And yes… I may have gained a little weight.

    Those steps are… less friendly when you are generously nourished.

    Now let’s talk yards.

    The city house has a fenced backyard.

    A secure back yard.

    The kind where a girl can nap in the sun without worrying about creepy things sneaking up on her.

    The lake house?

    No fence.

    And it has those creepy blue birds

    They Swoop down…

    ….and then WALK ON WATER.

    Explain that.

    Also –

    The city house has two perfect pillows on my couch section.

    Excellent for bone hiding.

    The lake house?

    No proper bone storage system.

    Although…

    I have identified a chair nobody sits in.

    That may work.

    Now, here is something interesting.

    At the city house, Daddy is gone all day.

    At the lake hosue…

    He is here all the time.

    I am not saying that matters.

    But I am also not not saying that.

    And….

    The lake house does have a very nice deck.

    Mama drinks her coffee there.

    We watch the ducks in the morning

    In the afternoon, we watch the boats.

    It’s a very strong observation position.

    Also important –

    The lake house has lots of doors and windows.

    Excellent for surveillance

    The city house?

    Very poor viewing situation.

    So.

    After careful consideration…

    (and one very serious bone session)

    I have made a decision

    The lake house will be acceptable.

    Possibly even good.

    But let the record show –

    this was not a group decision.


    — Sassy The Wonderdog 🐾

    Still waiting to be included in major decisions…

    Subscribe for updates.
    I will allow it. —Sassy

  • Something Very Suspicious Is Happening Here

    Y’all, It’s a dog-eat-dog world in this house right now.

    Something is clearly going on. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I can tell you this: nobody here is acting normal.

    For example, Mama forgot to feed me yesterday. That has never happened in the history of ever. Even when she was really sick. So obviously something serious is wrong with the humans.

    Since no one has bothered to explain anything to me (nobody ever tells the dog), I have been quietly observing the situation from my usual supervisory position on the couch.

    Here is what I have noticed.

    Daddy is home all the time now. Just… here. Walking around. Looking busy. Moving things. Making lists. Standing in doorways and just looking, like he forgot why he went there.

    The house is suddenly full of boxes. Paper boxes, plastic boxes.
    Boxes on the floor.
    Boxes on tables.
    Boxes stacked up like some kind of cardboard city.

    It’s starting to feel like one of those fun houses at the fair.

    And everybody knows fun houses have clowns.

    I do not trust clowns. Nobody with any sense should trust clowns.

    Mama keeps picking things up, putting them down somewhere else, and saying things like, “Well this has to go too.”

    I don’t know where “too” is, but apparently a lot of stuff lives there now.

    Also Mama keeps talking about bringing all her sewing things.

    I don’t know how many sewing things a person actually needs, but judging by all the boxes, I suspect she may be opening a quilt factory.

    Meanwhile Daddy keeps talking about a shop. Mama takes me shopping sometimes. I wonder if that’s the same thing. Probably not, but it sounds like a place where I will not be allowed to chew anything.

    There have also been strangers showing up at the lake place with loud machines digging up trees and stumps. Several of my favorite outdoor facilities have disappeared completely.

    Frankly, the landscaping situation there has become very upsetting.

    Then Mama and Daddy went somewhere without me and stayed almost all day. They LEFT ME ALONE. She came home happy about getting rid of her poison straw – maybe they took it to the too place.

    Since then she’s been doing this strange slow exercise where she waves her arms around and walks very carefully like the floor might suddenly move.

    I have watched this closely.

    It looks very suspicious.

    Mostly, I’ve decided the best strategy right now is to lie down, stay calm, and avoid the chaos until the humans finish whatever it is they’re doing.

    But I will say this.

    Mama seems to be smiling a lot more lately.

    The sun is coming out.

    The geese are back.

    And the humans keep saying things like,
    “Spring is going to be good.”

    So I’m keeping an eye on things.

    Because from what I can tell…

    something new is about to happen around here.

    And if nobody else is going to report on it properly,

    I guess that job falls to me.

    — Sassy 🐾

  • Spitting in Cancer’s Eye

    What a defining day this has been.

    Today I looked cancer straight in the eye… and I spit.

    Not politely.
    Not symbolically.
    With courage, contempt, and absolutely no manners whatsoever.

    And the reason I felt bold enough to do that?

    Because today the Port of Poison was removed from my body.

    But I’m getting ahead of myself.

    Cancer needed to hear something loud and clear: if it can’t run with the big dogs, it needs to stay on the porch.

    Now by this point you might be wondering what exactly I did that was so impressive after I already rang the “no more chemo, clean PET scan” bell. Because ringing that bell is a big deal. It’s emotional. It’s symbolic. It’s the moment everyone cheers.

    But today felt even bigger.

    The Port of Poison

    For months I’ve had what I not so lovingly call my poison straw tucked under my skin. A handy little device whose sole purpose was to provide a direct VIP entrance for chemicals with names that sound like rejected villains from a Marvel movie.

    It did its job.
    It helped save my life.

    And for that I am grateful.

    But let’s not pretend I was emotionally attached to the thing.

    Today the Port of Poison is officially closed for business.

    Permanently.

    I’m banking on the fact that I kicked cancer’s scrawny little butt so hard it won’t try me again. I’m trusting my body to stay strong, stand guard, and reject any future invasion attempts.

    Consider the gates closed.

    I rode home from the hospital feeling more like myself than I have in almost nine months. I was smiling ear to ear. And if you’ve ever seen me smile, you know what that means: my chubby cheeks puff up, my eyes squint nearly shut, and every crooked tooth I own shines like it’s part of a victory parade.

    It’s glorious.

    And I feel like the Winning Warrior Bitch that I absolutely am.

    Highly recommend this feeling, by the way.

    It didn’t hurt that the sun has been shining all day — one of those perfect puffy-cloud, 78-degree days that feels like the universe decided to show off a little just for me.

    So today I am smiling.
    I am breathing.
    I am grateful.

    And cancer?

    If cancer can’t run with the big dogs…

    CANCER NEEDS TO STAY ON TH E PORCH.

    🎤⬇️🐕🔥

    🐦 Mama taught me how to stand

    Mama knows, Mama knows
    Sometimes I think she’s got a window to my soul
    Mama knows, Mama knows
    Even when I think it doesn’t show
    Mama knows Tim Mensy and Tony Haselden