🎤 Cancer: Tried It. Do Not Recommend. – Page 2

My Creative Brain Was Hiding… in the Fabric

I call myself a quilter.

In the interest of full disclosure…
I haven’t touched my sewing machine in at least ten months.

And considering the fact that I own enough fabric to insulate a small village…
that feels a little ridiculous.

First it was cancer,
then it was recovery,
then it was the Great Retirement Delusion.

The phase where we allegedly “slowed down,” despite the fact that I now spend half my life trying to remember where I put things I packed myself.

We have moved so many 27-gallon bins full of sewing room stuff that if they were filled with water,

I’d have a hot tub.

But I don’t.

I have fabric and notions and tools and machines and enough sewing-room chaos

that if I did have a hot tub,

I’d probably be too exhausted to climb into it.

And even though I’m currently buried alive under “moving a sewing room,”

something unexpected has happened.

Every time I open another bin,

I stumble into an old idea,

an old project,

or a version of myself who used to make things just because she wanted to.

Tiny scraps from a shooting star quilt I made during the phase where I believed sewing together 1.5 x 2-inch pieces would somehow make me a “real quilter” instead of just giving me neck pain and eye strain.

A ruler I’ve used so much the numbers are wearing off,

which feels judgmental at this point.

Half a bundle of fat quarters that instantly brings back a last-minute Christmas table runner…

and a weekend where I stayed up until 2 a.m.,

insisting I was “almost done”

like a woman with absolutely no prior experience being me.

A box full of blocks for a quilt I adored while cutting…

and completely hated by block five of assembly.

And somewhere between hauling bins, untangling extension cords, and wondering why all seventeen pairs of my fabric scissors disappear simultaneously like they’re part of an organized crime ring…

my brain skipped right past “you should really get organized” and went straight to:

What can I make now?

Not what should I donate.
Not what should I finish.
Not what responsible adults would do in this situation.

What can I make now!

And then it hit me…

my sewing room wasn’t just fabric storage

it was where my creativity had quietly been waiting for me.

Honestly, I didn’t realize how much I missed that feeling until it came back.

Not the pressure to make something impressive.
Not the giant complicated projects that require seventeen fabrics and a level of math I refuse to acknowledge publicly.

Just the spark.

That little twitch in your brain that looks at fabric and immediately starts making terribly wonderful decisions.

The sudden belief that this might be the project where I lose myself in the creating for a while… and somehow find pieces of myself again in the process.

And after ten months of surviving, recovering, relocating, downsizing, upsizing, and wandering around looking for things I packed myself…

that tiny creative spark feels a lot less like “coming home” and a lot more like trouble.

The good kind.

The kind that ends with fabric all over the table, thread stuck to your shirt, twenty-seven browser tabs open for “inspiration,” and a completely irrational conviction that your entire happiness depends on finding one more shade of teal.

And honestly?
I think I’m finally ready for that again.

So come sit by me.

We’ll dig through fabric, make wildly questionable project decisions, and lie to ourselves about only starting one new quilt.

Some traditions are worth preserving.

– Pattie

June 1, 2026

I Came. I Socialized. Everyone Else Was Thriving. I Executed The Restroom Dodge.

I’m writing this while I’m supposed to be socializing.

Which, if you think about it, is a strong indicator of how this evening is going… for me.

For everyone else?

Oh, they are thriving.

Hubby included.

Radiant. Engaged. Positively buoyant in a sea of handshakes and conversation.

Meanwhile, I am over here realizing six months on the couch have left my knees woefully undertrained.

Hubby and I are at the grand opening of a new store for the company he retired from.

And by “retired” I mean he retired…and then, almost immediately, got himself rehired in a new role — working mostly from home — in what we are calling “semi-retirement.”

Which, at the time, felt like a great idea.

Probably because it was mine.

I would like to formally withdraw my support.

Immediately.

Now—to be fair—this is a fantastic event.

Beautiful setup. Great turnout. Everyone looks genuinely happy to be here.

People are reconnecting, laughing, hugging, networking like professionals.

This is their Super Bowl.

As a spouse, I am technically a team member.

A very underperforming one.

There are approximately 250 people here. Possibly more. They seem to be multiplying—but in a festive, successful way.

There are also—conservatively—three different types of sound happening at the same time:

A band outside
Something with a microphone inside
And a mysterious third source that sounds like a DJ who refuses to be ignored

Four, if you count the tinnitus ringing in both ears.

For me, it’s less “grand opening gala” and more “auditory Hunger Games.”

Everyone else? Loving it.
Swaying. Smiling. Fully immersed.

Me? Trying to figure out which direction sound is coming from so I can nod appropriately.

Now, to be clear, I like socializing.

I like the quick hello.
The warm smile.
The light joke.
The graceful exit before the long cousin story begins.

That’s where I shine.

I am a social sprinter.

That is my lane.

And for the first 45 minutes?

I was spectacular.

Gold medal spectacular.

But this event is not built for social sprinters.

This is a marathon crowd.

And my husband—who is younger, more energetic, and apparently powered by human interaction—is absolutely in his element.

At one point, I watched him effortlessly transition from one conversation to the next like a social ninja.

Meanwhile, I nodded and laughed at something that may or may not have been directed at me.

Confidence is key in these situations.

It was around that moment I realized something important about myself:

I do not like standing for extended periods of time.

Not sure I ever did.

I’m going to go ahead and blame that on my chemo couch phase…

followed by my sporadic gym phase…

which I am absolutely still blaming on the chemo.

That feels fair.

Somewhere around the one hour and 45 minute mark — purely by coincidence — my legs began filing formal complaints.

Not subtle ones.

Official documentation.

So I did what any reasonable, slightly older, socially overwhelmed adult would do.

I executed the classic maneuver:

The Restroom Dodge.

I made my way with purpose—focused, determined, slightly dramatically— toward the universal sanctuary.

But instead of going in…

I found a chair.

A glorious, unexpected, cushioned chair.

And I sat.

Not a polite sit.

A full, committed, “this is my home now” sit.

From this chair, I’ve discovered something important:

For me, watching people socialize…

is far more enjoyable than participating.

From my seated throne near the restroom, I can observe:

The enthusiastic handshakers
The genuinely engaged listeners
The “I’ve been trying to exit this conversation for 12 minutes” crowd
The phone-checkers pretending it’s urgent

It’s like an indoor nature documentary.

A happy, successful, well-attended indoor nature documentary.

And I am the older, slightly cranky narrator who wandered off-script.

At this point, I’m not entirely sure when I’ll rejoin society.

Possibly when the music consolidates into a single, identifiable genre — ideally one I recognize.

Possibly when chairs become more widely available.
Or possibly when my husband—who I love dearly and blame entirely—comes to find me and escorts me back into the wild.

Until then…

I will be here.

Resting.
Observing.
Acknowledging that this is, in fact, a wonderful event…

…just not my sport.

-Pattie

P.S.

Update from the next phase of the evening:

I am now in the car.

Shoes off.
Feet up.
Dignity fully restored.

The muffled music from the event is drifting out into the parking lot like a distant reminder of choices I enthusiastically supported earlier and no longer recognize as my own.

And I am not alone.

Scattered across nearby vehicles are my people—

The early leavers.
The “we showed our face” crowd.
The socially exhausted.

We are sitting in quiet solidarity…

while, just inside, the party continues—lively, joyful, and exactly as it should be.

And honestly?

Good for them.

Truly.

We’ll be right out here.

Like civilized adults.

If you’ve ever smiled, nodded, and quietly planned your escape… you’re going to fit right in here.

April 29, 2026

They Might Already Be Walking As Fast As They Can

Notes from Life After the Bell

I cannot count how many times I’ve been annoyed walking behind someone slow.

You know the feeling—
that boiling irritation when someone is in your way,
moving at half your speed,
and you’ve got somewhere to be.

Today, my husband and I were in a store.
(Perks of the Third Act—we can do that on a weekday now.)

He picked up a heavy box.
The kind that immediately says “we should have gotten a buggy.”

But instead of putting it back down like a sensible person,
he just… held it and looked at me.

I did not ask questions.

I went to get a buggy
(which, if you’re not from the South, is a shopping cart).

And I moved fast.
Really fast.

Faster than I’ve moved in months.

And that’s when it hit me—

I could breathe.
I wasn’t unsteady.
I wasn’t dizzy.

I was just… walking.
Like a normal person in a store, not someone wondering if the next step might take me down.

And I was so grateful I could have cried.
(I didn’t. Because… public.)

The poisoning is leaving my body.
I am clearly getting better.

And then—because my brain likes to keep things interesting—
another thought showed up.

We have no idea why someone is moving slow.

We don’t know if they are walking as fast as they possibly can.
We don’t know what their body is dealing with –
Or what it costs them just to be upright in that moment.

But we get annoyed anyway.

We assume they’re in the way.
We assume they’re not paying attention.
We assume we’re more important than whatever is slowing them down. And we all know how well assuming usually works out.

I remember what it felt like
to want to move faster
and not be able to.

To feel unsteady.
To feel unsure.
To feel like I was holding people up.

It’s humbling.

And… damn inconvenient, if I’m being honest.

I hope I never forget it.

Because the next time I’m stuck behind someone moving slow,
I want to remember— they might already be walking as fast as they can.

I remember what that feels like.

And I don’t ever want to forget.

—Pattie, moving a little slower (on purpose this time)

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

No spam. No nonsense. Just stories.

April 15, 2026

Quietly Judging…at the No-Judgment Gym

I made a decision.

A grown-up decision.
A responsible, health-oriented decision.

I decided to join the gym.

Let me be very clear about something.

I hate the gym.

The gym and I have a long-standing policy: mutual avoidance.

At best, we coexist on the same planet.

I am a 4’10”, short, round, senior woman.
I do not look like the gym loves me.
I do not look like I love the gym.

But this is the Third Act.

And in the Third Act, apparently,

we make mature decisions like this.

So I went to the “No Judgment” gym.

Have you ever been there?

Because I can assure you—
people are judging.

Okay, fine.

It was me.

I am people.

That said, there were quite a few seniors there, which helped.

There were also quite a few young people.

And while I was not judging
(I was absolutely observing),

I noticed something important:

The young people were in far better physical shape.

But the seniors?

They were having way more fun.

They talked to each other.

About working out.
About hating it.
About the weather.

Possibly about grandchildren, medications,
and who had knee surgery last year.

I didn’t catch everything,
but I feel confident in those topics.

I also noticed something else.

People with very real physical challenges
still showing up.

Still moving.
Still trying.

Not to impress anyone.

Just… showing up.

And I found myself unexpectedly inspired by that.

My first visit?

Fifteen minutes on the treadmill.

I went home like I had metaled in an Olympic event
and should be met with applause and possibly snacks.

Now?

I’ve advanced.

Fifteen minutes on the recumbent elliptical.
Fifteen minutes on the recumbent bike.

That is a full thirty minutes
of mild suffering

and excellent people-watching.

I plan to add more.

Machines.
Maybe even weights.

Eventually.

Right now, the lingering effects of chemo
are still living rent-free in my muscles and back.

So we are… negotiating.

Here’s the truth:

I am slow.
I sweat a lot.
I have absolutely no speed on any machine.

And no one has spoken to me yet.

I’,m shocked too. Honestly.

To be fair, I don’t always look like someone you should approach.

But still.

But here’s the part I didn’t expect:

It’s helping.

I feel a little stronger.
A little steadier.
A little more like myself again.

So despite everything—

my official Third Act recommendation is this:

Just do it.

(I feel like I’ve heard that somewhere before…)

Slowly.

Reluctantly.

Judging quietly.

But do it anyway.

Because sometimes showing up is the win.

-Pattie

April 1, 2026

I Rang the Bell. My Hair Revolted.

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

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