Third Act With Pattie

Category: Same Me

blogs about the things I do and refuse to let my battle change

  • 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. 💚

  • And Now We Wait

    Until Tomorrow…

    I’m still feeling great — even heading out today to vote and grab a coffee with a friend. I refuse to ruin a day where I feel good by worrying about things I cannot change. I’m assuming this “feeling good” is for great reasons (not just because I’ve been chemo-free for two weeks).

    I believe in good things. I believe in healing.
    At least today, I do.

    Tomorrow I’ll head to oncology, ready for what’s supposed to be a long chemo day — and ready to hear the results of the PET scan. My hope? That the conversation goes something like:

    “We didn’t see anything, but let’s finish this course to make sure we get anything that thinks it might be trying to change cell type.”

    That’s the script I’m holding onto.

    Because today, I refuse to consider any other option.
    Why borrow trouble? (As our grandmothers would say.)
    Why speak that into the universe? (As our Gen Z family would say.)
    Why the hell think about it on your last feel-good day for a few weeks? (As every cancer patient would say.)

    So today, we wait — and celebrate the good. ☀️💚

  • 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.

  • Chemo Chronicles V5: What do you call this room?

    What do you call a room with four women and no talking?

    I’ve been thinking about it. It’s clearly the chemo room, but that doesn’t begin to cover it.

    It might be a nap salon — where no one asked for a blow-out but we all left a little lighter.

    Or maybe a spa for the terminally exhausted, featuring the latest in drip-infused “glow from within” technology.

    Some days it feels like the quiet car on the Cancer Express — no loud talking, no snacks, and you’re not sure where you’ll end up, but everyone’s ticket cost too much.

    The Waiting Room for the Brave, perhaps, except there’s no waiting. We’re doing the thing. Just quietly.

    This week there were four of us. All women. All lined up in our recliners like power stations plugged into perseverance. Within minutes of the “pre-drug” drip, every single one of us was out cold. No chatter. No reality TV. Not even the usual IV-pole squeaks. Just four warriors in soft socks, drifting off under fluorescent halos.

    I had about ten minutes before my own eyelids surrendered, so I took inventory:
    – Chair 4 had really good hair and shoes. Definitely winning chemo couture.
    – Chair 3 was already asleep—basically a blanket with a pulse.
    – Chair 6 chatted with the nurse, then disappeared under her pillow. Relatable.

    And then silence. The kind of deep, unbothered quiet you don’t get anywhere else.

    When it was over, we rose like polite zombies—unplugged, gathered our stuff, and shuffled out with the reverence of churchgoers leaving midnight mass. No words necessary. We knew.

    Whatever this room is—a sanctuary, a spa, a silent sorority—it’s ours.

    Until next time—may your drips be steady, your naps restorative, and your IV poles never squeak at the wrong moment.