Third Act With Pattie

Category: Same Me

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

  • Chemo Chronicles -V2

    Dateline: Infusion Center. Chair 4—my lucky spot, my turf, my assigned recliner throne.

    This visit was a little different. But that’s the thing with cancer—you can’t trust it. Just when you think you’ve got the routine down, it switches things up.

    Fridays appear to be the “Quick Lane” days. (It’s a Ford thing, IYKYK). Folks breeze in for one-and-done infusions or quick little shots. It’s basically the drive-thru menu version of cancer treatment. And surprise—this week I landed in the quick lane too! (Who knew this disease had an express option? Now if only they handed out fries with that stuff…)

    Of course, I managed to put my papers in the wrong place—again. I was gently “re-instructed” on proper sign-in performance, because apparently there’s a choreography to this. Reminder: pole dancers do not play!

    The People of Recliner Row

    • Chair 2 was occupied by a shot-and-go pro. She brought her own blanket, clocked in under 30 minutes, and left with the efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew.
    • Chair 7 hosted a gentleman who nodded off before his bag was even hooked up. Snoring achieved decibel levels impressive enough to drown out an infusion pump alarm.
    • Chair 11 is the only chair that faces the hallway. I would never sit there. But as an older lady (okay, my age) was wheeled into that chair, her daughter loudly announced that Mama loves this chair so she can see all the comings and goings. Hmmmm. Maybe I would sit there after all.
    • The Nurses: still pirouetting between poles, juggling syringes, and keeping everyone moving through the lanes. Gold medals, every one of them.

    Meanwhile, I picked up a lot of new info this visit. Same me, just older me—learning the ropes all over again, taking more naps, heading to bed earlier, and laughing at my own clumsy lack of sign-in etiquette.

    Chair 4, quick lane, and still me. Cancer may not be trustworthy, but my stubborn streak is rock solid.

  • Second Battle Same ME

    Not gonna lie: I tried every filter I could find.
    When “they” were done, the pic didn’t even look like me.

    All I really wanted? Eyes a little more open. Neck a little less wrinkled. But apparently “they” saw so much more that needed to be blurred, smoothed, and fixed.

    And it made me wonder: is this what happens when we sign up for surgery to erase a bump in the nose, or a little tweak here and there? Do we walk out feeling less like ourselves?

    For me, this photo is staying real. The only edit here is a solid background.

    Because wrinkles, tired eyes, and all… it’s still me.

    And speaking of staying real—today is chemo day for me. So expect a report from Pattie Presswoman soon, straight from the trenches of Recliner Row.

  • Rapunzel, Rapunzel… Buzz Off

    So, it’s time for the hair talk.

    How much of my self-esteem is wrapped up in my hair? When I was a young woman, I had long red hair all the way to my bottom. (It was the 70s—every woman had long, long hair. It was practically in the dress code.)

    The first time cancer boy came for me, 21 years ago, the thought of losing my hair was devastating. Hair meant youth, beauty, identity. I tried being Rapunzel with a chemo drip – not a good look.

    But now? Not so much.

    After my first chemo battle, when my hair grew back, I reveled in it. I grew it as long as I could stand it… which, it turned out, wasn’t much past my neckline. Something surprising happened during that phase: I realized how glorious it was to not have hair. No routine. No products. No hours wasted with hot rollers or blow dryers. Except for that brief, ridiculous love affair with my hair’s comeback tour, I’ve been perfectly happy with “trouble-free” hair ever since.

    But trouble-free hair is not the same as no hair. And here I am again, standing at the edge of the cliff. Which would I hate more:

    a) the actual baldness, or
    b) enduring people’s sympathy, their pitying looks, and their unsolicited “it will grow back” pep talks while I shed like a mangy dog in public?

    Knowing me? It’s a strong, emphatic B. The comments and clucking would make me go full crazy-bitch mode, and nobody needs that.

    So, this afternoon I’m taking control. I’m buzzing this older-lady short hair down to a tidy buzz cut. Yes, that will fall out too, but it’s easier to manage and—most importantly—my choice.

    How do I know it’s time? Easy. Two days ago I wore my buff (you know, the all-purpose “Survivor” headband/armband/head covering/halter top if you’re braver and skinnier than me). When I went to nap, I laid it on the nightstand. The entire nap was a continous dream with me lifting up the buff and watching all my hair come with it.

    Dream logic or not, I woke up knowing: it’s time.

    Because let’s be real—nobody in this house needs me shedding more than Sassy the Wonder Dog.

    So today, Rapunzel’s letting her hair down one last time. And tomorrow? She’s rocking the buzz.

    ✨ Have you gone through the hair-loss rollercoaster yourself—or stood beside someone who has? How did you handle the first buzz, the first scarf, the first bald-glare reflection in the mirror? Drop your story in the comments. Let’s trade survival tips, snark, or even just solidarity.

  • My Unreliable, Occasionally Brilliant, Totally Necessary Battle Plan”

    Weaponized Words

    Cancer.
    Lymphoma.
    Diffuse. Large. B. Cell.

    To me, it sounds less like a diagnosis and more like a bad Scrabble hand—or the world’s worst Wi-Fi password. The doctors say it like it’s just another Tuesday. I hear it and wonder if I need a translator, a medical degree, or maybe just a stiff drink.

    Knowledge: Comfort or Chaos?

    Do I need more knowledge? Less? Enough to build a binder with color-coded tabs?

    Here’s the problem: information cuts both ways. Too little, and I feel like I’m strapped in the backseat of my own life. Too much, and I’m wide awake at 2 a.m., Googling things that I cannot unsee.

    So I aim for the middle ground. Learn enough to ask smart questions. Enough to push back when I need to. Enough to carry a flashlight in the dark without blinding myself with every grim statistic.

    Structured Uncertainty

    Every day hits reset like a game I didn’t sign up to play.
    One round: emotions bouncing from high to low like a malfunctioning carnival ride.
    Next round: nausea (front-row seat), then suddenly—no nausea (intermission!).
    Add in a generous sprinkle of worry, repeat as needed.

    So how do I structure uncertainty? I can’t tame it—it’s like trying to leash a tornado. But I can give it boundaries. And I’ve learned that structure doesn’t fix everything, but it keeps me from completely unraveling. Less “perfect schedule” and more “duct tape and bubblegum holding the day together.”

    Here’s what I try to do:

    • Morning: a few stretches (bonus points if I don’t fall over).
    • Hydration: gallons of water cheered on by a cartoon llama. (Yes, it’s silly. But it’s working.)
    • Movement: multiple swalks outside with Sassy, the wonder dog!
    • Social Rule: only one possible encounter with strangers a day. I don’t have the energy for small talk and cancer.
    • Evening: rant, write, laugh, cry. Hit publish.

    Does it erase the nausea, the brain fog, or the exhaustion? Nope. But it gives my days shape. And shape means I’m trudging instead of free-falling. Trudging may not sound glamorous, but it’s still forward.

    Fighting the Battle

    So how do I fight cancer? Not with perfect pronunciation of “diffuse large B-cell lymphoma.” Not with toxic positivity or “good vibes only.”

    I fight by being stubborn. By giving uncertainty limits. By letting others hold me up when I can’t. By laughing when everything sucks. By crying when I need to. By stretching myself just enough to remind myself I’m still here, still moving, still me.

    In a battle where the finish line moves every day – This is how I win.

  • September is Blood Cancer Awareness Month

    • Did you know September is #BloodAwarenessMonth? This is our chance to shine a light on lymphoma and raise awareness about this rare cancer. I’m getting involved by [customize what you’re doing]—join me in helping spread the word! Learn how you can make an impact: lymphoma.org/BCAM💜
    • Join me in advancing lymphoma research, education, and support services by donating or fundraising for the @LymphomaCommunity this #BloodAwarenessMonth! Your contribution makes a difference in the fight against lymphoma. Together, we can create a world without lymphoma. Learn more here: lymphoma.org/BCAM💜
    • Today is #WorldLymphomaAwarenessDay, a time to come together in support of the more than one million people worldwide living or in remission from lymphoma. I’m helping raise awareness today to advance lymphoma research, education, and our search for a cure. Please join me in supporting the @lymphomacommunity and sharing this message. Together, we can create a world without lymphoma. 💜

    Make a Commitment to the Cure

    If the link above does not work, don’t give up. I’ll find another link.