blogs about the things I do and refuse to let my battle change
Cancer—
a word,
so many words,
once heard,
they resonate,
percolate,
like kernels bursting
in a fire too hot,
like gum balls shattering
against the teeth.
And still they circle,
but I stand steady.
They press in,
I press back.
Stronger, louder,
my heartbeat insists—
I am here,
I am more
than any word.
I had some music playing in the background while I worked on this blog, and suddenly this little ditty popped into my head. I am nothing if not honest: I can’t draw, paint, or even color inside the damn lines—and now we can officially add “songwriter” to the list of ways I will never make any money. If it sounds suspiciously like something you’ve heard before, just credit the fabulous Beatles. They’ve been renting space in my brain for five decades, and frankly, I am grateful for all the earworms!
When I get sick and losing my hair
Just a month from now
Will you still see me, want to be with me
Take me with you everywhere?
If I throw up and cry until three
Will you still want to be in bed and see.
Will you still see me, want to be with me
When nothing is easy like we?
When I'm so tired and the end I can't see
And we're too scared to know what to do
If you still see me, want to be with me
I'll keep on fighting to stay with you.
If you still me, want to be with me,
Our love grows stronger, the life we can weave.
I'll give you my heart, you'll always be mine,
Together, my love, till we're ninety-nine!
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It’s been a week since I sat back down in the chemo chair after 21 years away. A lot has changed in my life since then — and yes, a lot has changed in me too. Here’s what this first week has taught me.
The Mouth Situation
Chemo and mouths don’t get along, and mine is proof. My taste buds have left the building. Everything tastes like pennies or cardboard, which makes eating more of a chore than a comfort. Even chocolate cake — which I hated before — is still useless. I’d give anything for a piece of toast that doesn’t taste like I’m chewing tinfoil.
Old, Cranky, and Tired
The last time I did this, I was 48 and thought I was old. Now, at nearly 69, I actually am old — and cranky to match. My body aches, my energy is on permanent low, and most days I’m too tired to do much beyond shuffling between the bed and the recliner. I’m hoping that part changes soon, because right now my world feels very small.
The Strange Gift of New Hours
Fatigue has its own rules. I crash in the middle of the day and then find myself wide awake at 3 a.m. It’s not ideal, but sometimes there’s a gift in those hours — quiet, stillness, even a sunrise I wouldn’t normally see. I wouldn’t have chosen this new schedule, but it’s reminding me that life doesn’t stop just because mine has slowed down.
Gratitude, Even from a Grouch
And here’s the part I didn’t expect: gratitude still sneaks in. I’m grateful for naps that give me a little reset. I’m grateful for friends who reach out, who show up, who keep me connected even when I feel like hibernating. I’m deeply grateful for my husband, whose steady support is a constant in all of this — helping, encouraging, and reminding me I’m not doing this alone. And I’m grateful for the odd, quiet moments that remind me there’s still light in the middle of all this mess.
One Week Down
So that’s one week in. My mouth is a disaster, my energy is unreliable, and my mood is… let’s just say “salty.” But I’ve also got support, humor, and small reasons to be thankful. And maybe that’s what I’ve learned most this week: it’s not about pretending to be positive — it’s about noticing what’s still here, even when so much feels hard.
If you’ve read this far, maybe take a moment and think about the small things keeping you going right now — the unexpected comforts, the quiet gifts, the people who show up. Those are worth holding onto.
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Hi. I’m Sassy, and I’ve got news about my Mama.
I’m what you’d call a dog of many cultures (and questionable ancestry), weighing in at 26 pounds—prime size for “emotional support bestie,” “fitness trainer,” and “professional poop-bag logistics manager.”
But let me tell you—this last week hasn’t been a walk in the park. Mama is back in chemo-land. Two months shy of 69 and wrestling lymphoma again. She says she’s “been badder and gooder, thinner and fatter, younger but never this old before.” To me? She mostly smells like hand sanitizer, Band-Aids, and pure stubborn.
Now, Mama’s on this kick about “flushing the poison out.” She downloaded an app with a cartoon llama that cheers every time she drinks water. A llama. As if my tail wagging isn’t motivation enough! Anyway, she’s guzzling 100 ounces a day—which means I’ve now memorized every bathroom within a two-mile radius.
But apparently water isn’t enough. Studies show (insert Mama’s dramatic eye roll here) that exercise helps. And that’s where I come in. She straps on her shoes, clips on my leash, and declares we’re going on “short walks of torture and exhaustion.”
I call them SWALKS—Sassy Walks.
And here’s how they go:
Chemo is rough. My Mama feels awful. But she’s still out here—sweating, swearing, stumbling forward. And I’m her furry sidekick: sniffing, peeing, cheerleading, making sure she doesn’t face-plant on the neighbor’s driveway.
So, if you see us out there on a SASSY WALK, give Mama a honk, a wave—or, better yet, toss me a chicken-flavored treat. We’ll take all the encouragement we can get.
Because adventures aren’t always mountain hikes or big vacations. Sometimes they’re just a stubborn woman and her determined little dog, trudging through the Georgia heat, refusing to quit.
And don’t worry—I’ve got more stories. Next time I steal the keyboard, I’ll tell you about the killer mosquitos the size of Labradors.
🐾 Until then, nose boops and tail wags,
Sassy
So here’s the deal: I’ve had exactly one chemo treatment so far. One. And already I’m asking myself—do I get to blame my senior moments on chemo brain?
I vote yes.
Honestly, I’d much rather believe it’s the poison coursing through my veins than the slow, depressing rot of my aging corpus. Chemo brain sounds quirky. Aging brain sounds tragic. And I’m sticking with quirky.
Case in point: the great Salt and Baking Soda Debacle.
Every cancer veteran knows the drill—mouth rinse with salt + baking soda + water. Prevents sores, keeps your mouth from turning into a war zone. Easy peasy.
So I head to the store. The list? Just two items: salt and baking soda. That’s it. Nothing fancy.
Twenty minutes later, I’m wandering the aisles like a confused raccoon. Suddenly I’ve got a buggy (that’s southern for “cart,” by the way) full of groceries I didn’t mean to buy.
Fine. No big deal. I drag myself to self-checkout. Don’t even get me started on that circus. The “attendant” was a cute blonde who thought her actual job was ignoring crotchety old ladies while gossiping with her co-workers.
But whatever—I scan my stuff, wrangle my bags, and haul everything home. Victory!
SALT And BAKING SODA.
Not in the bags. Not in the car. Not in the house. I even gave the dog the side-eye like, “Did you eat it?” Nope.
Did the cute blonde steal them for margarita night? Did I hallucinate them into my buggy? Did the universe just decide, “Nope, sweetheart, we want your mouth to suffer”? Who knows.
It will be a cold day in hell before I march back into that store with my receipt and admit I forgot to pick up the only two things I came to the store to purchase. Not happening.
So yes—chemo brain gets the blame. Because “the poison stole my salt” sounds way better than “grandma forgot her stuff.”
💡 Stay tuned for the next thrilling episode of “What Did Chemo Brain Steal This Week?”
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Third Act With Pattie 