Third Act With Pattie

Category: Same Me

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

The Bell, the Mood, and the Great Treat Injustice

By Sassy (obviously)

Something weird is happening at my house.

The air is lighter. People are laughing more. Mama hums while she walks around instead of sighing like a broken accordion. Daddy smiles like he knows a secret. And—this is important—we are no longer sitting around staring at each other like sad houseplants.

Instead… Mama keeps ringing a doggone bell.

I don’t know what the bell officially means, but every time it rings, everyone gets all emotional and happy. Mama says it’s a celebration bell. I say it’s loud, unnecessary, and should probably dispense treats. (It does not. Rude.)

Now here’s where things take a turn.

Mama looked at me the other day, put her hands on her hips, and said,

“Sassy… you’re getting a little chunky.”

EXCUSE ME.

First of all, I prefer the term “well-loved.”
Second of all, she immediately followed that up with,

“We’re cutting back on treats.”

We.

Reader, allow me to be very clear: she did not cut back on her treats.

I have personally witnessed her enjoying snacks while announcing my new dietary journey. She eats. I watch. This feels legally questionable.

So now I get fewer treats, more walks (which I do enjoy, thank you very much), and a front-row seat to Mama celebrating life with bells and snacks and joy and zero accountability.

But… here’s the thing.

Even with the injustice.
Even with the treat betrayal.
Even with my kibble-only future.

The house feels good again.

Mama laughs. Daddy relaxes. The bell rings. We move, we go places, we live instead of waiting. And honestly? I’d trade a few treats for that any day.

(But not all the treats. Let’s not get crazy.)

Love,
Sassy 🐕
Still fabulous. Slightly less fed. Very hopeful.

February 5, 2026
Ringing the Bell Is a BIG DAMN DEAL

Let me start by saying this: ringing the bell is a BIG DAMN DEAL in the cancer world.

I did not believe this.
At all.

Twenty-one years ago, I didn’t get to ring a bell. I was in the hospital, chemo just… stopped happening one day, and there was no grand finale. No ding-ding, no applause, no “Congratulations, you survived.” Just Okay, good luck out there. So when I heard about bell-ringing later, I filed it neatly under Cheesy Sentimental Woo Woo Designed to Make People Feel Better.

And listen, I’m not anti–woo woo. I just don’t like tempting the cancer goddesses. Those bitches have excellent hearing and questionable senses of humor.

So when I finished chemo this time and they offered me the bell, I said no. Not because I didn’t want joy—but because I wasn’t about to celebrate prematurely. I wanted to sneak quietly into remission, make no sudden movements, and wait until cancer was fully distracted by someone else.

But then… this week happened.

I was offered the bell again.
And I rang the HELL out of it.

I mean rang it. With enthusiasm. With purpose. With the kind of vigor usually reserved for emergency fire alarms and last-call announcements. And OH. MY. GOSH. The relief.

Turns out that dumb, symbolic, woo-woo bell is magic.
Plop plop, fizz fizz—who knew emotional antacids were audible?

The moment it rang, something shifted. Like my brain finally accepted the memo that this might actually be over. Not “over for now,” not “let’s not jinx it,” but really really over. The kind of over where you’re allowed to dream again. Where you can scheme, plan, and casually assume you’ll still be alive for future events.

I swear I dropped ten pounds of worry in that moment. And I’m pretty sure Luke did too, just standing there watching me ring like a lunatic.

So here we are.
Done with chemo.
Done holding our breath.
About to get busy living and planning for the future again.

Turns out, ringing the bell isn’t cheesy at all.

It’s a BIG DAMN DEAL.

February 4, 2026
Do Not Ever Contact Me AGAIN!

Friday morning, my phone rang.

Caller ID said it was my oncologist’s office.

Now — I already had an appointment scheduled for Monday, so my first thought was, maybe they’re calling to reschedule because of the weather.
My second thought was, or maybe they’re calling to ruin my entire day, week, and remaining sanity.

So I did what any seasoned cancer veteran does:
I stared at the ringing phone like it was a live grenade.

I watched it ring.
And ring.
And ring.

Because once you’ve had cancer, you learn this important life skill: never answer a medical call unless you’re emotionally prepared to spiral.

Finally, I picked it up.

I released the breath I’d apparently been holding since 2024 and squeaked out,
“Th-this is Pattie.”

On the other end came a voice I now refer to as Ms. Spill-the-Tea from the C-A-N-C-E-R doctor’s office.

Yes. She spelled it in my head. Slowly. With dramatic pauses.

I swear I almost stopped breathing, which would have been bad because I really needed to hear the rest.

Because the tea was this:

My PET scan was completely clear.

Completely.
Clear.

That’s right.

Cancer?
Gone.

Bye bye, cancer.
Do not pass Go.
Do not collect $200.
Do not ever contact me again.

I immediately called Luke and told him, and for a few glorious minutes we were both flying high — the kind of high that comes from hearing the words you’ve been begging the universe for six long months to say out loud.

But when I hung up the phone…

Reality showed up.

Not the happy kind.

The sneaky kind.

Because here’s the part nobody warns you about: when you finally hear the good news, your brain doesn’t throw confetti.

It squints at it.

Suspiciously.

I didn’t think, I’m free!
I thought, …are we sure though?

That’s the curse cancer leaves behind.
It doesn’t just attack your body — it rents space in your mind and refuses to move out.

Last time, it took me 20 years to stop worrying.

And then it came back in year twenty-one.

So yes — joy came first.
And then fear crept in wearing sensible shoes and carrying a clipboard.

So now what?

Now this:

No fear. I will not allow fear to drive me!
No regrets. I will do anything and everything I can to enjoy my life!

I’m starting fresh — again — but this time with more wisdom, more gratitude, and absolutely zero patience for bullshit.

I have a whole lot more life to live.

And ohhhh…
the adventures coming our way.

Cancer may have tried to write my ending —
but I’m still holding the pen. ✨💪

January 31, 2026
33 Days Post Poisoning

It has been 33 days since my last official poisoning by chemotherapy.
Yes, poisoning. Let’s not sugarcoat it — this was not a spa treatment.

And yet… the effects are still hanging around like an unwanted houseguest who “just needs one more night” and has now been here a month.

Exhaustion, I have learned, is not just being tired.

No no.

Exhaustion is a personality.

Some days I wake up feeling like a fully functioning human. I do all the things.
Laundry? Done.
Errands? Conquered.
Cooking? Look at me being domestic.

This energetic miracle can last for several days and I start thinking wildly optimistic thoughts like:

“Well hell, maybe I’m fine now.”

That is when the reckoning arrives.

For the next day or two, I am emotionally and physically paralyzed — like every energetic molecule has been vacuumed straight out of my body. The only known treatment is full vegetation on the couch.

Not resting.
Not relaxing.

Vegetating.

My brain refuses to form orderly thoughts, so I watch television shows I’ve already seen. Not because they’re good — but because they require absolutely no participation. I cannot handle plot twists. I cannot meet new characters. I cannot commit.

I need television that says,
“Don’t worry. You already know how this ends.”

Looking back, this happened the last time too. I just assumed it was because I had an open wound trying to kill me from the inside. Reasonable conclusion.

This time, though, there’s no open wound.
There is, however, the minor detail that I am 21 years older.

So naturally I thought,
“Oh. This must just be because I’m 69.”

But no.

Turns out it’s not age.
It’s chemo — still swinging long after the bell rang.

If history repeats itself (and cancer does love consistency), this phase will pass too.

Which brings me to my current burning question:

What the hell comes after this?

Do I get energy?
Brain cells?
Motivation?
A complimentary tote bag?

No idea.

But for now, I will remain on the couch, staring blankly at familiar TV characters who ask absolutely nothing of me — and waiting for my body to remember how to be human again.

One day at a time.
Preferably with snacks.

January 29, 2026
The Scanxiety Olympics

The most dreaded and most welcomed test for someone who has completed their course of chemo happens tomorrow.

The PET scan.

Also known as:
“Please tell me the chemo actually did what it was supposed to do.”

This magical little test should determine whether chemotherapy killed off the cancer.

If YES — I celebrate. Possibly loudly. Probably with inappropriate language.
If NO — I dissolve into a small emotional puddle on the floor and may need to be mopped up with paper towels and grace.

The fun part?
I don’t even get the results right away.

No, no. That would be far too humane – or not.

I get the scan…
and then I wait five long days to get the results – from the Dr. of course. No PET Scan tech deserved the melt down (if it comes).

Which means I will spend the days in between riding the emotional roller coaster from hell.

Let me introduce you to the schedule:

• Morning: I feel hopeful. Strong. Optimistic. A survivor.
• Late morning: Mild dread creeps in.
• Afternoon: I am convinced the cancer is hiding like a tiny evil ninja.
• Evening: I am absolutely certain there is cancer in every single cell of my body and I will not survive the week.
• 2:17 a.m.: I have never had cancer at all and these bitches are just trying to mess with me.

Up.
Down.
Middle.
Then WAY WAY OUT into left field where logic goes to die.

That’s the thing about cancer.

You can get rid of the cancer —
but the mental trauma sticks around for years. Sometimes decades.

Your body may heal, but your brain keeps receipts.

Every scan becomes a psychological event.
Every appointment feels like a pop quiz you didn’t study for.
Every “we’ll know more after the test” sounds suspiciously like a threat.

So if I seem a little off this week —
a little quiet, a little emotional, a little extra —
please know I’m just riding the scanxiety roller coaster.

I’m doing my best to stay positive.
I’m doing my best not to spiral.
And I’m doing my best to remember that right now, in this moment, I am here.

So y’all be patient with me this week.

I’ll be the one strapped into the front seat of the emotional carnival ride,
white-knuckling the bar,
trying not to scream…

…but probably screaming anyway.

🎢💪

January 27, 2026