It’s been a while since I’ve felt like writing. Halfway through treatment felt like a victory lap — confetti, trumpets, maybe even a parade float with me waving from the top. I had a few good days and thought, well, maybe I’ve got this chemo thing down.
Ha. Rookie mistake.
Because then came treatment number “just past halfway,” and it marched in like a mean girl with a grudge. It ripped through my veins like it was late for a meeting in hell — leaving pain, misery, and a new appreciation for modern pharmaceuticals.
That one was Friday. Today — finally — is the first morning I woke up without the chemo fog. You know the one — that fuzzy-brained nonsense where you wake up asking, Where am I? What day is it? And why does everything taste like pennies and regret?
So, as the sacred chemo cycle goes, I’ll start feeling a little better each day until the next treatment rolls around and knocks me flat again. Then we rinse, repeat, and call it progress.
But here’s the thing: each round means I’m that much closer to the end of this part of the ride. Closer to breathing without that fog. Closer to tasting coffee that actually tastes like coffee. Closer to being done.
Halfway there — still standing, still snarky, and still me.
One minute I’m cold. One minute I’m hot. The next minute I’m absolutely burning up. And then—because my body likes to keep things interesting—I’m right back to cold again.
It’s got to be the drugs running through me, because when I had cancer 21 years ago, they treated me to the delightful combo-platter of treatment plus “going through the change.” Nothing like night sweats and hot flashes tag-teaming you at 3 a.m.
So honestly? This time is better. I’m not going through the change, and I’ve only had a little night-sweat nonsense.
And I am absolutely certain that Don Williams’ “It Must Be Love” has nothing to do with it — no matter how much the universe tries to convince me otherwise.
Just last night—because life loves a well-timed coincidence—I stepped out the restaurant door with my takeout order (I do not eat inside anymore; the service is too slow, and my patience has officially filed for retirement – Not to mention they won’t let me take off any clothes). The moment that fresh, cool breeze hit my face, I let out the happiest little sigh.
A woman sitting nearby looked over and said, “Oh, I remember that… needing cool air, then blankets, then cool air again.”
We both laughed the kind of laugh only people on this strange path understand. Two chemo sisters, bonded instantly by the universal language of temperature chaos.
By: Pattie Presswoman, your roving, slightly woozy, always-observant reporter
Ladies, gentlemen, and all you brave souls tuning in from the comfort of your recliners, heating pads, or emotional support snacks—welcome back to another thrilling episode of Chemo Chronicles, brought to you live from the bustling (or not) newsroom of Infusion Room 3.
Let’s set the scene.
Last week, the chemo room was—how shall I put this delicately?—slower than a sloth on Benadryl. My side of the room was so still I swear I heard my own thoughts echo. (I know… “dead.” I said it. I apologize to the universe immediately.)
Chair 8 Guy? He got thirty minutes of whatever they were pumping into him, hopped up like he had a dinner reservation, and evaporated. Lady across from me? Same story. Whoosh. Gone before my IV pole could say goodbye.
Meanwhile, yours truly sat there marinating—slow-cooking like a pot roast.
Five minutes before I was finished, a woman was wheeled in, clearly looking at me like I was sitting in her rightful throne. I told her and her daughter, “Promise, I’ll be out in five.” But people on drugs—I mean this with all the love in my heart—have the patience of caffeinated toddlers. They want the show started and they want it now. She picked another chair.
When I was done I gathered my blanket, the nurse unplugged my little robot helper, and I strutted out like a seasoned pro. And that’s when I realized…
I had been in the ghost town half of the chemo room. When I walked toward the exit, suddenly things got loud. Busy. Alive. The right side of the room? PACKED. I mean, it was like they were hosting a tailgate party over there.
Chairs filled. Voices chatting. One lady knitting like she was in a speed competition. A man crunching ice like he was digging for gold. The nurse on that side looked like she needed a medal… or a margarita.
People are funny like that. No assigned seats, but we all swear we have a spot that’s ours. Whole empty row? Doesn’t matter. If someone’s in “your chair,” the universe feels slightly misaligned.
As I passed the bustling side, my friend spotted me and waved with the enthusiasm of someone finally seeing civilization after wandering the desert. I waved back, we both grinned…
…and then I got the hell out of there before anyone tried to assign me a seat, a job, or a conversation about their neighbor’s cousin’s hairdresser’s cancer journey.
And that, dear readers, concludes this week’s thrilling broadcast from Chemo Central.
Until next time— This is Pattie Presswoman, signing off and rolling out
I remember dreaming about this for years. Decades even.
If I could just have weeks and weeks to sit still… To rest without guilt, To look out at the lake and let the birds entertain me, To sleep in a warm sunbeam like Sassy, To learn fascinating things I’d never heard of before.
If only I had the time.
Well guess what? Now I do have the time. The universe delivered it—wrapped in chemo, brain fog, and a recliner chair—but still, technically: Time.
And what do I do with this golden opportunity? I sit. I rest. I binge-watch TV shows that are so dumb I lose IQ points just hearing the theme song. Some days I think my brain is slowly melting into the couch cushions.
So here I am, being productive in the only way I can muster: I’m making a “Later, When I’m Energetic and Less Foggy” list.
A list of things Future Me can do once the exhaustion lifts, the brain fog thins, and my body stops feeling like it’s held together with duct tape and stubbornness.
The problem? At this very moment, I can’t think of a single thing to put on the list. Not. One.
So I’m asking you—yes, you reading this— Drop some ideas for my coming energetic, fog-free life. Big ideas, tiny ideas, ridiculous ideas, peaceful ideas… I’ll take them all.
Help me build the list that Current Me can’t quite pull out of this sleepy, chemo-brain haze.
Because someday soon, the fog will lift, the energy will return, and I want to be ready. PLEASE DROP SOME IDEAS!
Let me just say it plainly: I. Want. To. Feel. Normal.
Is that so unreasonable? To wake up with energy? To know who I am and what day it is? (At this point, I’d settle for getting one of those right.)
And honestly— some days my inner toddler wakes up before I do.
She wants to march into Wal-Mart (where else), plop down in the middle of the stupid seasonal aisle, and unleash a Big-Ass Deluxe Super-Sized Tantrum™ complete with foot stomping, arm flailing, and a dramatic, “I WANT THIS TO BE O–VER, DAMMIT!”
I want to scream it so loud they hear it in Sporting Goods.
But then… I re-read what I wrote.
And suddenly the tantrum isn’t quite as adorable as it sounded in my head. Because WOW. Who knew I was the spoiled brat in this equation?
Here I am whining about wanting the finish line closer, when some people don’t even get a finish line— just more road. More fight. More pain. More “keep going even though you’re tired down to your soul.”
Talk about a perspective slap.
Meanwhile I’ve got a lightning bug blinking at me from the end of my tunnel, like, “Hey girl, I’m tiny but I’m TRYING.”
And if I get even a flicker of light, I damn well want to help somebody else spot theirs.
So instead of melting down in Wal-Mart (tempting though it still is), I’m redirecting that dramatic energy toward something useful:
How to Help Someone Who’s in the Dark
• Send a meal (or a DoorDash code). A cancer patient receiving a no-cook dinner is basically the Oscars of kindness.
• Text them with ZERO expectation of reply. “Thinking of you—don’t answer this or I’ll fight you.” Perfect.
• Learn other people’s stories, not just mine. Sites full of real humans being brave and messy:
The Mighty
Stupid Cancer
Cancer Support Community (legit, not woo-woo)
American Cancer Society (the grown-up in the room)
• Volunteer without leaving your recliner.
Letters Against Isolation → send love to lonely seniors
Imerman Angels → one-on-one support mentoring
• Donate if you can. Share if you can’t. No guilt. Just options.
And maybe the biggest one:
When you have even ONE lightning-bug moment, hold it up. Let someone else borrow the glow.
Because tantrums feel good for a minute. But helping someone else find their light? That feels good for a long time.
Third Act With Pattie 