Blog

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.

🎢💪
🐶 Sassy the Wonder Dog Goes to Camp

By now you’ve probably read all about Mama’s adventures.
But excuse me — what about MY adventures??

Whenever Mama and Daddy go out of town, they take me to the best farm ever.
It’s called Serenity K9, and oh my bone… it is a four-legged wonderland.

We stay in a real house.
And inside the house we have our own houses (crates)
And — this is the best part — we get breakfast in bed every single morning.

Yes.
IN.
BED.

After breakfast, we go outside and play with so many friends. Big ones. Little ones. Fast ones. Loud ones. Everyone smells so interesting.

Sometimes, when we’re lucky, they let us help teach the new guys.
I love that part. I get to show off how much I’ve learned and say things like:

“See? You sit. Place means you can move around a bit but you can’t move around if they say down.”

It feels good being a role model.

We also get free time, which is excellent because this time something very strange happened.

❄️ Snow.

I did not know what that was.

At first, I tried to lay down in it — bad idea.
Then I tried to run really fast — also a bad idea.
I slid… and slid… and slid some more.

A very long way.

Everyone was very kind while I figured out that snow is cold, slippery, and absolutely not for dramatic laying.

Also, I also got to celebrate my birthday there with all my friends.
I am now four years old — in people years, of course.
In dog years, I am clearly wise, experienced, and deserving of extra treats.

In the evenings, we get fed in bed too.
Which is wonderful, because none of the others are trying to steal my food.

Mama says I’m a picky eater.
I say I have standards.

Some four legged people eat anything and if they could, they would absolutely eat my dinner before I could finish inspecting it properly.

I just love staying at the farm.
I mean, yes — I miss Mama and Daddy.

But there is nothing quite like hanging out with other four-legged friends…
learning new things…
playing all day…

and getting breakfast in bed.

Honestly, I could get used to this.

— Sassy 🐾💖

We think Serenity K9 has the best trainers and boarding in middle Georgia. To learn more about Serenity K9, Lauren, and the pack, go to https://www.serenityk9.org/
Getting Away (Wheelchairs, Wind, and Unexpected Victories)

Getting away from home is always fun.
Getting away from home with great friends is even better.

So we met some friends in Key West — because apparently my post-chemo self still believes in optimism and ocean breezes.

When I left home, my stamina was kaput — as my mother would have said. Completely gone. Missing in action. Possibly hiding under the bed.

I even agreed to a wheelchair ride through the Atlanta airport.

Now let’s be clear: the wheelchair was hard, uncomfortable, and absolutely not what you’d call luxurious.
BUT — being whisked through crowds like airport royalty and taking the elevator instead of the escalator?

Well. For once, the last six months offered a perk.

The Key West airport is MUCH smaller, so I walked out on my own two feet.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but that little walk turned out to be a metaphor.

The first day the weather was beautiful. Luke and I enjoyed the resort, met up with friends, ate, drank, laughed, and had one of those rare days where cancer didn’t get an invitation.

The next morning was even better.
We rented a golf cart and spent three glorious hours touring the island — which is now officially my favorite form of transportation. Minimal exertion. Maximum joy.

We returned around three and did what mature adults with medical trauma do.

We took a nap.

Around five, we heard what sounded like a pack of wild children racing through the hallway. As we opened the door to head to an outdoor reception and dinner on the beach, the wind hit me so hard I thought:

“Well. This might be it. Blown clean into the Atlantic.”

And that wind?
It stayed.
All week. And brought temperatures in the fifties! In Key West!
Relentless. Rude. Completely unimpressed by my beachy dreams.

That did not stop us from walking and playing and enjoying ourselves!

Naturally, the day we were leaving was perfect.

Of course it was.

But here’s the thing — despite the wind and the cold, we had a fabulous time.

Luke and I spent real time together.
We laughed with friends.
We lived instead of just enduring.

And when we returned home, I walked through the Atlanta airport on my own two feet.

No wheelchair.
No escort.
Just me — stronger than when I left.

Sometimes the miracle isn’t sunshine or calm seas.
Sometimes it’s realizing you’re walking forward again — even when the wind is trying to knock you over.

And that made it a wonderful time. ❤️
Leaving on a Jet Plane – Again!

This week I’m heading to a place that is supposed to be warm and sunny, with clear blue water and all that vacation brochure nonsense.
Naturally, the forecast did not get the memo.

WDNC that it might be cool.
WDNC that the ocean may be for looking at, not swimming in.
WDC that we get time together—actual, uninterrupted, no-agenda time—with each other and with friends.

Sunshine is optional.
That part is not.
The View From Right Now

It’s been almost three weeks since my last chemotherapy treatment, and I am feeling… so many feels.
Like, Costco-sized feelings. In bulk.

On the bright side, I haven’t had a night sweat in five whole days. FIVE.
That alone deserves a parade. Or at least fresh sheets that don’t feel like they were wrung out by a lifeguard.
I feel better. My mind is a little clearer. I’ve even started tiptoeing into that dangerous mental neighborhood called “Life After Cancer.”
You know—the place where people make plans. And assumptions. And maybe even buy concert tickets more than a month out.

But then there’s the other hand.
I’m still tired. A lot.
Like, do one thing and need a lie-down tired.
My motivation seems to have a strict one-activity-per-day policy, and my brain shuts down the moment exhaustion shows up—which is often and without notice. Concentration just packs up its little suitcase and says, “Nope. I’m out.”

And then there’s the third hand.
Which I don’t technically have, but my anxiety has graciously supplied.

This hand is busy worrying.
Worrying that I’m not cancer-free yet.
Worrying while I wait for a test that hasn’t even been scheduled because insurance is apparently on a scenic route.
Worrying that even if I am cancer-free now, what about next year?
This was my second round—does that mean I get a punch card? A loyalty program? Do I do this forever?
Will it be a long life?
A shortened one?
Is all this mental ping-pong the reason I sometimes feel completely frozen, like my body just hits the pause button?

Probably.

The truth is, the view from right now keeps changing.
Sometimes it’s hopeful.
Sometimes it’s foggy.
Sometimes it’s downright scary as hell.

But here’s the thing I’m trying to hold onto: right now is not the whole story.
Right now includes dry sheets, a clearer mind, and small signs that my body is still trying—still healing.
Right now doesn’t require me to solve next year, or the rest of my life, or every possible outcome.

Right now just asks me to sit here.
Breathe.
Do one thing.
And trust that the view will change again.

And maybe—just maybe—the next version will be even better.