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Leaving On a Jet Plane…

Yes, With a Carry-on or Two

Guess what, folks? The numbers were great. Like, “pack your bag and go live a little” great. And let me just brag for a second: for the first time ever, I packed in an hour. An HOUR. And everything actually fit in the carry-on. (Airline baggage fees, you will not be getting me this round.)

I’m giddy to meet up with friends and see new scenery. The thought of laughing, eating, and soaking up joy that doesn’t involve a hospital chair feels downright luxurious. Sometimes, life throws you a bone—or in my case, a boarding pass—and I’m running with it.

Thank you for all the prayers, good vibes, and cosmic wishes you keep sending my way. I swear the universe must be listening, because occasionally things actually line up just the way you want them to.

Now, don’t get it twisted—the battle’s not over. Chemo comes calling again next Friday, the long-haul kind. But until I get back? I’m going to play hard, laugh loud, and live like I never got acquainted with the uninvited houseguest we’ll just call “You-Know-Who.” (And no, not Voldemort—though frankly, cancer’s got the same level of evil.)

For those of you are wondering, Sassy did not get to go. She is going to her favorite home away from home at Serenity K9 where the best people take the best care of her. And teach her things too. If you are interested in learning more about Lauren and Serenity K)9. https://www.serenityk9.org/
Live Life or Stay

Photo by Jenny Uhling on Pexels.com

Today is the day.
What will the numbers say?
Do I pack my bag for a trip,
Or do I, once again, stay?

Plans were made—
Before he arrived.
Plans for living life,
Not just fighting for it.

If the numbers are good,
I’m going.
Because life is too short.

If the numbers are bad,
I’m staying put,
Gearing up,
And fighting for life.

So y’all—say a prayer,
Send a wish to the universe.
This girl needs to get out and live.
Because life is too short.
In Memory of 9/11

Twenty-four years ago, on September 11, 2001, I sat glued to the TV, watching in shock as the first tower burned and the second plane hit. Like everyone else, I thought, this cannot be happening in the United States. But it did. And nearly 3,000 lives were gone in a single morning.

These were people just doing what we all do—heading to work, starting their day, drinking coffee, planning lunch. Firefighters, police officers, EMTs—heroes who ran into the chaos while everyone else was trying to get out. Ordinary people who turned extraordinary in a heartbeat, helping strangers down smoke-filled stairwells. None of them woke up expecting it to be their last day. But it was.

And it didn’t end there. The recovery stretched on for months. Brave men and women worked in the rubble, many of them later getting sick, many of them dying because of what they breathed in down there. Families were shattered—spouses left without their person, kids growing up without a mom or dad, parents burying children they should never have had to bury. The grief didn’t leave when the news cameras did. It still sits heavy for so many.

So today, I just want to say thank you. Thank you to the heroes of that day. Thank you to the ones who stayed and dug and carried and comforted. And my heart is with every family who had their world ripped apart.

We don’t move on from something like this. We move forward with it.

At this time of year, many of us find ourselves wanting to five back to the people and communities so deeply affected by this tragedy.

In the spirit of giving back to the 9/11 community and beyond, many 9/11 family members and first responders began charities, providing everything from mental health support to financial assistance.

I have chosen VOICES Center for Resilience (Formerly Voice of September 11th), founded by 9/11 family members Mary Fetchet and Beverly Eckert This charity began as an organization to help other family members, first responders, and recovery workers navigate complex processes to find health-related and financial resources. Drawing on lessons learned and expertise, VOICES has evolved to assist countless other communities impacted by mass violence and natural disasters. If you would like to research this charity, or donate, following is a link.

https://voicescenter.org/

Not just remembered. Forever carried.
Sassy Walks: V2

Turtle Edition 🐾🐢

Hi y’all, Sassy here—your faithful reporter on all things Mama. And doggone it, I’ve got a tale to tell.

Mama is not exactly burning up the sidewalks these days. I spent the whole weekend trying to talk her into a walk, and today she finally caved. Honestly? I think she just wanted me to quit bugging her. Because let me tell you—this woman was moving slower than a turtle on vacation. (Which, come to think of it, explains why the turtle is totally her spirit animal. Mystery solved.)

And the soundtrack? Lord help me. She huffed and puffed like a herd of elephants stomping through the Sahara. I know chemo makes her tired, but nobody warned me it would be that embarrassing to walk her in public.

But I stuck with her. We managed to make it all the way to the street and back. Sure, I’ve got four legs and she’s only got two—but even if I crawled on my belly, I’d still have lapped her. (And trust me, three weeks ago she could’ve belly-crawled faster than she walked today!)

Don’t worry, I didn’t tease her. Nope, I was a good girl. I stopped to sniff and pee on every single blade of grass I could find, just to give her a breather. Between us, I faked a few of those stops—but hey, she never suspected. The highlight of the whole trip? My big ol’ poop. Mama was oddly proud, like I’d just won a medal. You’re welcome.

Before we got back inside, she promised we’d do it again tomorrow. And I’m holding her to it. Taking care of Mama is my job—even if she still can’t speak fluent Dog. Maybe tomorrow I’ll convince her to cross the street. Baby steps, right?

Here’s to four legs, endless patience, and dragging Turtle Mama along one block at a time. 🐕💚
Morning Me

Every morning starts the same. I wake up at 5 a.m., it’s still dark in my room. The house is quiet, the world hasn’t decided what kind of day it’s going to be yet, and for a few precious minutes, I’m not that me.

I’m not “cancer me.”
I’m not “chemo me.”
I’m not “strong me.” (Lord, I get tired of that one.)

For a little while, I’m just… me.

Just me with an aching back, because apparently that’s the 68-year-old starter kit. Just me with a stiff neck from sleeping in some pretzel position I’ll never admit to. Just me thinking about whether today is a kayak day—paddling hard against the current until my arms protest, then surrendering and letting the water carry me back while I spy on turtles sunbathing and birds plotting their next dive-bomb.

In those quiet morning moments, cancer doesn’t exist. There are no side effects to anticipate, no gnawing questions about whether the chemo is fast enough, strong enough, brutal enough to keep pace with whatever is lurking inside me. “Just me” doesn’t carry that weight. She gets to dream about the river instead.

But of course, the memory always shows up. It knocks, then barges in. And suddenly I’m not just me—I’m cancer-fighting me. So I reach for my mental armor, adjust it until it fits, and swing my legs out of bed. Because meds don’t take themselves, and battles don’t wait for daydreams.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I go to bed early—so I can squeeze in more hours of “just me.”

And honestly? She’s my favorite version anyway.