Did you know September is #BloodAwarenessMonth? This is our chance to shine a light on lymphoma and raise awareness about this rare cancer. I’m getting involved by [customize what you’re doing]—join me in helping spread the word! Learn how you can make an impact: lymphoma.org/BCAM💜
Join me in advancing lymphoma research, education, and support services by donating or fundraising for the @LymphomaCommunity this #BloodAwarenessMonth! Your contribution makes a difference in the fight against lymphoma. Together, we can create a world without lymphoma. Learn more here: lymphoma.org/BCAM💜
Today is #WorldLymphomaAwarenessDay, a time to come together in support of the more than one million people worldwide living or in remission from lymphoma. I’m helping raise awareness today to advance lymphoma research, education, and our search for a cure. Please join me in supporting the @lymphomacommunity and sharing this message. Together, we can create a world without lymphoma. 💜
Make a Commitment to the Cure
If the link above does not work, don’t give up. I’ll find another link.
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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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:
Minute 1: Mama is all business. I’m busy sniffing the grass like it’s a fine wine tasting.
Minute 5: Mama is huffing, cussing at “fucking studies.” I’m still auditioning pee spots.
Minute 10: Mama looks like she’s negotiating with Death. I’m prancing like a show pony.
Minute 20: Mama is swaying like a drunk flamingo, but don’t worry—I know the way home.
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.
