Third Act With Pattie

Tag: #Blood Cancer United

  • Chemo Chronicles V3 Pattie Presswoman Report

    Dateline: Infusion Center, Day Two of Chemo

    Remember how I once reported that some folks draw the lucky short straw for chemo—zip in, zip out—and others get the long version? Well, folks, yours truly drew the very, very, very long straw. I arrived bright-eyed (okay, half-eyed) at 9 a.m. and was still there when the lights dimmed at 5 p.m.. Yes, I closed the joint down. (Closing the joint down sure brings different memories!)

    But here’s the breaking news: it all went smoothly. No adverse reactions. Just hours and hours of people-watching, chair-swapping, and enough drowsy naps to qualify as a full-blown slumber party.

    Morning Beat

    When I arrived, chairs were 80% full (give or take, I don’t actually count). I parked myself on the TV-off side. Snoozing in front of me was a woman clearly shorter than me—a clear sign the universe was sending things in the right direction.

    Within minutes, the room was its usual scene: patients knocked out cold from the pre-drugs, myself included. I lost the first two hours without even trying.

    Midday Shuffle

    By the time I woke, the cast had rotated. The self-appointed Chair 11 Lady was back in position, keeping silent watch over the room and the halllway. A few men had joined the section—both out like lights.

    And then—finally—real entertainment. One nurse strutted in wearing head-to-toe yellow scrubs with matching socks, topped off with a black jacket and black shoes. She proudly declared herself a “bumble bee.” Who was I to argue? For all I know, that’s the official undercover bee uniform. 🐝 She buzzed around until—wait for it—her twin-in-disguise arrived: a regal patient escorted by her husband/guardian/possibly fellow bee agent. I dubbed her the Queen Bee—weary but still dignified. The nurse buzzed, the husband checked charts, the transfusion wrapped, and the hive emptied out.

    For a moment I wasn’t sure if I was in a chemo chair, a bee convention, or halfway down the Yellow Brick Road with Dorothy. Either way, I was definitely not in Kansas anymore.

    Evening Edition

    As the afternoon crawled on, the chairs emptied. Patients left. Nurses clocked out. Until—just me. And three nurses. They never abandon ship, even when they’re itching to go home. By then, I was cranky and this close to bawling like a toddler denied her juice box.

    Finally, my husband was called back, the finish line in sight. I jumped out of that chair faster than a short woman whose feet don’t reach the floor should be able to.

    Tears waited until I got home. Then they came fast, like Biff the Cancer Boy himself screaming “I’m dying!”—melting like the Wicked Witch of the West.

    Closing Statement

    This is Pattie Presswoman, reporting live from the frontlines of chemo. The day was long, the straw longer, but the news? Still good.

    “Good day, and may the good news be yours.”

  • Tired to the Bone

    Yesterday, tired to the bone, I slept in.
    I took a shower.
    I cooked some breakfast.
    Tired to the bone, I rested.

    I changed the sheets on the bed.
    I washed and folded clothes.
    Tired to the bone, I rested.

    I prepared and cooked supper.
    And by the end of it, I felt like I’d spent 24 hours digging a trench with a spoon.

    I used to do all these things without thinking—without effort, without stopping.
    But that was before Cancer Boy moved in and Chemo showed up to kill him.

    Today is Chemo Day.
    And tired to the bone, I’ll fight.

    ✨ Because even when my bones are heavy and my body says “no,” my soul still says “bring it.”

  • The Power of Female Friendships

    Every now and then, my friends and I manage to pull off a miracle—we get together. Not the everyday friends you bump into at the grocery store. Nope. These are the women I see maybe three times a year, if the planets align and nobody’s kids, grandkids, or husbands derail the schedule. We missed some friends this time, but we will catch up next time.

    But here’s the thing: they are my friends. The kind that, when you finally sit down together, it feels like no time has passed at all. This time, we even had a new lady join us—and boom, instant friend. That’s how women work. We don’t need a blood oath or a secret handshake. Just pass the coffee, and welcome to the circle.

    We started with breakfast, and when the sun hit us full in the face, we moved tables. When the sun found us again (because apparently it was stalking us), we moved again. And we just kept talking—about life, kids, grandkids, husbands, hopes, frustrations, the whole messy, beautiful pile. I never really thought much about cancer at all that day.

    There’s something magical about these kinds of conversations. They flow so naturally with women who care, who understand, who aren’t afraid to be real. You don’t need warm-up questions or polite small talk—you just jump right in. And somehow, even though we don’t see each other all the time, there’s always too much to say and never enough time.

    Because here’s the truth: women need other women.
    And I need these women.

    So thank you, my friends, for the laughter, the honesty, the tears, the shifting tables, and the reminder that I’m not doing this life , or in this battle, alone.

    I love you all. (You too Dougie.)


  • Denver and the International Church of Cannabis

    This was technically a business trip for my husband (you remember, my own personal Luke Skywalker—the legendary snack saver). That meant we only had one full day to play tourist. Lucky for me, Denver’s sports teams were nowhere around, so we were spared from being swallowed up in a sea of jerseys and face paint. Instead, we got to do the average touristy stuff—which, for once, was actually perfect.

    We strolled through a gorgeous part of the city. The foliage and flowers were showing off like they’d been waiting just for us, the sky was obnoxiously blue with Instagram-ready puffy white clouds, and the sun drenched us in actual warmth. Nothing I expected, but exactly what I needed. (For the record, “sun-drenched” sounds fancy, but it really means “I should’ve brought sunscreen.”)

    Lunch was at True Food Kitchen, where I got brave and ordered something called the “Bright Eyes” refresher. Ingredients: pineapple, carrot, organic apple, ginger, turmeric, beet, and lemon. Basically, a liquid garden. It wasn’t love at first sip—more like, “huh?”—but by the end I was convinced I could run a marathon. (Don’t worry, I didn’t. Sitting was still on the schedule.)

    Then came the highlight: the International Church of Cannabis. Calm down—no one was passing around brownies or handing out gummies at the door. It’s an old church that’s been turned into a space for meditation and relaxation. Think groovy 70s furniture (the kind you swore you’d never see again outside of your aunt’s basement) and a meditation garden that practically whispered “chill out.”

    The real show, though, was a 30-minute light-and-sound experience. Imagine lying on a church pew with your head on a pillow while swirling lights and fantastic music transport you somewhere between Woodstock and Star Wars. It was that good. All four of us walked out saying, “Yeah, we’d do that again.” And you know that never happens.

    Pro tip: if you want to experience this “elevated meditation” the way it was intended, you’ll need to, um, pre-elevate. The Church doesn’t sell cannabis on site, so it’s a bring-your-own-vibe situation. Locals can even join as members for non-public elevated sessions.

    All in all, Denver gave us one heck of a memory-filled day. Gorgeous skies, questionable drinks, psychedelic pews, great friends, and my hero Luke at my side. Not bad for 24 hours in the Mile High City.

  • My Luke Skywalker

    Is My Hero

    Sitting on the plane,
    mask strapped tight,
    sounding like Darth Vader 
    just for the luxury
    of chasing a normal life.

    Exhaustion hit.
    I was out cold—
    missed the food, missed the snacks,
    missed most of the flight.

    But here’s where the story flips.
    While I was passed out in my personal cloud of exhaustion,
    my own personal Luke Skywalker was on guard.
    Not for the galaxy.
    Not for the greater good.
    For my snacks.

    He saved them. Protected them.
    Like the Rebel Alliance depended on it.

    So sure, Denver was waiting outside the window.
    But the real view?
    The reminder that even when I’m down for the count,
    my own personal Luke has my back.

    That’s not sappy.
    That’s survival.
    That’s love in our language.
    And that’s why Luke is my hero!