Third Act With Pattie

Tag: cancer humor

  • 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.

  • Second Battle Same ME

    Not gonna lie: I tried every filter I could find.
    When “they” were done, the pic didn’t even look like me.

    All I really wanted? Eyes a little more open. Neck a little less wrinkled. But apparently “they” saw so much more that needed to be blurred, smoothed, and fixed.

    And it made me wonder: is this what happens when we sign up for surgery to erase a bump in the nose, or a little tweak here and there? Do we walk out feeling less like ourselves?

    For me, this photo is staying real. The only edit here is a solid background.

    Because wrinkles, tired eyes, and all… it’s still me.

    And speaking of staying real—today is chemo day for me. So expect a report from Pattie Presswoman soon, straight from the trenches of Recliner Row.

  • Rapunzel, Rapunzel… Buzz Off

    So, it’s time for the hair talk.

    How much of my self-esteem is wrapped up in my hair? When I was a young woman, I had long red hair all the way to my bottom. (It was the 70s—every woman had long, long hair. It was practically in the dress code.)

    The first time cancer boy came for me, 21 years ago, the thought of losing my hair was devastating. Hair meant youth, beauty, identity. I tried being Rapunzel with a chemo drip – not a good look.

    But now? Not so much.

    After my first chemo battle, when my hair grew back, I reveled in it. I grew it as long as I could stand it… which, it turned out, wasn’t much past my neckline. Something surprising happened during that phase: I realized how glorious it was to not have hair. No routine. No products. No hours wasted with hot rollers or blow dryers. Except for that brief, ridiculous love affair with my hair’s comeback tour, I’ve been perfectly happy with “trouble-free” hair ever since.

    But trouble-free hair is not the same as no hair. And here I am again, standing at the edge of the cliff. Which would I hate more:

    a) the actual baldness, or
    b) enduring people’s sympathy, their pitying looks, and their unsolicited “it will grow back” pep talks while I shed like a mangy dog in public?

    Knowing me? It’s a strong, emphatic B. The comments and clucking would make me go full crazy-bitch mode, and nobody needs that.

    So, this afternoon I’m taking control. I’m buzzing this older-lady short hair down to a tidy buzz cut. Yes, that will fall out too, but it’s easier to manage and—most importantly—my choice.

    How do I know it’s time? Easy. Two days ago I wore my buff (you know, the all-purpose “Survivor” headband/armband/head covering/halter top if you’re braver and skinnier than me). When I went to nap, I laid it on the nightstand. The entire nap was a continous dream with me lifting up the buff and watching all my hair come with it.

    Dream logic or not, I woke up knowing: it’s time.

    Because let’s be real—nobody in this house needs me shedding more than Sassy the Wonder Dog.

    So today, Rapunzel’s letting her hair down one last time. And tomorrow? She’s rocking the buzz.

    ✨ Have you gone through the hair-loss rollercoaster yourself—or stood beside someone who has? How did you handle the first buzz, the first scarf, the first bald-glare reflection in the mirror? Drop your story in the comments. Let’s trade survival tips, snark, or even just solidarity.

  • My Unreliable, Occasionally Brilliant, Totally Necessary Battle Plan”

    Weaponized Words

    Cancer.
    Lymphoma.
    Diffuse. Large. B. Cell.

    To me, it sounds less like a diagnosis and more like a bad Scrabble hand—or the world’s worst Wi-Fi password. The doctors say it like it’s just another Tuesday. I hear it and wonder if I need a translator, a medical degree, or maybe just a stiff drink.

    Knowledge: Comfort or Chaos?

    Do I need more knowledge? Less? Enough to build a binder with color-coded tabs?

    Here’s the problem: information cuts both ways. Too little, and I feel like I’m strapped in the backseat of my own life. Too much, and I’m wide awake at 2 a.m., Googling things that I cannot unsee.

    So I aim for the middle ground. Learn enough to ask smart questions. Enough to push back when I need to. Enough to carry a flashlight in the dark without blinding myself with every grim statistic.

    Structured Uncertainty

    Every day hits reset like a game I didn’t sign up to play.
    One round: emotions bouncing from high to low like a malfunctioning carnival ride.
    Next round: nausea (front-row seat), then suddenly—no nausea (intermission!).
    Add in a generous sprinkle of worry, repeat as needed.

    So how do I structure uncertainty? I can’t tame it—it’s like trying to leash a tornado. But I can give it boundaries. And I’ve learned that structure doesn’t fix everything, but it keeps me from completely unraveling. Less “perfect schedule” and more “duct tape and bubblegum holding the day together.”

    Here’s what I try to do:

    • Morning: a few stretches (bonus points if I don’t fall over).
    • Hydration: gallons of water cheered on by a cartoon llama. (Yes, it’s silly. But it’s working.)
    • Movement: multiple swalks outside with Sassy, the wonder dog!
    • Social Rule: only one possible encounter with strangers a day. I don’t have the energy for small talk and cancer.
    • Evening: rant, write, laugh, cry. Hit publish.

    Does it erase the nausea, the brain fog, or the exhaustion? Nope. But it gives my days shape. And shape means I’m trudging instead of free-falling. Trudging may not sound glamorous, but it’s still forward.

    Fighting the Battle

    So how do I fight cancer? Not with perfect pronunciation of “diffuse large B-cell lymphoma.” Not with toxic positivity or “good vibes only.”

    I fight by being stubborn. By giving uncertainty limits. By letting others hold me up when I can’t. By laughing when everything sucks. By crying when I need to. By stretching myself just enough to remind myself I’m still here, still moving, still me.

    In a battle where the finish line moves every day – This is how I win.