Third Act With Pattie

Tag: cancer humor

  • Go Away…

    From a cherry to a pinto bean,
    From an almond to a pea—
    I watch the numbers fall,
    the nodules fade,
    the poison do its sacred burn.

    Shrink.
    Dissolve.
    Disappear.

    Your're disssolving,
    Youu should never have thought that I play.
    Go Away 
    And don’t come back
    another day.

  • Cherries, Almonds, and a Smart-Mouthed Sidekick

    Two days ago, I got the happiest kind of news: the chemo is working!

    Cue the confetti cannons, lime-green ribbons, and one happy little red bird doing loop-de-loops over my head. After weeks of wondering, worrying, and silently negotiating with the universe, I finally got the word that things are shrinking. Me! Shrinking things!

    The celebration continued with a long but surprisingly pleasant day in the always-entertaining chemo room — that magical land of heated chairs, cold IV poles, and nurses who could moonlight as comedians. All was well in my soul.

    Luke and I drove home talking about the future again, like normal people do. I could actually breathe again. I swear I felt my shoulders drop three inches from relief. For the first time in months, we weren’t just surviving the moment — we were daring to plan what comes next.

    And then came yesterday.

    Apparently my brain didn’t get the “we’re okay now” memo. Between the pre-programmed crazy in my head, the toxic cocktail dripping through my veins, and the endless wisecracks from that internal smart-aleck I call Chemo Boy, peace didn’t last long.

    My “quick nap” turned into a full-blown horror flick.
    Somewhere between hour two and four, I dreamed I was being attacked from the inside — an Invasion of the Body Snatchers situation starring… wait for it… cherries and almonds.

    Yep. In my subconscious, the once-monstrous “cancer nodes” became produce aisle invaders. They multiplied, pressed, and squeezed until I thought I’d explode into a fruit salad. I don’t do horror movies. And now, apparently, I don’t do long naps either.

    When I woke up, sweating and slightly homicidal toward Chemo Boy, I did what every rational cancer fighter does: I reread the PET scan report and the doctor’s notes. Twice. Okay, maybe three times.

    And here’s the reassuring truth: I am no longer invaded by cherries and almonds. The latest scan says it’s down to a pinto bean and a pea.

    That’s right — my invaders have been demoted to side-dish size.

    So I can stop holding my breath again.

    Because here’s what I know for sure:
    I am in this battle until the very end.
    I’m going to beat this cancer.
    And one of these days, I’m going to silence that sarcastic little Chemo Boy once and for all.

    (Maybe I might miss him a little. NOT A CHANCE!)

  • Chemo Chronicles V5:

    Minions, Mama’s Chair, and the Great Heater Debate

    Today  was  a great day! After the great PET scan news, I skipped down to the Chemo Room. Even though it was long chemo day.  It was the first Chemo of the last of the protocol. Five more sessions in the plan!

    Entering the chemo room, my main concern was making sure that my chair was NOT under the heat.  It was hot as hell in there to me.  And I stayed hot.  In fact, I eventually took off my shoes and socks.  Three or four of the chairs under the heater had people with sweaters, heated blankets, and caps.  I am sure they were almost cooked before they left. 

    All the nurses were dressed for Halloween.  They were all Minions.  It was so cute.  But of course, since I can’t remember anything, including faces, I couldn’t tell them apart.

    There was lots of action in the chemo room today.  Off and on it was a full room, then emptied out to just me, tjrm a full room again. 

    Once again somebody took Mama’s chair.   It was a young man.   She sat right next to him and spread out her stuff, and then fell fast asleep –maybe with her mouth open.  I bet he won’t do that again. Why can’t these people learn – the minions should just put a taken sign on that chair.

    All in all, a long 7 hour day, but a good one.
    Minions, heaters, naps, and all — just another episode in the ongoing adventure of Chemo Chronicles.

  • Size Matters

    I promised you the news when I got it.

    It’s not the news I wanted, but it’s the closest it can be — which, in this world, counts as awesome.

    Thank you all for your crossed fingers and toes, your thoughts and prayers, and your pleas to Mother Earth. I appreciate every single effort on my behalf.

    Luke and I waited in that small little room for what seemed like hours (but was probably fifteen minutes). Me — my usual version of “calm,” meaning foot pumping, standing, sitting, standing again, stomping, sighing, repeat. And Luke — sitting perfectly still with his trademark Starfighter calm.

    Finally, the doctor came in — and her radiant smile told it all before she even spoke.

    I won’t bore you with the doctor/scientist version, but here’s the simple truth: I had two affected lymph nodes, and they are now much smaller. And much less bright.

    PET scans use an isotope that “lights up” the cancer — and where I once glowed like a neon sign at 14, I now barely shimmer at 3.

    Hallelujah.

    So, when you look at the photo — the left side is the first PET scan and the right side is the new one.
    A cherry became a pinto bean.
    An almond became a little English pea.

    Normally, I hate peas.
    But I love this one.

    As for brightness — the first scan could shine in full sunlight, and the new one? You’d barely spot it under a quarter moon.

    So here we are — halfway done, and if all goes as planned, it should be over by Christmas.

    🎃 Happy Halloween to all — from your half-lit, pea-loving, halfway warrior. 💚

  • And Now We Wait

    Until Tomorrow…

    I’m still feeling great — even heading out today to vote and grab a coffee with a friend. I refuse to ruin a day where I feel good by worrying about things I cannot change. I’m assuming this “feeling good” is for great reasons (not just because I’ve been chemo-free for two weeks).

    I believe in good things. I believe in healing.
    At least today, I do.

    Tomorrow I’ll head to oncology, ready for what’s supposed to be a long chemo day — and ready to hear the results of the PET scan. My hope? That the conversation goes something like:

    “We didn’t see anything, but let’s finish this course to make sure we get anything that thinks it might be trying to change cell type.”

    That’s the script I’m holding onto.

    Because today, I refuse to consider any other option.
    Why borrow trouble? (As our grandmothers would say.)
    Why speak that into the universe? (As our Gen Z family would say.)
    Why the hell think about it on your last feel-good day for a few weeks? (As every cancer patient would say.)

    So today, we wait — and celebrate the good. ☀️💚