As I write this, we are on Day Three (of Five) of Liddle S’kiddle’s Family Senior Trip to Universal Studios Orlando.
Against all logic, reason, and personal preference, I am still alive.
Accompanying me on this adventure are Hubby, Senior S’kiddle, Middle S’kiddle, Middle S’kiddle’s boyfriend Redbeard (currently enjoying a favorable performance review), and of course, Liddle S’kiddle.
To say I don’t enjoy amusement parks is like saying the Pope is a little bit Catholic.
I am not comfortable in big crowds.
Short people, you know what I mean.
We are overlooked down here.
Stepped over.
Bumped into.
And back in the days when everybody smoked? Burned.
My PTSD still burns bright.
Loud noises confuse me and make it difficult for me to think.
I do not like to ride rides, mostly because I really do not want to stand in lines.
And finally, I do not like to be hot and sweaty.
Despite the facts, and because of my love for all the S’kiddles, I let hope overrule experience.
I knew.
We took this trip before when all the S’kiddles were little, sans Redbeard of course, and neither I nor they have changed.
They still disagree frequently and loudly: on food, on clothes, on makeup, and existentially – boys.
They remain completely different human beings with wildly different definitions of fun.
In addition, just two days before leaving on this trip, I dropped the edge of a 30-pound design wall onto my big toe…
and it landed squarely on the nail root—
that tender little patch of flesh where the nail emerges from the skin
and pain goes to live.
I’m not gonna lie.
I cried like my foot had been amputated with a butter knife.
Oh, and let’s not forget that I am sneaking up on seventy whether I approve of it or not.
Or that I had cancer last year and had my last chemo treatment after Christmas. I forget about it more often than you’d think – until my body reminds me that IT has not.
In other words, I arrived at Universal carrying a bruised toe, post-chemo stamina, sensory overload issues, and a lifelong dislike of amusement parks.
The odds were not in my favor.
First stop: Super Nintendo World. Three stories of noise, music, children, and heat aimed directly at your soul.
My circuits overloaded within five minutes –
full-on senior brain seizure.
Next stop: Donkey Kong – kingdom of intense heat and sanity-invading drumbeats.
Two hour wait in the sun while the “children” – all of them adults, every one capable of being left unsupervised – rode a roller coaster that turned out to be their least favorite.
And Hubby and I, still mid-brain seizure – never thought to seek shade and comfort just steps away.
Pull up a chair. There is no way this trip fits into one story.
Frankly, it may take three margaritas and a miniseries.
-Pattie
P.S. Consider this Episode One of The Universal Chronicles. More to come – pace yourselves.
Subscribe now. New episodes of suffering drop regularly, and binge-reading is encouraged.
Today I shaved my legs for the first time since last August.
Not because I’m lazy.
Well.
Not entirely because I’m lazy.
The real reason is that chemotherapy comes with both curses and blessings.
One of the blessings?
No leg hair.
For ten glorious months, I have not shaved my legs.
Not once.
No balancing on one foot in a slippery shower. No discovering halfway through that the razor is dull. No realizing I somehow missed an entire stripe down the back of one calf.
Nothing.
Just smooth legs and one less thing on my list.
Of course, the curse is that chemotherapy doesn’t stop at your legs.
It takes all the hair.
And while there are certainly parts of that experience I do not recommend, there was something oddly satisfying about crossing “shave legs” off my to-do list for ten straight months.
At some point during treatment, I stopped even thinking about it.
Then recovery happened.
Slowly.
Quietly.
The fuzz on my head started coming back.
The eyebrows that had apparently quit without notice started showing up for work again.
(As much as any eyebrows can after surviving the unforgivable tweeze craze of the 1970s.)
The eyelashes decided they might stick around after all.
Every little bit of regrowth felt like a victory.
Proof that my body was finding its way home.
And I was grateful for every bit of it.
Until this morning.
This morning I looked down in the shower and thought:
“Well, apparently we’ve brought back the leg hair.”
Now, to be fair, I should probably be celebrating.
This is evidence of healing.
Recovery.
Progress.
The return of normal bodily functions.
But instead, I found myself standing there with a razor thinking:
“Couldn’t we have left this one behind?”
Then I dug my razor out of the back of the bathroom drawer and actually stopped and stared at it.
The blade looked exactly the same as it had ten months ago.
Which led to an important scientific question:
Does a razor get dull just sitting there?
Because if so, this one should have been worn slap out by now.
Then I remembered.
I had put that blade on the day my port was installed.
Not the week before.
Not sometime that month.
The actual day.
And suddenly I wasn’t looking at a razor anymore.
I was looking at a timestamp.
Back then, I had no idea how many doctor’s appointments, PET scans, infusions, steroids, naps, night sweats, and worried conversations stood between that shower and this one.
If you had told me that morning that the next time I used that razor I would be cancer-free and standing in my shower complaining about leg hair, I would have taken that deal in a heartbeat.
Then there was the shaving cream.
The good shaving cream.
The extra-foamy, sensitive-skin, smells-really-good shaving cream.
The can was almost empty.
Which raises another question.
Does shaving cream evaporate?
Or has someone in this house been secretly using my expensive shaving cream while I wasn’t paying attention?
I’m not naming names.
But there are only two people who live here, and one of them is a 6-foot-7 semi-retired male.
The evidence seems compelling.
Anyway.
The shaving is done.
The legs are smooth.
The era of effortless maintenance appears to be over.
And that got me wondering.
Is this a thing for men who have gone through chemo, too?
Because back in my day—and yes, I am officially old enough to say that—a man shaved his face and called it good.
That was the entire grooming plan.
Nowadays it seems like the only thing some men don’t shave is their face.
So I’m curious.
Men who have been through chemo, was there any hair you were perfectly happy to lose?
Any hair you were relieved to see return?
Or maybe more importantly…
Was there any hair that came back and made you think:
“Seriously? Of all the things that could have stayed gone forever, you picked THIS?”
Because ladies, let’s not pretend we don’t have opinions here, too.
By a certain age, some hair starts showing up in places nobody ordered it from.
And it arrives with the confidence of a long-awaited guest.
One day you’re minding your own business.
The next day you’re standing in front of a magnifying mirror wondering how a single chin hair managed to grow three inches overnight without your knowledge.
The human body is a mystery.
Recovery is a mystery.
And apparently hair is determined to remind us who’s really in charge.
So today I shaved my legs for the first time in ten months.
It wasn’t particularly exciting.
It wasn’t especially meaningful.
But it was one of those ordinary little moments that quietly reminded me how far I’ve come.
Ten months ago, I was sitting in chemo.
Today, I’m complaining about shaving my legs.
I’ll take that trade every single time.
Even if the leg hair is making a comeback tour that absolutely nobody requested.
-Pattie
P.S. This post is cross-posted here and on my new blog, Third Act With Pattie.
Second Battle Same Me was the story of getting through cancer.
Third Act With Pattie is the story of everything that comes after.
These days you’ll find me, Richard, and Sassy navigating lake life, retirement, family adventures, quilting projects, and whatever chaos shows up next.
Nature has a lot to say.
So does Sassy.
Come join us at Third Act With Pattie and subscribe so you don’t miss a story.
And then one day you ring the bell, get your all-clear PET scan, and—SURPRISE!—they send you home with a smile, a pat on the head, and instructions to “come back in three months.”
Three. Whole. Months.
No one says, “Hey, by the way, we’re still here.” No one says, “Call us if your brain loses its damn mind.” The oncologist doesn’t say, “Questions? Anxiety? Existential dread?” The dietician does not check in. The team doesn’t disappear… but they sure stop waving you back in.
Meanwhile, your friends and family are THRILLED. You’re cured! You won! You should be HAPPY! Grateful! Sparkly! Full of bubbles and light and inspirational Instagram captions!
Except… you’re not.
Because you just spent six months—or years—fighting a war in hell. You survived. But your brain and emotions are still in the foxhole.
So you cry. You worry. You spiral. You do not feel happy happy joy joy. Instead, you feel guilty.
The first time I landed in this weird no-WOman’s-land, I developed a crippling fear of going outside. Anywhere. Ever. I couldn’t walk out my apartment door without a full-blown anxiety attack.
I lived like that until my first three-month checkup. I finally told my oncologist.
He said, “Don’t worry. It’ll go away.” (Oncologists are very chill about things that are not life or death – to them.)
But the nurse? She leaned in and said, “You still have access to the team. Let me set you up with a counselor who will COME TO YOU.” (No virtual reality in 2003.)
And she did. For a month, we worked through it. The fear faded—just like the doctor said it would.
But here’s the thing: how long would it have taken without the team? How much unnecessary suffering happens because no one tells you that you’re allowed to keep asking for help?
This time around, I’m doing better—because I knew this part was coming. Some days I’m genuinely happy. Some days I’m absolutely not.
And that is VERY confusing for the people who love me.
Let’s get one thing straight: I am a KICK-ASS WARRIOR. And if you’re standing where I’m standing right now—so are YOU.
But even warriors get tired. And scared. And emotionally wrecked.
So don’t beat yourself up.
Celebrate when you can. Cry when you need to. Sleep. Be sad. Do nothing at all if that’s all you’ve got.
This part will pass.
And when it does— you will still be a KICK. ASS. WARRIOR. 💥
Sun on the water, sparkling like diamonds— I wish I could make them the thoughts in my head.
I don’t remember when my mind was unburdened, when nothing pressed in or demanded to stay.
Once there was only the shine of what’s coming, sparkling water ahead— a future of light.
So I sit with the water, borrow its quiet persistence, letting each small sparkle remind me how to look forward again.
I haven’t thought about cancer much in the last three days. And apparently that makes me feel guilty.
Is that normal?
Hell if I know.
Was I normal while I was going through chemotherapy — when cancer occupied every waking thought, every appointment, every nap, every Google search at 2 a.m.? And now that I haven’t thought about it much for a few days, am I suddenly not normal?
Or… am I now normal because I’m not actively right now being poisoned by modern medicine in an effort to save my life?
See how I slipped in right now?
That little phrase is doing a lot of emotional heavy lifting.
Because right now quietly implies this could change. Which means not thinking about cancer might be suspicious. But thinking it might come back is also exhausting. So which one is normal — not thinking about it, or thinking about it lurking around the corner like an uninvited guest who knows where you live?
Honestly, cancer messes with your internal compass. When it’s gone, you don’t get a clean handoff to “regular life.” There’s no exit ramp labeled WELCOME BACK TO NORMAL. It’s more like you wander around asking, “Am I allowed to enjoy this?” and “Should I be more afraid right now?”
And here’s the thing: I’ve never been normal normal anyway.
As the saying goes, “Normal” is just a setting on the washing machine. (Which isn’t even a thing anymore, but I remember when it was. Right next to Permanent Press and Whatever This Fabric Is.)
So maybe this is normal now — forgetting for a few days. Laughing. Living. Feeling weird about not feeling terrified.
Maybe normal after cancer isn’t peace or fear — it’s the awkward, clumsy space in between, where you’re alive, suspicious of calm, and learning how to exist without an enemy to fight every minute of the day.
Third Act With Pattie 