It’s been a great week — and I’m as shocked as you are. Five whole days of sunshine, and I finally crawled out of that dark, muddy hole I’d been sulking in. And let me tell you, it was fantabulous!!
Sorry to be AWOL from the blog, but honestly? It felt too good to feel good. I didn’t want to think about cancer, chemo, or any of that. AT. ALL.
Instead, I did totally normal, boring, glorious things. I cleaned my house – well some of it. I made spaghetti sauce from scratch. I sat in the sunshine — at home and by the lake. I even caught myself smiling like some Hallmark movie extra.
But (and there’s always a “but” in Chemo Land), today is chemo day. The damn hole is waiting with its arms wide open. I can almost hear it whispering, “Come on back, sweetheart.”
And I don’t want to go. Not to chemo. Not to the hole. Even though there’s only ONE MORE left after today — I still don’t want to. Because the hole will be waiting, and the body and mind both know it. That’s just how chemo works: cumulative exhaustion and a side of psychological warfare.
But I’m doing it. Because sunshine weeks are worth crawling out for. And after this… there will be only one.
Hi everyone, it’s been a rough week. The cumulative effect of chemo is taking its’ toll. I wrote this last week at chemo and saved it for today. I hope you find love, hope, and gratitude at Thanksgiving.
Sitting here in the chemo room — hour five — and I am tired. Tired of sitting. Tired of waiting. Tired of watching the faces around me — some blank, some worried, some so quiet you can almost hear their thoughts.
There’s a look that settles over this room sometimes. It’s the “Will I still be here next Thanksgiving?” look. And some, bless them, are already convinced they won’t.
But the truth is, none of us really know. Not even those of you who aren’t sitting in recliners hooked up to IV poles. Life doesn’t come with guarantees, not even with the turkey and dressing.
What I do know is this — hope is sneaky. It slips into the room in the form of a grandchild’s text, a photo from a friend, or a nurse who calls you “sweetheart” like she means it. It sits in the corner, humming softly, waiting for you to notice it again.
Maybe this year, we can all — every one of us — choose to be grateful. Grateful for still being here, for one more laugh that turns into a snort, for one more hug that lingers, for one more text or phone call that starts with, “Just checking on you.”
Whether you spend Thanksgiving surrounded by family or curled up quietly with your own thoughts, I hope you feel love reaching toward you.
Because it’s out there — in every friend who calls or texts, every family member who worries, every person still fighting their way through another long day.
So here’s to being here. Here’s to love that holds steady. Here’s to hope that won’t quit. And here’s to many more Thanksgivings — together!
By: Pattie Presswoman, your roving, slightly woozy, always-observant reporter
Ladies, gentlemen, and all you brave souls tuning in from the comfort of your recliners, heating pads, or emotional support snacks—welcome back to another thrilling episode of Chemo Chronicles, brought to you live from the bustling (or not) newsroom of Infusion Room 3.
Let’s set the scene.
Last week, the chemo room was—how shall I put this delicately?—slower than a sloth on Benadryl. My side of the room was so still I swear I heard my own thoughts echo. (I know… “dead.” I said it. I apologize to the universe immediately.)
Chair 8 Guy? He got thirty minutes of whatever they were pumping into him, hopped up like he had a dinner reservation, and evaporated. Lady across from me? Same story. Whoosh. Gone before my IV pole could say goodbye.
Meanwhile, yours truly sat there marinating—slow-cooking like a pot roast.
Five minutes before I was finished, a woman was wheeled in, clearly looking at me like I was sitting in her rightful throne. I told her and her daughter, “Promise, I’ll be out in five.” But people on drugs—I mean this with all the love in my heart—have the patience of caffeinated toddlers. They want the show started and they want it now. She picked another chair.
When I was done I gathered my blanket, the nurse unplugged my little robot helper, and I strutted out like a seasoned pro. And that’s when I realized…
I had been in the ghost town half of the chemo room. When I walked toward the exit, suddenly things got loud. Busy. Alive. The right side of the room? PACKED. I mean, it was like they were hosting a tailgate party over there.
Chairs filled. Voices chatting. One lady knitting like she was in a speed competition. A man crunching ice like he was digging for gold. The nurse on that side looked like she needed a medal… or a margarita.
People are funny like that. No assigned seats, but we all swear we have a spot that’s ours. Whole empty row? Doesn’t matter. If someone’s in “your chair,” the universe feels slightly misaligned.
As I passed the bustling side, my friend spotted me and waved with the enthusiasm of someone finally seeing civilization after wandering the desert. I waved back, we both grinned…
…and then I got the hell out of there before anyone tried to assign me a seat, a job, or a conversation about their neighbor’s cousin’s hairdresser’s cancer journey.
And that, dear readers, concludes this week’s thrilling broadcast from Chemo Central.
Until next time— This is Pattie Presswoman, signing off and rolling out
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.
What do you call a room with four women and no talking?
I’ve been thinking about it. It’s clearly the chemo room, but that doesn’t begin to cover it.
It might be a nap salon — where no one asked for a blow-out but we all left a little lighter.
Or maybe a spa for the terminally exhausted, featuring the latest in drip-infused “glow from within” technology.
Some days it feels like the quiet car on the Cancer Express — no loud talking, no snacks, and you’re not sure where you’ll end up, but everyone’s ticket cost too much.
The Waiting Room for the Brave, perhaps, except there’s no waiting. We’re doing the thing. Just quietly.
This week there were four of us. All women. All lined up in our recliners like power stations plugged into perseverance. Within minutes of the “pre-drug” drip, every single one of us was out cold. No chatter. No reality TV. Not even the usual IV-pole squeaks. Just four warriors in soft socks, drifting off under fluorescent halos.
I had about ten minutes before my own eyelids surrendered, so I took inventory: – Chair 4 had really good hair and shoes. Definitely winning chemo couture. – Chair 3 was already asleep—basically a blanket with a pulse. – Chair 6 chatted with the nurse, then disappeared under her pillow. Relatable.
And then silence. The kind of deep, unbothered quiet you don’t get anywhere else.
When it was over, we rose like polite zombies—unplugged, gathered our stuff, and shuffled out with the reverence of churchgoers leaving midnight mass. No words necessary. We knew.
Whatever this room is—a sanctuary, a spa, a silent sorority—it’s ours.
Until next time—may your drips be steady, your naps restorative, and your IV poles never squeak at the wrong moment.
Third Act With Pattie 