Third Act With Pattie

Tag: cancer

  • Becoming, Again (Day 2)

    (Or: Somewhere Between the Couch and the Cosmos)

    Time is weird.
    I’m calling this Day 2, even though the calendar swears otherwise.
    But my cells, my soul, my spinning little chemo-altered molecules—they insist Thursday was Day 1.
    So Day 2 it is.

    Yesterday’s question: Do you ever wake up and wonder where YOU went?
    Today’s realization: apparently, “becoming” requires traveling somewhere else entirely—no luggage, no return ticket, just a brain on shuffle.

    Chemo was short, mercifully.
    I even came home with my jet-pack—my white-cell superstarters ticking quietly on my arm, a tiny biochemical fireworks show set for 1 p.m.
    And then… I disappeared.

    I slid into bed like melting butter.
    Shivering, sweating, freezing, burning.
    Fan on. Fan off.
    Every molecule arguing with its neighbor about the thermostat of existence.

    Time folded in on itself.
    When I woke, the light had shifted but nothing else had.
    I drifted to the couch, a parallel universe where gravity hums louder and blankets weigh more than regret.
    I didn’t eat. I barely sipped water. I just floated in and out of body, like my brain had clocked out for interdimensional maintenance.

    Around 6:30, Luke appeared—steady, sun-warm—and said, “Come sit by the water.”
    He might as well have said, Come back to Earth.
    I sat beside him, blinking at the ripples like they were breathing.

    My mind was mushy honey. My thoughts, ping-pong balls in zero gravity.
    Winnie the Pooh would’ve understood. He said it loud and clear “Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?

    So yeah, I was here yesterday. Physically.
    But mentally? I was off somewhere between the stars and the shivers. Maybe that’s what becoming really is—your brain goes on a field trip to rearrange the furniture while your body holds down the fort.

    I wonder what version of me will step off the bus next time. I wonder if there will be a green sofa,

  • Becoming, Again

    You ever wake up and wonder where you went?
    Because I do. Every damn day lately.

    When I started this blog — Second Battle, Same Me — I really believed that.
    That I could go through cancer again and still come out the same woman.
    But lately I’m not so sure.

    Twenty-one years ago, I fought this battle once before.
    Back then, I don’t remember if I became someone else —
    or if I just put on a stronger version of myself to survive it.
    But now, walking through it again, I can feel the shift happening all over.

    Chemo is stealing things from me.
    My ability to stand up for myself.
    My ability not to cry at every damn thing.
    My ability not to apologize for not being superwoman.
    I used to be strong.
    I used to be in charge.
    I used to juggle ten things at once and still have enough left to carry someone else’s load too.

    Did I become that woman after the first battle?
    Or was she always in there — the warrior, the doer, the fixer?
    And if she was, does losing her now mean I’m losing me… or just becoming something new?

    Because right now, I feel like a shell of her.
    I cry too easily.
    I apologize too much.
    I’m angry enough to break glass.
    And some days, I want to lie on the floor, blanket over my head,
    and just stop being brave for a minute.

    Yeah, that’s where I am.
    Chemo stole my personality — or maybe it’s stripping me down to what’s left underneath it.
    The parts I never had time to meet when I was too busy being “fine.”

    Here’s the thing no one tells you:
    When everything that made you you gets blasted away,
    you find out who’s hiding underneath the noise.
    And maybe that’s the quiet kind of hope —
    not in the old me, or the strong me, or the version that looked like she had it all together —
    but in the woman who’s still standing here anyway.
    Still showing up.
    Still writing.
    Still trying.

    Maybe chemo didn’t steal everything after all.
    Maybe it just peeled me back to real.

    And that woman — broken, teary, tired, messy —
    she’s still here.
    She’s still me.
    And I think she might be becoming someone even stronger than before.

    I wonder who she’ll be next.
    But for once, I’m not afraid to find out. 💚

  • 💚 Chemo Chronicles V4: Chair Wars and the Pork Chop & Watermelon Solution

    Hi everyone — Pattie Presswoman here, reporting live from the glamorous chemo room, where the IVs drip, the chairs spin, the nurses pole dance (for the cause, obviously), and the drama unfolds one infusion at a time.

    I arrived bright and early — 8:30 a.m. — because apparently, I enjoy pretending punctuality matters when chemo runs on its own cosmic schedule. Spoiler: it doesn’t. It’s now late afternoon and, once again, I’m closing down the chemo lounge like it’s last call at Club Infusion.

    I started the day in what looked like the perfect corner chair. Big mistake. Within an hour, I was sweating like I’d run a half-marathon in South Georgia in August — which, for the record, I have (and yes, I kept the participation medal because I survived humidity that could melt eyelashes). Maybe it would be easier now with no eyelashes.

    Naturally, because I was sweating and he was not currently suffering with me, I texted my husband — a.k.a. Luke Skywalker — for sympathy. His very Jedi response? “Say something.” Ugh. Fine. I complained. Ten seconds later, I was told where the “cool kids” sit, and now I’m parked directly under the arctic vent, cool as a cucumber in full IV couture.

    Remember that friend from way-back-when who reappeared a few weeks ago? She and her son are here again. He remembered me. She half did, half didn’t — which honestly makes us even because chemo brain has me forgetting my own name some days. Still, we laughed, caught up, and for a few minutes it felt like old times (minus the poison drip, of course).

    Chair 4 was chatty today — first-timer nerves, bless her. She said asked me if all food tastes like metal. Been there, chewed that. I told her the only thing that tasted right during my first chemo rodeo was pork chops and watermelon. (Yes, together. Don’t judge. It was delicious.) She’s going to give it a try. If it works, I expect credit and maybe a Food Network deal.

    Then The Mama arrived — Queen of Chair 11. Except someone had the audacity to sit in her throne. Cue the silent standoff. Her daughter, clearly a seasoned diplomat, negotiated a peaceful one-chair-over relocation. The Mama dozed off soon after, and as I passed on my way to the restroom, I whispered to her daughter, “How dare someone steal Mama’s chair?” She nodded like we were co-conspirators in a Hallmark movie about chemo justice.

    A little later I woke up from my name to see in the chair directly across from me sat the tiniest little lady — shorter than me (and I’m 4’10” with hair). She reminded me of my own tiny little sweet-but-salty Mama. My Mama always said dynamite came in small packages. It was true for her. Anyway when the new little lady fell asleep, her head flopped over, and of course I started bugging each nursed that passed by and each one assured me she always sleeps that way, which I’m 99% sure was nurse-speak for, “Mind your own damn business, Presswoman.”

    Now here I am, half done with my third treatment regiment – which is half-way through the entire treatment schedule — cue confetti, and maybe a victory nap. A PET scan is next to see if we’re winning or if I get to pick another poison card from the deck. Either way, I’m ready.

    Because Mama didn’t raise a quitter — she raised a woman who sweats, snacks, and reports live from the chemo front lines. With sarcasm as my sidekick and hope as my headline, I’ll keep showing up — cool under the vent, pork chop in spirit, and always ready for the next round.

    Just a warning, being cool as a cucumber may have put way too many words in my fingers. My apologies for the long read. I hope it was at least entertaining!

  • The Cost of Cancer vs. The Currency of Compassion”

    Have you ever stopped to think about the actual cost of fighting cancer? Not the emotional toll — we all know that part is priceless — but the real dollars and cents.

    When I first began this journey, I had no idea how expensive staying alive could be. The surgery to remove the lump that started it all: $1,700. Not terrible, right? That’s what I thought too.

    Then came the PET scan — the big one that lights up your insides like a Christmas tree to find out where the cancer might be hiding. Price tag? $14,000. (And yes, it found something glowing.)

    Next up: the regular oncology visits. I’ve stopped trying to calculate every single one, but let’s just say each appointment includes a series of blood tests— about $4,000 a pop.

    And finally, chemotherapy. The heavy hitter. Average cost: $54,000.

    Those are the numbers when everything goes well.

    Now, before you panic, here’s the good news: I am incredibly fortunate to have a Medicare gap plan through AARP. My out-of-pocket costs are less than $1,000 a year. It’s not free — it’s actually a bit pricey upfront — but that plan has been worth every penny for the peace of mind it brings.

    I’m not sharing this to scare anyone. I’m sharing it to prepare you. Because one of the biggest lessons cancer has taught me is that being informed is a form of self-care.

    If you don’t have coverage that will protect you in a crisis — start asking questions now. And if you’re already in the middle of the fight and feeling overwhelmed, don’t hesitate to ask for help. Every cancer center has a social worker who can help you navigate the maze of costs, grants, and support programs. There are even organizations that will send volunteers to clean your house for free.

    Yes — free. Sparkling kitchen, courtesy of kindness.

    And to those of you who are fortunate enough to have extra, please donate to a cancer cause. There are so many worthy causes – find one and donate. Even $20 helps.

    The truth is, no one fights cancer alone. And no one should have to.

    If you ever find yourself sitting on hold trying to sort out insurance, bills, or assistance — call me. I’ve practically earned a Ph.D. in waiting on hold. 😊

    Because helping each other through this is the real currency of healing. 💚

    As stated many times, I cannot draw and I rely on AI to draw the pictures as I describe them. I did not describe two phones – or at least I did not think I did. But they are awesome anyway!

  • 🎮 Level 68 Fn Fantabulous

    Later this month, I’ll zone up to Level 69 (which doesn’t sound right, since you start life at Level Zero, but I don’t make the rules — I just play this weird game called Life).

    Now that I’ve almost completed Level 68, I’ve learned something important: I apparently prefer struggling through things by myself over simply asking for help. Somewhere along the way, that became a mental defect — or maybe it’s written into the game rules none of us have access to. Either way, I seem to be a solo-quest kind of girl.

    And when you add in my ongoing battle with Chemo Boy, well, asking for help feels like handing him bonus points. He feeds off weakness. I’m convinced if I ask for help, he levels up somewhere in the background, unlocking an “Extra Pain” weapon pack. And I am not giving him that satisfaction.

    The Quest for Light

    So this morning’s solo mission? Find light.
    I woke up early to write, the house was dark, and I thought to myself — “Self,” (and I knew it was me because I recognized my voice — I love that old joke, and yes, full credit to whoever first wrote it).

    Anyway. Back to the quest.

    I thought, I need a lighted keyboard. Do I have one? Hmm. I Google it. Google tells me to grab a flashlight and look for a “keyboard with lines through it” symbol. So I go on an actual flashlight hunt — in the dark — to look for a symbol that literally means “light.” You can’t make this stuff up.

    Of course, there’s no symbol. Then Google says, press the Fn key and the wiggly keyboard key.

    Excuse me — the what key? The Fn key?
    I swear I had never seen such a thing in my life. Level 68 or Chemo Brain — take your pick. But after a small archaeological dig across my keyboard, I found it! Because I am nothing if not determined not to ask for help.

    The Magic Combo

    Back to Google (which doesn’t count as asking for help — that’s a resource, like a library for the socially stubborn).

    Turns out I just needed to press Fn + Space Bar.
    I do it. And — miracle of miracles — my keyboard lights up like Times Square.

    Fn-tastic. Fn-bulous. Fn-nomenal.

    I was so proud of myself… until the mouse died.

    The Mouse That Mocked Me

    No joke, the mouse that was working five minutes ago suddenly decided to retire. My first thought: batteries. Nope. I toggled the power switch back and forth like a maniac — nothing.

    Finally, I realized the little Bluetooth light was off. Because of course it was. After a few rounds of trial, error, and mild cursing, I managed to reconnect it. Success! Mouse revived. Chemo Boy zero.

    Wait… What Was I Doing Again?

    There was just one more small problem.
    I have no idea what I originally got up to write about.

    So here we are:

    • The sun’s coming up over the lake.
    • I’m feeling good.
    • Sassy has already informed me that she’s scheduling three walks today because, quote, “Mama, you’re making me fat.”
      Her words, not mine.

    So, that’s today’s adventure: backlit victory, Bluetooth betrayal, and total topic amnesia.

    Moral of the story:
    Never give up, never give in — and don’t underestimate the power of the Fn key.