Third Act With Pattie

Tag: cancersupport

  • Congratulations, You’re Cancer-Free. Now Go Figure It Out.

    When you’re in active cancer treatment, you have a whole damn professional posse.

    A cancer treatment team.
    Oncologist. Nurses. Techs.
    Dieticians. Counselors. Social workers.
    People who actually answer the phone at 2 a.m.

    Feel a little warm? Call.
    Feel weird? Call.
    Feel like your toe might fall off or your brain might be melting? Call.

    They’ve got you. Constantly. Comfortingly. Competently.

    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.

  • Third Time’s the Charm (Or: I’m Too Tired to Be a Hero)

    Do you ever think about what you’d do differently with your life if you were given a second chance?
    Or a third?

    Because let me tell you, cancer recovery gives you plenty of time to design your imaginary TED Talk about How You Became a Better Human.

    The first time around, I had plans. Big ones.
    I was going to help everyone.
    I would join cancer support groups.
    I would mentor.
    I would inspire.
    I would claw my way back up the career ladder like a woman possessed.
    I would be wonderful. I would be awesome. I would be in great shape and radiate purpose and gratitude and probably some kind of soft glow.

    I was going to be worthy of my second chance.

    And honestly? I did some of that.
    But then I went back to work.
    And had bills.
    And needed groceries.
    And liked sleeping.
    And eventually realized that being alive and paying your mortgage takes up a shocking amount of time.

    So I settled into regular life.
    Not heroic life.
    Just… life.
    And I was happy enough to be breathing and functional without needing to save the world before lunch.

    Fast forward 22 years.

    Here we are again.
    Another chance.
    My third chance.

    Only now I’m 69, not 47, and I can say with confidence that I no longer wish to conquer anything—especially the business world. I do not want to climb ladders. I do not want to mentor (no offense). And I definitely do not want to be wonderful and awesome in any way that requires pants with buttons or sustained enthusiasm.

    This time around, my definition of wonderful has… evolved.

    I want to be wonderful in the low-energy, high-peace way.
    The sit-down-frequently way.
    The spreads calm instead of ambition way.

    I want to visit family and friends.
    I want to swim with manatees and dolphins (both of whom seem to have life figured out).
    I want to walk through nature and marvel—marvel—at how beautiful and quiet it can be.
    I want to sit on my dock, watch the geese do whatever judgmental thing geese do, listen to birds, and feel at peace.

    No glow.
    No mission statement.
    No inspirational hashtag.

    Just… peace.

    And I honestly don’t know if this shift is because I’m older, or wiser, or finally learned that rest is not a moral failure.

    Or maybe I’m just tired.

    But if this is what my third chance looks like, I think I’ll take it.

  • Normal (After Cancer Packs Up and Leaves… For Now)

    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.

    If that’s normal… I guess I’ll take it.

  • The Bell, the Mood, and the Great Treat Injustice

    By Sassy (obviously)

    Something weird is happening at my house.

    The air is lighter. People are laughing more. Mama hums while she walks around instead of sighing like a broken accordion. Daddy smiles like he knows a secret. And—this is important—we are no longer sitting around staring at each other like sad houseplants.

    Instead… Mama keeps ringing a doggone bell.

    I don’t know what the bell officially means, but every time it rings, everyone gets all emotional and happy. Mama says it’s a celebration bell. I say it’s loud, unnecessary, and should probably dispense treats. (It does not. Rude.)

    Now here’s where things take a turn.

    Mama looked at me the other day, put her hands on her hips, and said,

    “Sassy… you’re getting a little chunky.”

    EXCUSE ME.

    First of all, I prefer the term “well-loved.”
    Second of all, she immediately followed that up with,

    “We’re cutting back on treats.”

    We.

    Reader, allow me to be very clear: she did not cut back on her treats.

    I have personally witnessed her enjoying snacks while announcing my new dietary journey. She eats. I watch. This feels legally questionable.

    So now I get fewer treats, more walks (which I do enjoy, thank you very much), and a front-row seat to Mama celebrating life with bells and snacks and joy and zero accountability.

    But… here’s the thing.

    Even with the injustice.
    Even with the treat betrayal.
    Even with my kibble-only future.

    The house feels good again.

    Mama laughs. Daddy relaxes. The bell rings. We move, we go places, we live instead of waiting. And honestly? I’d trade a few treats for that any day.

    (But not all the treats. Let’s not get crazy.)

    Love,
    Sassy 🐕
    Still fabulous. Slightly less fed. Very hopeful.

  • Ringing the Bell Is a BIG DAMN DEAL

    Let me start by saying this: ringing the bell is a BIG DAMN DEAL in the cancer world.

    I did not believe this.
    At all.

    Twenty-one years ago, I didn’t get to ring a bell. I was in the hospital, chemo just… stopped happening one day, and there was no grand finale. No ding-ding, no applause, no “Congratulations, you survived.” Just Okay, good luck out there. So when I heard about bell-ringing later, I filed it neatly under Cheesy Sentimental Woo Woo Designed to Make People Feel Better.

    And listen, I’m not anti–woo woo. I just don’t like tempting the cancer goddesses. Those bitches have excellent hearing and questionable senses of humor.

    So when I finished chemo this time and they offered me the bell, I said no. Not because I didn’t want joy—but because I wasn’t about to celebrate prematurely. I wanted to sneak quietly into remission, make no sudden movements, and wait until cancer was fully distracted by someone else.

    But then… this week happened.

    I was offered the bell again.
    And I rang the HELL out of it.

    I mean rang it. With enthusiasm. With purpose. With the kind of vigor usually reserved for emergency fire alarms and last-call announcements. And OH. MY. GOSH. The relief.

    Turns out that dumb, symbolic, woo-woo bell is magic.
    Plop plop, fizz fizz—who knew emotional antacids were audible?

    The moment it rang, something shifted. Like my brain finally accepted the memo that this might actually be over. Not “over for now,” not “let’s not jinx it,” but really really over. The kind of over where you’re allowed to dream again. Where you can scheme, plan, and casually assume you’ll still be alive for future events.

    I swear I dropped ten pounds of worry in that moment. And I’m pretty sure Luke did too, just standing there watching me ring like a lunatic.

    So here we are.
    Done with chemo.
    Done holding our breath.
    About to get busy living and planning for the future again.

    Turns out, ringing the bell isn’t cheesy at all.

    It’s a BIG DAMN DEAL.