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.
Last weekend was a very important Christmas party/Retirement Party — one of those annual, can’t-miss gatherings with a special twist. So I made a promise to myself that I would do everything possible to go.
Let me tell you — this was no small feat. I am deep in the chemo weeds right now. The cumulative effect (plus the rain and dreariness) has been chewing on my sanity like Sassy on a leftover dog toy. For the first time in my later years, I can honestly say I hate the way I look.
Between the steroids, the sitting, and the snacks that mysteriously keep finding their way into my hands, my face has turned into a full-blown pumpkin, and my body into SpongeBob SquarePants — complete with square legs and all. Nothing fits. The round-faced lady in the mirror doesn’t look like me… she looks like she swallowed me. Yes, I know I’ve whined about this before. It is a minor problem to be sure – but apparently I am a petty petty girl these days!
But I’d promised. So off we went.
The Great Wardrobe Expedition
Enter Makenzie, my beautiful 25-year-old granddaughter and personal fashion therapist. She could tell I was about to cancel before I’d even started trying on clothes. So she stepped in — part stylist, part nurse, part therapist — helping me find something I could stand to be seen in public wearing. Pettiness, I know – I am fortunate to be able to go out in public, I know! And yet, I whine!!
We finally landed on a flowing top, soft slacks (the only pair that fit), a fluffy scarf that doubled as both festive accessory and emergency warmth (since my jackets are all in witness protection) and sneakers. No slipping and falling on my Squarepants for this Punkinhead.
Arrival of the Square-Bodied Elf
It was cold that night, and by the time we walked to the door, I was already wheezing like a 90-year-old accordion. The place was decked out to the heavens — twinkling lights, poinsettias, and one of those towering trees that looks like it came straight from a Hallmark movie budget.
We found a table in the corner (prime real estate for introverts and chemo warriors alike) and settled in. I smiled, chatted, and tried my best to remember what it felt like to be the life of the party.
The food was amazing. There was laughter, music, the sound of high heels clicking across hardwood, and a few questionable renditions of “Jingle Bell Rock.”
The Great Escape
After an hour or two, the energy — and my stamina — ran low. Makenzie and I slipped out to the car for a quiet break, both of us just sitting in silence, watching our breath fog up the windows. No words, just a peaceful truce between exhaustion and effort.
Then we went back in.
My Early December Christmas Miracle
And by then, the dance floor was alive. Everyone twirling, laughing, glowing in the warmth of the season. I stood on the sidelines, watching them move — the old me itching to join, the current me just grateful to feel the want again, a true Christmas Miracle for me.
As I watched them dance, I made myself a quiet little vow: Next time, if there’s music playing and I have half the energy — I’m not sitting out.
I may be Punkinhead SquarePants for now, or forever, but this ol’ square body still remembers how to move and be alive and kicking – okay maybe not actual kicking.
And when I finally do — you can bet your mistletoe I’ll be celebrating the blessing of living!!!!
🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁
Oh, and today the sun is SHINING!!!! Happy Holidays!!!
Hey Everyone — I’ve been in a hole with Mama for a few days. And let me tell you, she has no idea how to appreciate a good hole.
At first, she just lay there crying in the dirt. I mean, seriously? You get a whole hole — prime digging territory — and you don’t even sniff around or toss a little dirt for fun?
I tried to show her how it’s done — scratch a little, paw a little, maybe wag while you’re at it — but noooo, she just sat there looking all sad and “deep.” (Whatever that means. I’m deep every time I nap under the blanket.)
Apparently, Mama’s hole wasn’t a digging hole, it was a “people feelings” hole. She says she had to “work her way out” like it was some kind of mission from the People Council. Honestly, I will never understand humans. Why can’t they just bark it out and chase a squirrel?
Anyway, she finally started digging — with the tiniest little spoon you ever saw. It was pitiful, but I wagged and supervised. And you know what? Bit by bit, spoon by spoon, she’s climbing out.
So I guess that’s what “healing” looks like for humans. Slow, messy, confusing… but at least we’re headed back toward the sunshine.
And me? I’m just glad she’s finally learning the true art of a good dig.
So, you haven’t heard from me for a while. But trust me, I’ve been thinking about you.
I’ve been down in a deep, dark hole — the kind that swallows up your days, your plans, and your sense of humor. Pain took the wheel for a while, and confusion rode shotgun. It wasn’t pretty.
But here’s the thing about holes: if you can’t climb out, you can at least start digging toward the light. And thanks to some pain meds that actually work, I’m doing just that — one shaky, stubborn scoop at a time.
You’d think that being this close to finishing chemo (only two more on the schedule!) would have me doing cartwheels down the hallway. Spoiler: it doesn’t. Instead, I’m more afraid now than I was at the start. Because what happens after? What will the next PET scan show? Will this be the end of treatment — forever, for now, or not at all?
So many questions, none with clear answers. And when you’re tired, those questions echo louder.
I’ll be honest: I look like I’ve been through a war zone — round-faced, square-bodied, and about seventy-five years older than my birth certificate says. Nothing fits, not my jeans, not my energy, not even my reflection some days. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe this version of me — the one with no eyelashes, no patience, and no filters — is exactly who I’m supposed to be right now.
Because here’s what I’ve learned in the dark: Hope doesn’t live on the surface. It hides deep down in the cracks of you, where the light can reach only when you’re still enough to notice.
And I think — just maybe — I’m starting to see a glimmer again.
So if you’re in your own hole right now, hold on. Take the meds. Ask for help. Complain loudly. Laugh when you can. And when the light starts to peek through, even just a little — don’t question it. Just climb toward it.
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!
Third Act With Pattie 