Third Act With Pattie

Tag: family

  • Crescent Walking Away From Cancer Girl…

    How long will it be before I stop introducing myself as
    “Hi, I’m Pattie, recent cancer patient currently in remission”?

    Like it’s my job title.

    Like the rest of my personality is temporarily out to lunch.

    Or, to put it another way…
    How long do I play the cancer card to justify:

    • the 50-pound souvenir
    • the puffy eyes
    • and my gold-medal commitment to sitting on my ass

    Asking for a friend. (It’s me.)

    In a bold and possibly delusional move toward “rejoining society,” I joined a tai chi class.

    And because apparently I cannot help myself, during introductions I blabbed the whole cancer saga.

    “Hi, I’m Pattie. I’m a few months out from chemo, in remission.”

    WHY.

    The sweet southern ladies nodded with sympathy and concern, and I immediately thought: Why is that still my headline?

    It’s been ten weeks since my last poisoning, yet I’m still oeprating in Cancer First Mode.

    This is not a place I want to linger.

    And yet…

    So I paid good money for a Tai Chi For Everyone class— IN ADVANCE — because nothing motivates like prepaid shame.

    Let’s discuss the bold stupidity of this decision:

    What kind of woman lounges on the sofa for eight months and then says, “You know what sounds fun? Coordinated public movement,”

    This woman.

    Somewhere in my head I must have believed that if I could defeat cancer —TWICE — I could absolutely dominate a slow, gentle, old -people tai chi class.

    WRONGWRONGWRONGWRONG.

    We started with breathing.

    Which I felt strong about, since I’ve been practicing that for 69 years.

    Then came something called a “kidney wake-up,” involving sweeping my hands around to my back, down to my feet, and back up again… while continuing to breathe.

    Apparently bending cancels breathing.

    Who knew.

    Then came the “simple” bend-over-hands-flat-on-the-floor-and-hold.

    Now. I am 4’10”. The floor is not geographically far away.

    But between being short armed, round in the middle and freshly deconditioned, there was no way my hands were going flat.

    And HOLD?

    Ma’am, please.

    This was still the warm-up.

    Next came tai chi walking.

    Left foot.
    Right foot.
    Crescent moon.
    Heel touch.
    Toe touch.

    I have already forgotten the sequence.

    My thighs have not.

    And then…

    Cloud hands.

    Let me tell you something about cloud hands.

    The only cloud I experienced was the one my brain floated off on while everyone else moved in slow, graceful harmony.

    By the end, the class looked like synchronized swans.

    And I looked like I was trying to land a small aircraft.

    Today I am supposed to be practicing cloud hands.

    Instead, I will be watching instructional videos.

    Possibly fifty.

    Possibly from the sofa.

    But here’s the part that maters.

    I did not join tai chi to become graceful.

    I joined because I do not want to be “cancer girl” anymore.

    Okay.

    “Cancer older woman.”

    I don’t want that to be my first descriptor in a room.
    Or in my head. Or in my body.

    If awkward crescent-moon-walking is what it takes to shift identities, then so be it.

    My palms may not be flat on the floor.

    But I showed up.

    And right now, that counts.

    I go back tomorrow.

    Wish me lots of luck.

    And maybe a laminated cheat sheet.

    ☁️ 🌈🧘‍♀️☁️

  • 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.

  • Getting Away (Wheelchairs, Wind, and Unexpected Victories)

    Getting away from home is always fun.
    Getting away from home with great friends is even better.

    So we met some friends in Key West — because apparently my post-chemo self still believes in optimism and ocean breezes.

    When I left home, my stamina was kaput — as my mother would have said. Completely gone. Missing in action. Possibly hiding under the bed.

    I even agreed to a wheelchair ride through the Atlanta airport.

    Now let’s be clear: the wheelchair was hard, uncomfortable, and absolutely not what you’d call luxurious.
    BUT — being whisked through crowds like airport royalty and taking the elevator instead of the escalator?

    Well. For once, the last six months offered a perk.

    The Key West airport is MUCH smaller, so I walked out on my own two feet.

    I didn’t realize it at the time, but that little walk turned out to be a metaphor.

    The first day the weather was beautiful. Luke and I enjoyed the resort, met up with friends, ate, drank, laughed, and had one of those rare days where cancer didn’t get an invitation.

    The next morning was even better.
    We rented a golf cart and spent three glorious hours touring the island — which is now officially my favorite form of transportation. Minimal exertion. Maximum joy.

    We returned around three and did what mature adults with medical trauma do.

    We took a nap.

    Around five, we heard what sounded like a pack of wild children racing through the hallway. As we opened the door to head to an outdoor reception and dinner on the beach, the wind hit me so hard I thought:

    “Well. This might be it. Blown clean into the Atlantic.”

    And that wind?
    It stayed.
    All week. And brought temperatures in the fifties! In Key West!
    Relentless. Rude. Completely unimpressed by my beachy dreams.

    That did not stop us from walking and playing and enjoying ourselves!

    Naturally, the day we were leaving was perfect.

    Of course it was.

    But here’s the thing — despite the wind and the cold, we had a fabulous time.

    Luke and I spent real time together.
    We laughed with friends.
    We lived instead of just enduring.

    And when we returned home, I walked through the Atlanta airport on my own two feet.

    No wheelchair.
    No escort.
    Just me — stronger than when I left.

    Sometimes the miracle isn’t sunshine or calm seas.
    Sometimes it’s realizing you’re walking forward again — even when the wind is trying to knock you over.

    And that made it a wonderful time. ❤️

  • 🐾 Sassy the Wonder Dog Walks Again 🐾

    Hello everyone.
    It’s me. Sassy. The Wonder Dog.
    Since Mama has been suspiciously quiet for about a week, I have taken over communications. You’re welcome.

    Here’s the scoop.

    That last chemo?
    Yeah. It flattened Mama like a pancake you accidentally sat on. Since then, it’s been an up-down-up-down situation. Christmas was… not normal. But Daddy? Oh my dog. Daddy WORKED that kitchen like he was auditioning for a Food Network special. Mama noticed. I noticed. I supervised closely from floor level. We really appreciate Daddy.

    I do keep seeing Mama try to write sometimes. She sits down, types a bit… and then suddenly runs off to that horrible room where they attempt to drown me with soap and water and where she sits on a strange white throne. I do not approve of this room. AT ALL. I try not to even look in there.

    Now we are up at the lake, Mama’s Happy Place, and let me tell you—Mama is slowly getting her mojo back. She sits on the deck soaking up sunshine (excellent life choice), and I lay nearby pretending I am a decorative rug but watching her every move. She walks around the property a little, tries to be “normal” going up the stairs, and then immediately remembers that breathing is still optional but highly recommended.

    BUT THEN.
    YESTERDAY HAPPENED.

    Mama let ME take HER for a walk.

    We walked all the way around the yard.
    AND up the driveway.
    AND all the way to the community mailboxes.

    People, this was BIG.
    She was exhausted afterward and took a two-hour nap. Naturally, I napped with her to ensure survival. It’s called being responsible.

    Now she says later today we might walk all the way to “the green thing.”
    I don’t know what that is.
    I don’t care what that is.
    What I know is Mama is determined, and when she decides to do something, she usually does it—even if she has to stop and huff and puff and lean on me (which is fine, I am very sturdy).

    So until Mama gets her writing brain fully rebooted, here’s the official Sassy Update:

    ✔️ Mama is okay
    ✔️ Mama is getting stronger
    ✔️ Mama is walking again
    ✔️ Mama is even talking about cooking food someday (Daddy is VERY excited).

    Stick with us.
    We’re walking forward—one mailbox, one green thing, and one nap at a time.

    Love,
    🐾 Sassy the Wonder Dog
    Head of Walks, Naps, and Mama Supervision

  • Tantrums & Lightning Bugs

    Let me just say it plainly:
    I. Want. To. Feel. Normal.

    Is that so unreasonable?
    To wake up with energy?
    To know who I am and what day it is?
    (At this point, I’d settle for getting one of those right.)

    And honestly—
    some days my inner toddler wakes up before I do.

    She wants to march into Wal-Mart (where else),
    plop down in the middle of the stupid seasonal aisle,
    and unleash a Big-Ass Deluxe Super-Sized Tantrum™
    complete with foot stomping,
    arm flailing,
    and a dramatic,
    “I WANT THIS TO BE O–VER, DAMMIT!”

    I want to scream it so loud
    they hear it in Sporting Goods.

    But then…
    I re-read what I wrote.

    And suddenly the tantrum isn’t quite as adorable as it sounded in my head.
    Because WOW.
    Who knew I was the spoiled brat in this equation?

    Here I am whining about wanting the finish line closer,
    when some people don’t even get a finish line—
    just more road.
    More fight.
    More pain.
    More “keep going even though you’re tired down to your soul.”

    Talk about a perspective slap.

    Meanwhile I’ve got a lightning bug blinking at me
    from the end of my tunnel,
    like,
    “Hey girl, I’m tiny but I’m TRYING.”

    And if I get even a flicker of light,
    I damn well want to help somebody else
    spot theirs.

    So instead of melting down in Wal-Mart
    (tempting though it still is),
    I’m redirecting that dramatic energy
    toward something useful:

    How to Help Someone Who’s in the Dark

    • Send a meal (or a DoorDash code).
    A cancer patient receiving a no-cook dinner is basically the Oscars of kindness.

    • Text them with ZERO expectation of reply.
    “Thinking of you—don’t answer this or I’ll fight you.”
    Perfect.

    • Learn other people’s stories, not just mine.
    Sites full of real humans being brave and messy:

    • The Mighty
    • Stupid Cancer
    • Cancer Support Community (legit, not woo-woo)
    • American Cancer Society (the grown-up in the room)

    • Volunteer without leaving your recliner.

    • Letters Against Isolation → send love to lonely seniors
    • Imerman Angels → one-on-one support mentoring

    • Donate if you can. Share if you can’t.
    No guilt. Just options.

    And maybe the biggest one:

    When you have even ONE lightning-bug moment,
    hold it up.
    Let someone else borrow the glow.

    Because tantrums feel good for a minute.
    But helping someone else find their light?
    That feels good for a long time.