Third Act With Pattie

Tag: health

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.

February 4, 2026
Do Not Ever Contact Me AGAIN!

Friday morning, my phone rang.

Caller ID said it was my oncologist’s office.

Now — I already had an appointment scheduled for Monday, so my first thought was, maybe they’re calling to reschedule because of the weather.
My second thought was, or maybe they’re calling to ruin my entire day, week, and remaining sanity.

So I did what any seasoned cancer veteran does:
I stared at the ringing phone like it was a live grenade.

I watched it ring.
And ring.
And ring.

Because once you’ve had cancer, you learn this important life skill: never answer a medical call unless you’re emotionally prepared to spiral.

Finally, I picked it up.

I released the breath I’d apparently been holding since 2024 and squeaked out,
“Th-this is Pattie.”

On the other end came a voice I now refer to as Ms. Spill-the-Tea from the C-A-N-C-E-R doctor’s office.

Yes. She spelled it in my head. Slowly. With dramatic pauses.

I swear I almost stopped breathing, which would have been bad because I really needed to hear the rest.

Because the tea was this:

My PET scan was completely clear.

Completely.
Clear.

That’s right.

Cancer?
Gone.

Bye bye, cancer.
Do not pass Go.
Do not collect $200.
Do not ever contact me again.

I immediately called Luke and told him, and for a few glorious minutes we were both flying high — the kind of high that comes from hearing the words you’ve been begging the universe for six long months to say out loud.

But when I hung up the phone…

Reality showed up.

Not the happy kind.

The sneaky kind.

Because here’s the part nobody warns you about: when you finally hear the good news, your brain doesn’t throw confetti.

It squints at it.

Suspiciously.

I didn’t think, I’m free!
I thought, …are we sure though?

That’s the curse cancer leaves behind.
It doesn’t just attack your body — it rents space in your mind and refuses to move out.

Last time, it took me 20 years to stop worrying.

And then it came back in year twenty-one.

So yes — joy came first.
And then fear crept in wearing sensible shoes and carrying a clipboard.

So now what?

Now this:

No fear. I will not allow fear to drive me!
No regrets. I will do anything and everything I can to enjoy my life!

I’m starting fresh — again — but this time with more wisdom, more gratitude, and absolutely zero patience for bullshit.

I have a whole lot more life to live.

And ohhhh…
the adventures coming our way.

Cancer may have tried to write my ending —
but I’m still holding the pen. ✨💪

January 31, 2026
33 Days Post Poisoning

It has been 33 days since my last official poisoning by chemotherapy.
Yes, poisoning. Let’s not sugarcoat it — this was not a spa treatment.

And yet… the effects are still hanging around like an unwanted houseguest who “just needs one more night” and has now been here a month.

Exhaustion, I have learned, is not just being tired.

No no.

Exhaustion is a personality.

Some days I wake up feeling like a fully functioning human. I do all the things.
Laundry? Done.
Errands? Conquered.
Cooking? Look at me being domestic.

This energetic miracle can last for several days and I start thinking wildly optimistic thoughts like:

“Well hell, maybe I’m fine now.”

That is when the reckoning arrives.

For the next day or two, I am emotionally and physically paralyzed — like every energetic molecule has been vacuumed straight out of my body. The only known treatment is full vegetation on the couch.

Not resting.
Not relaxing.

Vegetating.

My brain refuses to form orderly thoughts, so I watch television shows I’ve already seen. Not because they’re good — but because they require absolutely no participation. I cannot handle plot twists. I cannot meet new characters. I cannot commit.

I need television that says,
“Don’t worry. You already know how this ends.”

Looking back, this happened the last time too. I just assumed it was because I had an open wound trying to kill me from the inside. Reasonable conclusion.

This time, though, there’s no open wound.
There is, however, the minor detail that I am 21 years older.

So naturally I thought,
“Oh. This must just be because I’m 69.”

But no.

Turns out it’s not age.
It’s chemo — still swinging long after the bell rang.

If history repeats itself (and cancer does love consistency), this phase will pass too.

Which brings me to my current burning question:

What the hell comes after this?

Do I get energy?
Brain cells?
Motivation?
A complimentary tote bag?

No idea.

But for now, I will remain on the couch, staring blankly at familiar TV characters who ask absolutely nothing of me — and waiting for my body to remember how to be human again.

One day at a time.
Preferably with snacks.

January 29, 2026
The View From Right Now

It’s been almost three weeks since my last chemotherapy treatment, and I am feeling… so many feels.
Like, Costco-sized feelings. In bulk.

On the bright side, I haven’t had a night sweat in five whole days. FIVE.
That alone deserves a parade. Or at least fresh sheets that don’t feel like they were wrung out by a lifeguard.
I feel better. My mind is a little clearer. I’ve even started tiptoeing into that dangerous mental neighborhood called “Life After Cancer.”
You know—the place where people make plans. And assumptions. And maybe even buy concert tickets more than a month out.

But then there’s the other hand.
I’m still tired. A lot.
Like, do one thing and need a lie-down tired.
My motivation seems to have a strict one-activity-per-day policy, and my brain shuts down the moment exhaustion shows up—which is often and without notice. Concentration just packs up its little suitcase and says, “Nope. I’m out.”

And then there’s the third hand.
Which I don’t technically have, but my anxiety has graciously supplied.

This hand is busy worrying.
Worrying that I’m not cancer-free yet.
Worrying while I wait for a test that hasn’t even been scheduled because insurance is apparently on a scenic route.
Worrying that even if I am cancer-free now, what about next year?
This was my second round—does that mean I get a punch card? A loyalty program? Do I do this forever?
Will it be a long life?
A shortened one?
Is all this mental ping-pong the reason I sometimes feel completely frozen, like my body just hits the pause button?

Probably.

The truth is, the view from right now keeps changing.
Sometimes it’s hopeful.
Sometimes it’s foggy.
Sometimes it’s downright scary as hell.

But here’s the thing I’m trying to hold onto: right now is not the whole story.
Right now includes dry sheets, a clearer mind, and small signs that my body is still trying—still healing.
Right now doesn’t require me to solve next year, or the rest of my life, or every possible outcome.

Right now just asks me to sit here.
Breathe.
Do one thing.
And trust that the view will change again.

And maybe—just maybe—the next version will be even better.

January 10, 2026
Night Sweats

I am sick and tired of night sweats. Sick. Sick. Sick. There, I’ve said it out loud.

And no, I am not talking about menopausal night sweats.
I conquered those decades ago like the warrior woman I am.

I am talking about the clothes-drenching, sheet-drowning, middle-of-the-night baptismal pool night sweats caused by lymphoma and chemotherapy.
The double whammy.
The overachiever of bodily betrayal.

Three, four, sometimes five times a night.
Every night.
For weeks.
Every. Single. Night.

Bedtime is no longer bedtime. It is logistics.

Before bed, I line up five sets of pajamas like I’m staging a quick-change Broadway show. Each stack is carefully oriented so when I grab it half-asleep, the front is actually the front. This is not my first rodeo.

Next: towels. Five or six of them.
Last time I used sheets and realized this time… I don’t care that much anymore.

You fall asleep hopeful (rookie mistake), having turned the air down because surely this will be the night it doesn’t happen.
Spoiler alert: it happens.

You wake up drenched. Absolutely soaked.
And somehow also freezing, because the air is blasting and your body has turned itself into a swamp.

So you sneak out of bed, shaking and shivering, and stumble over to the stash.
You peel off the wet clothes.
Put on the dry ones.
Repeat this process while trying very hard not to wake up too much or fully question your life choices.

First towel: hair.
Fortunately—thanks to chemo—I don’t have much hair, so that’s efficient at least. That towel goes back with the stack.

Second towel: to the bed.
It gets laid over the bottom sheet.
You flip the pillow.
Then you wad up the wet top sheet and shove it to the foot of the bed under the covers.

I’m short. I don’t need that part anyway.

Two hours later… you do it all again.
And then again.
And then again.

Eventually it’s after 4 a.m., and anything after that is officially get-up time, whether you like it or not.

The interesting thing—at least for me—is that this doesn’t start at the beginning, when the cancer is at its strongest.
It starts later.
With the cumulative effect of the chemo.
Like a delayed punchline no one asked for.

I am very grateful the chemo is over.

And I will be extra glad—borderline celebratory—when the night sweats finally decide to pack up their towels and leave.

Until then, I’ll be over here, running a one-woman overnight laundry service, wondering how it’s possible to be both soaked and freezing at the same time.

Again.

January 4, 2026