Third Act With Pattie

Tag: health

  • The Steroid Cycle (AKA Punkinhead Squarepants Meets Bitchy Witch Woman)

    As I approach my last chemotherapy treatment, I have finally figured out the cycle of how chemo affects me.

    Only took me five months.
    Clearly, I am a genius.

    Here’s the thing no one really prepares you for: along with my chemo IV cocktails come some lovely liquid steroids. And when I have the long chemo days, I also get to take a whole lot of steroid pills.

    One hundred and twenty mgs a day.

    Hence the transformation into Punkinhead Squarepants, combined with Crying Witch Woman, mixed with Can’t Sleep for a Week, topped off with Bitchy Bitchy Bitchy.

    It’s a stunning look. Truly.

    Tomorrow I take my last steroids. Which leads me to wonder…
    How long does bitchy bitchy take to go away?
    Asking for myself. And for everyone who loves me.

    Another thing I’ve finally figured out: after the steroids pile on, the exhaustion and misery pile on too. Enter the deep, deep hole.

    Now, are you supposed to quit steroids cold turkey?
    No.
    But that’s exactly what happens every long chemo week.

    And every time, the hole gobbles me up.

    This week—because it’s the week before Christmas and not a single decoration is up—I am trying very hard to stay outside the hole. I’m allowing myself to look into it, but not climb in and unpack.

    Next week should be my last chemo treatment.

    But it’s not the end.

    Anyone who has ever been through this knows that it never really ends. The side effects linger. The fear lingers. You become a person who questions every symptom:

    • My ear hurts — cancer.
    • My nose is running — cancer.
    • I stubbed my toe — must be brain cancer.

    It takes a toll. And it never completely goes away.

    I was almost there once.
    Twenty-one years since my last cancer. I was almost at the place where cancer was no longer my go-to diagnosis.

    And then I found a lump on my back.

    And it all fell apart.

    So here I am again, with my old go-to firmly back in place.

    None of this is to say that I am not grateful—because I am.
    Grateful to God.
    To family.
    To friends.
    To Sassy.
    To sunshine.
    To the universe.

    Grateful for another chance to remember just how precious life is.

    I fully intend to live it.
    Fully.

    It just might take a little while.

  • Chemo Chronicles: Live from the Lounge of Liquid Courage

    Reporting live from the Chemo Room, folks, where the IV poles sway and the recliners are almost comfortable. It’s 10:30 a.m., and this joint is hopping — every single chair taken. That’s right, the chemo lounge is standing-room-only (well, reclining-room-only). I haven’t seen this kind of turnout in eleven visits. Clearly, today’s the day everyone got the “Let’s poison cancer!” memo.

    To my far right sits a young lady with all her hair. All of it. Long, shiny, shampoo-commercial hair. Naturally, I had to investigate (journalistic integrity, people). Turns out she’s here for an iron infusion. Bless her. May her iron rise and her hair remain glorious.

    Meanwhile, I stepped away to the restroom and came back to find the man to my immediate right completely covered by a blanket. Like, entirely. Head completely covered, a human burrito of concern. And you know in this room, we don’t talk about dead people — it’s bad mojo. So yes, I stared until I saw his chest rise and fall. Whew. Crisis averted. No grim reaper sightings today.

    Now, on my left sits a woman who clearly did not get the chemo memo about looking half-dead. She looks fabulous. Black shiny hair (real — I checked, again, reporter skills), perfect makeup, and an outfit that screams “Cougar Christmas Chic”: black sweater, leopard-print pants, and matching boots. I want to be her when I grow up.

    Across the room, two elderly gentlemen (okay fine, probably my age, damn it) are having the time of their lives chatting about everything under the sun. I’ve seen both of them here before, alone and quiet, but today? They’re laughing, talking about old times. (Sadly, I remembered a lot of it myself.) But it’s nice. It feels like a tiny bit of joy snuck in with the saline drip.

    Somebody’s in Mama’s old chair today. I haven’t seen her in weeks. Maybe she’s cured. God, I hope she’s cured!

    And in the far corner? A little gaggle of women talking about Christmas crafts they’ve made. Glitter, glue guns, and garland galore. I wish I could join that table, but a reporter’s got to stay on her beat.

    Fast-forward to 2:30 p.m. The chemo crowd has thinned out, leaving just me and the two gents — still solving the world’s problems and condemning the evils of some drug or another. The room hums quietly now. I can see the sunshine pouring through the window, a soft reminder that there’s life happening outside these IV poles.

    It’s been a good day in the chemo room.
    No deaths. Some laughs. A little envy. A little sunshine.
    And me — still here, still reporting.

    Chemo Chronicles: signing off until next drip.

    Breaking News

    The gentlemen just told their age. I am AT LEAST 10 years younger. Boy, I feel even better now!

  • The Great Escape (For Now)

    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.

  • Digging Toward the Light

    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.

    I’ll meet you there.

  • Happy Thanksgiving

    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!