Third Act With Pattie

Tag: health

  • **📰 Chemo Chronicles: Dispatches from the Front Lines of Infusion Nation

    By: Pattie Presswoman, your roving, slightly woozy, always-observant reporter

    Ladies, gentlemen, and all you brave souls tuning in from the comfort of your recliners, heating pads, or emotional support snacks—welcome back to another thrilling episode of Chemo Chronicles, brought to you live from the bustling (or not) newsroom of Infusion Room 3.

    Let’s set the scene.

    Last week, the chemo room was—how shall I put this delicately?—slower than a sloth on Benadryl.
    My side of the room was so still I swear I heard my own thoughts echo.
    (I know… “dead.” I said it. I apologize to the universe immediately.)

    Chair 8 Guy?
    He got thirty minutes of whatever they were pumping into him, hopped up like he had a dinner reservation, and evaporated.
    Lady across from me? Same story. Whoosh. Gone before my IV pole could say goodbye.

    Meanwhile, yours truly sat there marinating—slow-cooking like a pot roast.

    Five minutes before I was finished, a woman was wheeled in, clearly looking at me like I was sitting in her rightful throne.
    I told her and her daughter, “Promise, I’ll be out in five.”
    But people on drugs—I mean this with all the love in my heart—have the patience of caffeinated toddlers.
    They want the show started and they want it now. She picked another chair.

    When I was done I gathered my blanket, the nurse unplugged my little robot helper, and I strutted out like a seasoned pro.
    And that’s when I realized…

    I had been in the ghost town half of the chemo room.
    When I walked toward the exit, suddenly things got loud. Busy. Alive.
    The right side of the room? PACKED.
    I mean, it was like they were hosting a tailgate party over there.

    Chairs filled. Voices chatting.
    One lady knitting like she was in a speed competition.
    A man crunching ice like he was digging for gold.
    The nurse on that side looked like she needed a medal… or a margarita.

    People are funny like that.
    No assigned seats, but we all swear we have a spot that’s ours.
    Whole empty row? Doesn’t matter.
    If someone’s in “your chair,” the universe feels slightly misaligned.

    As I passed the bustling side, my friend spotted me and waved with the enthusiasm of someone finally seeing civilization after wandering the desert.
    I waved back, we both grinned…

    …and then I got the hell out of there before anyone tried to assign me a seat, a job, or a conversation about their neighbor’s cousin’s hairdresser’s cancer journey.

    And that, dear readers, concludes this week’s thrilling broadcast from Chemo Central.

    Until next time—
    This is Pattie Presswoman, signing off and rolling out

  • Cherries, Almonds, and a Smart-Mouthed Sidekick

    Two days ago, I got the happiest kind of news: the chemo is working!

    Cue the confetti cannons, lime-green ribbons, and one happy little red bird doing loop-de-loops over my head. After weeks of wondering, worrying, and silently negotiating with the universe, I finally got the word that things are shrinking. Me! Shrinking things!

    The celebration continued with a long but surprisingly pleasant day in the always-entertaining chemo room — that magical land of heated chairs, cold IV poles, and nurses who could moonlight as comedians. All was well in my soul.

    Luke and I drove home talking about the future again, like normal people do. I could actually breathe again. I swear I felt my shoulders drop three inches from relief. For the first time in months, we weren’t just surviving the moment — we were daring to plan what comes next.

    And then came yesterday.

    Apparently my brain didn’t get the “we’re okay now” memo. Between the pre-programmed crazy in my head, the toxic cocktail dripping through my veins, and the endless wisecracks from that internal smart-aleck I call Chemo Boy, peace didn’t last long.

    My “quick nap” turned into a full-blown horror flick.
    Somewhere between hour two and four, I dreamed I was being attacked from the inside — an Invasion of the Body Snatchers situation starring… wait for it… cherries and almonds.

    Yep. In my subconscious, the once-monstrous “cancer nodes” became produce aisle invaders. They multiplied, pressed, and squeezed until I thought I’d explode into a fruit salad. I don’t do horror movies. And now, apparently, I don’t do long naps either.

    When I woke up, sweating and slightly homicidal toward Chemo Boy, I did what every rational cancer fighter does: I reread the PET scan report and the doctor’s notes. Twice. Okay, maybe three times.

    And here’s the reassuring truth: I am no longer invaded by cherries and almonds. The latest scan says it’s down to a pinto bean and a pea.

    That’s right — my invaders have been demoted to side-dish size.

    So I can stop holding my breath again.

    Because here’s what I know for sure:
    I am in this battle until the very end.
    I’m going to beat this cancer.
    And one of these days, I’m going to silence that sarcastic little Chemo Boy once and for all.

    (Maybe I might miss him a little. NOT A CHANCE!)

  • Chemo Chronicles V5: What do you call this room?

    What do you call a room with four women and no talking?

    I’ve been thinking about it. It’s clearly the chemo room, but that doesn’t begin to cover it.

    It might be a nap salon — where no one asked for a blow-out but we all left a little lighter.

    Or maybe a spa for the terminally exhausted, featuring the latest in drip-infused “glow from within” technology.

    Some days it feels like the quiet car on the Cancer Express — no loud talking, no snacks, and you’re not sure where you’ll end up, but everyone’s ticket cost too much.

    The Waiting Room for the Brave, perhaps, except there’s no waiting. We’re doing the thing. Just quietly.

    This week there were four of us. All women. All lined up in our recliners like power stations plugged into perseverance. Within minutes of the “pre-drug” drip, every single one of us was out cold. No chatter. No reality TV. Not even the usual IV-pole squeaks. Just four warriors in soft socks, drifting off under fluorescent halos.

    I had about ten minutes before my own eyelids surrendered, so I took inventory:
    – Chair 4 had really good hair and shoes. Definitely winning chemo couture.
    – Chair 3 was already asleep—basically a blanket with a pulse.
    – Chair 6 chatted with the nurse, then disappeared under her pillow. Relatable.

    And then silence. The kind of deep, unbothered quiet you don’t get anywhere else.

    When it was over, we rose like polite zombies—unplugged, gathered our stuff, and shuffled out with the reverence of churchgoers leaving midnight mass. No words necessary. We knew.

    Whatever this room is—a sanctuary, a spa, a silent sorority—it’s ours.

    Until next time—may your drips be steady, your naps restorative, and your IV poles never squeak at the wrong moment.

  • Becoming, Again (Day 2)

    (Or: Somewhere Between the Couch and the Cosmos)

    Time is weird.
    I’m calling this Day 2, even though the calendar swears otherwise.
    But my cells, my soul, my spinning little chemo-altered molecules—they insist Thursday was Day 1.
    So Day 2 it is.

    Yesterday’s question: Do you ever wake up and wonder where YOU went?
    Today’s realization: apparently, “becoming” requires traveling somewhere else entirely—no luggage, no return ticket, just a brain on shuffle.

    Chemo was short, mercifully.
    I even came home with my jet-pack—my white-cell superstarters ticking quietly on my arm, a tiny biochemical fireworks show set for 1 p.m.
    And then… I disappeared.

    I slid into bed like melting butter.
    Shivering, sweating, freezing, burning.
    Fan on. Fan off.
    Every molecule arguing with its neighbor about the thermostat of existence.

    Time folded in on itself.
    When I woke, the light had shifted but nothing else had.
    I drifted to the couch, a parallel universe where gravity hums louder and blankets weigh more than regret.
    I didn’t eat. I barely sipped water. I just floated in and out of body, like my brain had clocked out for interdimensional maintenance.

    Around 6:30, Luke appeared—steady, sun-warm—and said, “Come sit by the water.”
    He might as well have said, Come back to Earth.
    I sat beside him, blinking at the ripples like they were breathing.

    My mind was mushy honey. My thoughts, ping-pong balls in zero gravity.
    Winnie the Pooh would’ve understood. He said it loud and clear “Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?

    So yeah, I was here yesterday. Physically.
    But mentally? I was off somewhere between the stars and the shivers. Maybe that’s what becoming really is—your brain goes on a field trip to rearrange the furniture while your body holds down the fort.

    I wonder what version of me will step off the bus next time. I wonder if there will be a green sofa,

  • The Cost of Cancer vs. The Currency of Compassion”

    Have you ever stopped to think about the actual cost of fighting cancer? Not the emotional toll — we all know that part is priceless — but the real dollars and cents.

    When I first began this journey, I had no idea how expensive staying alive could be. The surgery to remove the lump that started it all: $1,700. Not terrible, right? That’s what I thought too.

    Then came the PET scan — the big one that lights up your insides like a Christmas tree to find out where the cancer might be hiding. Price tag? $14,000. (And yes, it found something glowing.)

    Next up: the regular oncology visits. I’ve stopped trying to calculate every single one, but let’s just say each appointment includes a series of blood tests— about $4,000 a pop.

    And finally, chemotherapy. The heavy hitter. Average cost: $54,000.

    Those are the numbers when everything goes well.

    Now, before you panic, here’s the good news: I am incredibly fortunate to have a Medicare gap plan through AARP. My out-of-pocket costs are less than $1,000 a year. It’s not free — it’s actually a bit pricey upfront — but that plan has been worth every penny for the peace of mind it brings.

    I’m not sharing this to scare anyone. I’m sharing it to prepare you. Because one of the biggest lessons cancer has taught me is that being informed is a form of self-care.

    If you don’t have coverage that will protect you in a crisis — start asking questions now. And if you’re already in the middle of the fight and feeling overwhelmed, don’t hesitate to ask for help. Every cancer center has a social worker who can help you navigate the maze of costs, grants, and support programs. There are even organizations that will send volunteers to clean your house for free.

    Yes — free. Sparkling kitchen, courtesy of kindness.

    And to those of you who are fortunate enough to have extra, please donate to a cancer cause. There are so many worthy causes – find one and donate. Even $20 helps.

    The truth is, no one fights cancer alone. And no one should have to.

    If you ever find yourself sitting on hold trying to sort out insurance, bills, or assistance — call me. I’ve practically earned a Ph.D. in waiting on hold. 😊

    Because helping each other through this is the real currency of healing. 💚

    As stated many times, I cannot draw and I rely on AI to draw the pictures as I describe them. I did not describe two phones – or at least I did not think I did. But they are awesome anyway!