Third Act With Pattie

Tag: life

The Worst Part of Having Cancer

One would think the obvious answer is that the cancer—or the treatment—could kill you. But for me, that’s not it. Not yet, anyway. The possibility of death, even with the diagnosis and the poison, still feels far away. Which is, frankly, my preference.

It’s not the constant sickness or nausea. It’s not the hours of shivering and chills, or the sliding-down-a-razor-blade thrill of eliminating bodily waste.

It’s not the isolation—both physical and internal. It’s not that most food tastes like metal, or that eating and drinking enough each day sends you right back to that razor-blade ride.

It’s not even the endless naps, the half-conscious fog, the 8 p.m. bedtime, or the sense that life’s fun is happening somewhere else without you.

But I digress. The question was: what is the worst part of having cancer?

Your hair is gone. Your face looks puffier. Your body changes. You tell yourself those are just shallow things—but then you start forgetting words, and where you were going, and why. You can’t recall names you’ve known for years. You sit in the dark and cry for any reason—or no reason at all.

And the biggest thing you lose? Your common sense.

Take a few days ago, for example. A fine case study in cognitive chaos.

I got up early, determined to leave by 8 a.m. because Sassy the Wonder Dog had a 9 o’clock grooming appointment. (Sassy’s favorite hobby is rolling in the stinkiest piles imaginable.) With Luke’s help, I loaded the car and finally got dressed—only to realize my diamond ring was missing.

Common sense immediately exited the premises.

I went to grab my phone to call Luke—only to discover that it, too, was missing. Lost ring. Lost phone. Obviously Luke’s fault.

So I ran outside and started tearing apart everything he had just loaded into the car. Found the phone, not the ring. Maybe not Luke’s fault after all. But I called him hysterical anyway, and he promised to rush home.

Meanwhile, I ransacked the house: dishwasher, clean sheets, folded blankets—nothing. Luke arrived, calm and logical (as usual), and asked where I was when I first noticed it was gone. He checked the dressers while I tore apart the blankets on my side of the bed—still mid-meltdown, crying about how useless I am, how I keep losing everything, how I’m losing my brain, and what if I never get back to—

And then I looked under the bed.

“FOUND IT!” I shouted, with what can only be described as a psychotic smile.

Luke looked up. “Found what?”

“My ring!” I chirped.

He didn’t actually say this, but I swear I heard:

“Hm. Thought maybe you found your senses.”

It was only 8 a.m., and I was already crazy.
Sad to say, the crazy lasted all day.

And let’s be honest—it’ll be back tomorrow.
Because common sense is not a product of chemotherapy.

October 24, 2025
Becoming, Again

You ever wake up and wonder where you went?
Because I do. Every damn day lately.

When I started this blog — Second Battle, Same Me — I really believed that.
That I could go through cancer again and still come out the same woman.
But lately I’m not so sure.

Twenty-one years ago, I fought this battle once before.
Back then, I don’t remember if I became someone else —
or if I just put on a stronger version of myself to survive it.
But now, walking through it again, I can feel the shift happening all over.

Chemo is stealing things from me.
My ability to stand up for myself.
My ability not to cry at every damn thing.
My ability not to apologize for not being superwoman.
I used to be strong.
I used to be in charge.
I used to juggle ten things at once and still have enough left to carry someone else’s load too.

Did I become that woman after the first battle?
Or was she always in there — the warrior, the doer, the fixer?
And if she was, does losing her now mean I’m losing me… or just becoming something new?

Because right now, I feel like a shell of her.
I cry too easily.
I apologize too much.
I’m angry enough to break glass.
And some days, I want to lie on the floor, blanket over my head,
and just stop being brave for a minute.

Yeah, that’s where I am.
Chemo stole my personality — or maybe it’s stripping me down to what’s left underneath it.
The parts I never had time to meet when I was too busy being “fine.”

Here’s the thing no one tells you:
When everything that made you you gets blasted away,
you find out who’s hiding underneath the noise.
And maybe that’s the quiet kind of hope —
not in the old me, or the strong me, or the version that looked like she had it all together —
but in the woman who’s still standing here anyway.
Still showing up.
Still writing.
Still trying.

Maybe chemo didn’t steal everything after all.
Maybe it just peeled me back to real.

And that woman — broken, teary, tired, messy —
she’s still here.
She’s still me.
And I think she might be becoming someone even stronger than before.

I wonder who she’ll be next.
But for once, I’m not afraid to find out. 💚

October 17, 2025
Sassy the Wonder Dog Goes to Work

Oh my gosh, you guys — LOOK what my Uncle Bobby and Aunt Beth made just for me! 🦸‍♀️
A Super Cape for Sassy the Wonder Dog! 💚💜 I mean, seriously — could there be better humans in the whole wide world? If you see them, tell them how awesome they are.

As soon as it arrived, Mom took me up to Dad’s office to show me off. Everyone needs to see a superhero at work, right? I strutted across that shiny white tile floor like I owned the place. The cape even matches Mom’s cancer colors — bright lime green and purple — which makes me an official sidekick in the battle.

It was good for Mom to go, too. She doesn’t like going there much anymore. She says she “looks like crap” because her hair is falling out. (I don’t get that part — mine falls out every day and nobody panics about it. Humans are weird.) She also says she’s gotten fatter (and shhh, that part might be true), but it’s the medicine, and she can’t help it. I still think she’s perfect.

Last time I wrote, I had a plan to get Mom walking more. Well, as she likes to say — chemo turns plans to poop! 💩
You probably read her blogs — she’s been feeling rough. But she’s getting stronger again, and today we’re going to take short walks up at the lake. It’s our favorite place. I’ll be wearing my Wonder Dog cape proudly — maybe she’ll feel better being seen with such a stylish sidekick.

Taking care of Mom is my full-time job. That means making sure she rests, too. Yesterday was a big day (wonder dogging is hard work), so we went to bed early — 8 p.m. sharp. I curled up beside her all night to keep watch. She was pretty restless… probably still excited about the cape I think.

Thank you again to the bestest Uncle Bobby and Aunt Beth in the whole wide world! 💚
You made this Wonder Dog feel truly super.

October 16, 2025
💚 Chemo Chronicles V4: Chair Wars and the Pork Chop & Watermelon Solution

Hi everyone — Pattie Presswoman here, reporting live from the glamorous chemo room, where the IVs drip, the chairs spin, the nurses pole dance (for the cause, obviously), and the drama unfolds one infusion at a time.

I arrived bright and early — 8:30 a.m. — because apparently, I enjoy pretending punctuality matters when chemo runs on its own cosmic schedule. Spoiler: it doesn’t. It’s now late afternoon and, once again, I’m closing down the chemo lounge like it’s last call at Club Infusion.

I started the day in what looked like the perfect corner chair. Big mistake. Within an hour, I was sweating like I’d run a half-marathon in South Georgia in August — which, for the record, I have (and yes, I kept the participation medal because I survived humidity that could melt eyelashes). Maybe it would be easier now with no eyelashes.

Naturally, because I was sweating and he was not currently suffering with me, I texted my husband — a.k.a. Luke Skywalker — for sympathy. His very Jedi response? “Say something.” Ugh. Fine. I complained. Ten seconds later, I was told where the “cool kids” sit, and now I’m parked directly under the arctic vent, cool as a cucumber in full IV couture.

Remember that friend from way-back-when who reappeared a few weeks ago? She and her son are here again. He remembered me. She half did, half didn’t — which honestly makes us even because chemo brain has me forgetting my own name some days. Still, we laughed, caught up, and for a few minutes it felt like old times (minus the poison drip, of course).

Chair 4 was chatty today — first-timer nerves, bless her. She said asked me if all food tastes like metal. Been there, chewed that. I told her the only thing that tasted right during my first chemo rodeo was pork chops and watermelon. (Yes, together. Don’t judge. It was delicious.) She’s going to give it a try. If it works, I expect credit and maybe a Food Network deal.

Then The Mama arrived — Queen of Chair 11. Except someone had the audacity to sit in her throne. Cue the silent standoff. Her daughter, clearly a seasoned diplomat, negotiated a peaceful one-chair-over relocation. The Mama dozed off soon after, and as I passed on my way to the restroom, I whispered to her daughter, “How dare someone steal Mama’s chair?” She nodded like we were co-conspirators in a Hallmark movie about chemo justice.

A little later I woke up from my name to see in the chair directly across from me sat the tiniest little lady — shorter than me (and I’m 4’10” with hair). She reminded me of my own tiny little sweet-but-salty Mama. My Mama always said dynamite came in small packages. It was true for her. Anyway when the new little lady fell asleep, her head flopped over, and of course I started bugging each nursed that passed by and each one assured me she always sleeps that way, which I’m 99% sure was nurse-speak for, “Mind your own damn business, Presswoman.”

Now here I am, half done with my third treatment regiment – which is half-way through the entire treatment schedule — cue confetti, and maybe a victory nap. A PET scan is next to see if we’re winning or if I get to pick another poison card from the deck. Either way, I’m ready.

Because Mama didn’t raise a quitter — she raised a woman who sweats, snacks, and reports live from the chemo front lines. With sarcasm as my sidekick and hope as my headline, I’ll keep showing up — cool under the vent, pork chop in spirit, and always ready for the next round.

Just a warning, being cool as a cucumber may have put way too many words in my fingers. My apologies for the long read. I hope it was at least entertaining!

October 11, 2025
Too Tired to Lift a Blanket, But Still Fighting the Battle

When was the last time you slept in and still woke up so tired that even pulling the blanket off felt like a full-body workout? I’m talking Olympic-level fatigue here. The kind where you just lie there negotiating with gravity like, “Listen, I’ll move if you move first.”

So there I was, having a full-blown hostage situation with my comforter. The only reason I didn’t stay trapped under it forever was because my bladder started yelling like a toddler in a grocery store. I tried to ignore it, but biology always wins. So I turned sideways, feet to the floor, and slid out like a slow-motion seal escaping a sand trap. It wasn’t pretty, but it was effective.

After surviving that adventure, I scrubbed my hands for the required 20 seconds (because apparently 19 seconds is where all the germs party), and fully intended to crawl back into bed. But then I looked down. My blanket mountain had avalanched to the floor. There was no freaking way I was lifting that mess.

So, off I wobbled to my sacred recovery spot—the couch. My couch never lets me down. It knows my shape. It cradles me. It always has that one blanket ready for action. But before I could collapse into its loving embrace, I stumbled into the kitchen to pour myself a cup of ambition. 🎶 (Yes, that’s a Dolly Parton lyric. Yes, my brain just sings now. No, there’s no off switch.)

Today’s ambition doesn’t involve board meetings or productivity charts. Nope. My ambition is to mix the perfect recipe of rest, healing foods, hydration, determination, and pure, unfiltered fierceness.

So, what’s the moral of this story? I’m too tired to pick up a blanket—but not too tired to keep showing up for the fight. I’m weary, yes. But I’m not out.

Now if someone could just invent self-folding covers, I might finally win a round.

October 9, 2025