Third Act With Pattie

Tag: life

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.
November 13, 2025
🐾 Sassy Walks: Mistletoe Madness

Oh. My. Dog. Did we have fun today!

Now that I’ve cracked the code on how to trick Mama into walking, we are getting it done. Today’s adventure: something called a “Mistletoe Market.” Don’t ask me what mistletoe is, but apparently it’s festive and doesn’t taste like chicken.

I proudly walked Mama on the leash (because obviously someone has to take charge), while Makenzie pushed my bestie, Hennie, in her stroller. Hennie is a Chiweenie—a 7-pound diva who thinks “strolling” means standing still while everyone adores her. Walking her is worse than walking Mama. Sooooo slow. And you have to watch where you step. Every. Single. Second.

The Market was outside with rows of tents full of people, sparkly things, and—best part—FOOD. And even better—DOG TREATS! I led Mama up and down the hills, in and out of tents, showing her how it’s done. Everyone stopped to talk to me and Hennie (because, hello, stars of the show). A photographer even took our picture—we might be famous soon. I’ll let my people handle the press release.

It was hot out though, and Mama started sweating and huffing like she was pulling a sled team in July. I made her sit down and drink water—hydration is key, folks.

We didn’t buy much, but looking was fun. Then we hit Wal-Mart! Hennie and I got the royal buggy treatment and sniffed our way through the aisles while Mama shopped. So many smells, so many admirers. People kept stopping to say how cute we were, which I think is good for Mama—it makes her slow down, smile, and remember how to be nice to people. Cancer brain, you know.

All in all, I’d call today a total success. Mama got her steps in, Hennie and I worked the crowd, and the Mistletoe Market will never be the same.

Stay tuned—me and Hennie have big plans for tomorrow. Gotta keep Mama moving!

November 9, 2025
🐾 SASSY WALKS: TJ MAX ADVENTURE EDITION 🛍️

Hey everybody, it’s me — Sassy the Wonder Dog!
I just want y’all to know that I have really been trying to get Mama out of the house. Every single day it’s the same old excuses:
“It’s too hot.” ☀️
“It’s too cold.” 🥶
“I’m too tired.” 😴
“Let me rest.” 😒

Excuse me, ma’am? You never accept those excuses from me!

But today… I found the secret weapon.
Two words: TJ MAXX.

Oh. My. Dog.
Do you even know how much STUFF is in that place?

At first, I was nervous (strangers, you know). Mama got this big rolling thing — she calls it a “buggy” — and put her jacket in it like a little nest, then lifted me right in.
Now listen, she’s kinda short and I’ve got long legs, so there was a minute there where we both looked like a circus act.

Then the doors whooshed open and I thought, “Welp, this is it. I’m gonna die.”
And just when I was trying to be brave, some fool turned on a vacuum cleaner. 😳

But I kept saying to myself, this is for Mama.
Mama needs to walk around and see people.
Mama needs exercise.
Mama needs Sassy time.

And then… something magical happened.
The SMELLS.
Good smells. Bad smells. Food smells. Treat smells. I sat up like the brave girl I am, nose in the air, tail wagging, ready for adventure.

Every corner had a new smell and something shiny to look at.
And then people started saying, “Oh, what a good girl!”
You better believe I was proud.

Mama let me pick out a treat (I chose wisely), and the nice lady at the counter gave me another one.

So now we have a new plan:
When Mama needs exercise, we go to TJ MAXX.
Because let’s face it — a girl’s gotta sniff, strut, and shop. 💅🐶

November 5, 2025
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