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.
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!
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.
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!
Today, a friend I haven’t seen in a long while reached out. She didn’t know my cancer was back. She didn’t know I was in treatment again. She just said, “I would love to hear your heart.”
That line stopped me cold. Not “let’s catch up.” Not “tell me what’s been going on.” She wanted to hear my heart.
And that got me thinking: what kind of peace, what kind of love does a person carry when they care less about your circumstances and more about your heart?
Do I even listen to mine? Sure, when it comes to the big-ticket items—marriage, kids, family, love. Those are the moments when you’re “supposed” to listen to your heart.
But do I listen to it daily? When I wake up bone-tired. When the chemo wall hits and knocks me flat. When Sassy drags me down the driveway like a reluctant sled dog. Do I stop and check in?
Truth: most days, my head is way louder than my heart. My head is bossy. It says:
Take the meds.
Keep walking.
Don’t puke in public.
Try to be funny about this so people aren’t uncomfortable.
Meanwhile, my heart whispers. And I ignore it. Because sometimes, my heart says stuff I don’t want to hear—like “rest” when I’d rather power through, or “cry” when I’d rather throw up a sarcastic one-liner. Or, “it’s ok to be mad about this” when I don’t want to think about that.
But my friend’s words have been simmering all day. Maybe what she really offered me was permission. Permission to pause. Permission to tune in. Permission to let my heart speak, even if it doesn’t have the right words, even if it stutters.
So I asked myself: what does my heart say right now?
And here’s the messy, beautiful, unfinished truth:
I’m still here, even if this is not what I planned to do this year.
I’m still fighting, and will not stop.
I still love, and need to show myself a little more of that.
I still have stories to tell.
That’s my heart. Maybe small. Maybe quiet. Maybe shaky. But it’s still beating. And today, someone wanted to hear it.
