Third Act With Pattie

Tag: life

  • They Have Lost Their Doggone Minds Two Houses. Three People. Zero Good Decisions.

    They Have Lost Their Doggone Minds Two Houses. Three People. Zero Good Decisions.

    Y’all…
    it’s official.

    They have lost their doggone minds.
    Both. Of. Them. Completely.

    I heard them talking yesterday
    about leaving the lake house
    and going back to the city house.

    Excuse me??

    I was having an excellent time at the lake house.
    The weather was nice.
    The birds were active.
    The squirrels were bold.
    (A mistake on their part.)

    I had a full schedule.

    As usual…
    nobody asked me.

    Then I watched them carry out
    a whole bunch of stuff
    and load it into the truck.

    Seemed like a bad idea.

    I mean, we are supposed to be moving
    TO the lake house.

    Not… practicing leaving it.

    Mama and I drove back in the car.
    Daddy drove the truck.

    He got there first.
    Which is not surprising.

    Mama is a slower driver.
    Not bad…
    just… deeply committed to taking her time.

    We walk in the house
    and Daddy says:

    “We have to go back.”

    Mama and I just stared at him
    with wide open eyes.

    (I taught her that look. She’s improving.)

    Before either of us could respond,
    he says:

    “I left my wallet at the lake house… I think.”

    Sir ???

    We just got here.

    Mama and I looked at each other.

    I don’t know exactly what Mama was thinking,
    but I’m fairly certain
    it involved some words
    I do not use.

    Because,

    I am a very good girl.

    After a long discussion
    (where I was, once again, not consulted),
    they decided:

    We would stay the night
    and go back in the morning.

    Daddy said we had to leave early
    because of spring break.

    Spring break.

    You know who’s not on spring break?

    Me.

    I’m on “get in the car, Sassy.”

    Mama did not seem nearly as concerned
    about spring break
    as she was about her sanity.

    Next thing I know,
    it is not even light outside
    and I am being loaded into the car.

    Again.

    Let me explain something:

    It is a long, long, long ride
    for a dog.

    And since Mama had to drive,
    we took her car.

    Which means—

    Daddy sat in my seat.

    My seat.

    Without discussion.
    Without permission.

    I was moved
    to the back seat.

    The unacceptable seat.
    The seat where you cannot see out properly.
    The seat of poor life decisions.

    After a very long time,
    we got back to the lake.

    Mama let me out
    to “handle my business.”

    Which I did.
    Efficiently.
    Like a professional.

    We went upstairs,
    went inside…

    and then…

    we were there
    for about five minutes.

    Five. Minutes.

    I hadn’t even finished
    smushing down my bed.

    (Another thing humans do wrong—
    they just sit down
    without preparing the spot first.
    It’s chaos.)

    Daddy found his wallet.

    In the clothes hamper.

    In the pocket of his pants.

    …This is exactly why
    dogs do not wear pants.

    Or fully trust people who do.

    Then we went
    right back downstairs,
    right back into the car.

    Mama is now in my seat.
    I am once again
    in the terrible back seat.

    For another
    long, long, long ride.

    I did not ask
    to participate in this adventure.

    I could have stayed home
    on my section of the sectional.

    In peace.
    In dignity.

    But no.

    Nobody asked me.

    They never do.

    And that is exactly how I know…

    they have lost their doggone minds.

    🐾 Sassy the Wonderdog

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    I will allow it. —Sassy

  • This Isn’t Goodbye — It’s the Third Act

    It’s been three months since my last intentional poisoning.

    Not a sentence I ever expected to say out loud… again.

    Physically, I’m starting to feel like myself again.

    Mentally… well… let’s not get carried away.

    Some things are just part of the brand.

    But somewhere between surviving, recovering, and figuring out what normal is supposed to look like now, I realized something important:

    I’m ready to move forward.

    Not because that chapter didn’t matter.

    It did.

    More than I can probably ever put into words.

    But I don’t want to live the rest of my life as “cancer woman.”

    I fought that battle.

    I rang that bell.

    And now… I want my life back.

    Here’s the part I didn’t see coming:

    I fell in love with writing.

    Not the polished, perfect kind.

    Just the kind where you sit down and tell the truth about what happened that day —
    the good parts, the hard parts, and the moments that make you laugh when you probably shouldn’t.

    Because I’m not a celebrity.
    I don’t have a grand platform or a special talent.

    I’m just me.

    And like all of you, my days are filled with real-life moments —
    some beautiful, some messy, some completely ridiculous.

    Turns out… that’s where the stories are.

    And once I started telling them, I realized something else:

    I’m not done.

    Not even close.

    So I’m opening a new door.

    Third Act With Pattie (insert link)

    This is where I’ll be now —
    writing about life after the bell.

    Retirement surprises I did not fully think through.
    Lake life (which looks peaceful but has opinions).
    Creative projects in various stages of “we’ll see how this goes.”

    And, of course, the daily observations of one very watchful — and slightly judgmental — dog:

    Sassy the Wonderdog.

    But before I go, there’s something I need to say.

    Because none of this — not one word of it — would have happened without my cousin, Robin.

    Robin has been writing stories for as long as I can remember. Honestly, probably since she first figured out how to hold a pencil.

    Years ago, when my thoughts were getting too jumbled, she gave me one simple piece of advice:

    Write a blog.

    I did what any reasonable person would do.

    I ignored her.

    For years.

    Because I was absolutely certain no one wanted to read anything I had to say.

    But Robin…

    Robin does not give up easily.

    Even when cancer got loud — and it did — she kept showing up with the same quiet, steady belief:

    Someone needs your voice.

    Eventually, I ran out of ways to ignore her.

    So I started writing.

    And somewhere along the way… it changed me.

    Thank you, Robin.

    For the nudge I resisted.
    For the encouragement I needed.
    And for believing in me long before I believed in myself.

    I am more grateful than I know how to say.

    And constantly amazed by the way your creativity shows up in the world.

    Writing under the names Celia Ashley, Jo Allen Ash, and Alyssa Deane, Robin creates stories that pull you in, carry you somewhere else, and somehow leave you feeling more human when you come back.

    Do yourself a favor, visit her blog at https://robinmaderich.blog and get lost in her stories.

    So this isn’t really goodbye.

    It’s more like…

    If you’ve been reading along,
    if you’ve laughed a little,
    or found yourself somewhere in these stories…

    come with me.

    Pull up a chair.

    We’re just getting started… and I have a feeling this part might be the best yet.

    You’ll find me here now Third Act With Pattie

  • Crescent Walking Away From Cancer Girl…

    How long will it be before I stop introducing myself as
    “Hi, I’m Pattie, recent cancer patient currently in remission”?

    Like it’s my job title.

    Like the rest of my personality is temporarily out to lunch.

    Or, to put it another way…
    How long do I play the cancer card to justify:

    • the 50-pound souvenir
    • the puffy eyes
    • and my gold-medal commitment to sitting on my ass

    Asking for a friend. (It’s me.)

    In a bold and possibly delusional move toward “rejoining society,” I joined a tai chi class.

    And because apparently I cannot help myself, during introductions I blabbed the whole cancer saga.

    “Hi, I’m Pattie. I’m a few months out from chemo, in remission.”

    WHY.

    The sweet southern ladies nodded with sympathy and concern, and I immediately thought: Why is that still my headline?

    It’s been ten weeks since my last poisoning, yet I’m still oeprating in Cancer First Mode.

    This is not a place I want to linger.

    And yet…

    So I paid good money for a Tai Chi For Everyone class— IN ADVANCE — because nothing motivates like prepaid shame.

    Let’s discuss the bold stupidity of this decision:

    What kind of woman lounges on the sofa for eight months and then says, “You know what sounds fun? Coordinated public movement,”

    This woman.

    Somewhere in my head I must have believed that if I could defeat cancer —TWICE — I could absolutely dominate a slow, gentle, old -people tai chi class.

    WRONGWRONGWRONGWRONG.

    We started with breathing.

    Which I felt strong about, since I’ve been practicing that for 69 years.

    Then came something called a “kidney wake-up,” involving sweeping my hands around to my back, down to my feet, and back up again… while continuing to breathe.

    Apparently bending cancels breathing.

    Who knew.

    Then came the “simple” bend-over-hands-flat-on-the-floor-and-hold.

    Now. I am 4’10”. The floor is not geographically far away.

    But between being short armed, round in the middle and freshly deconditioned, there was no way my hands were going flat.

    And HOLD?

    Ma’am, please.

    This was still the warm-up.

    Next came tai chi walking.

    Left foot.
    Right foot.
    Crescent moon.
    Heel touch.
    Toe touch.

    I have already forgotten the sequence.

    My thighs have not.

    And then…

    Cloud hands.

    Let me tell you something about cloud hands.

    The only cloud I experienced was the one my brain floated off on while everyone else moved in slow, graceful harmony.

    By the end, the class looked like synchronized swans.

    And I looked like I was trying to land a small aircraft.

    Today I am supposed to be practicing cloud hands.

    Instead, I will be watching instructional videos.

    Possibly fifty.

    Possibly from the sofa.

    But here’s the part that maters.

    I did not join tai chi to become graceful.

    I joined because I do not want to be “cancer girl” anymore.

    Okay.

    “Cancer older woman.”

    I don’t want that to be my first descriptor in a room.
    Or in my head. Or in my body.

    If awkward crescent-moon-walking is what it takes to shift identities, then so be it.

    My palms may not be flat on the floor.

    But I showed up.

    And right now, that counts.

    I go back tomorrow.

    Wish me lots of luck.

    And maybe a laminated cheat sheet.

    ☁️ 🌈🧘‍♀️☁️

  • The No-Judgment Gym (Where I Judge Myself First)

    Now that I’m no longer physically aching every minute of every day, I made a decision.
    A grown-up decision.
    A health-oriented, responsible decision.

    I decided to go to the gym to rebuild my stamina.

    Let me be very clear about something:
    I hate the gym.

    I am a 4’10”, short, round, senior woman. I do not look like the gym loves me. I do not look like I love the gym. The gym and I have never been in a committed relationship. At best, we are polite acquaintances who actively avoid eye contact.

    But decide I did.

    So I went to the “NO JUDGMENT” gym.

    Have you ever been there? Because I can assure you—people are judging.

    Okay. Fine.
    It was me.
    I am people.

    That said, there were quite a few seniors at the No Judgment Gym, which helped. There were also quite a few young people. While I was not judging (I was absolutely observing), I noticed something important:

    The young people were in far better physical shape than the seniors.

    BUT—and this is key—the seniors were having way more fun.

    They stopped and talked to each other. About working out. About hating it. About the weather. Possibly about grandchildren, medications, and who had knee surgery last year. I’m sure they discussed other topics, but that’s what I caught.

    I also noticed people with very obvious physical challenges still working out. Again, mostly seniors. And I found myself oddly inspired watching their determination. They weren’t trying to be impressive. They were just… showing up.

    The first time I went, I walked on the treadmill for 15 minutes and went home like I’d run a marathon and deserved a parade.

    Now?
    I’m up to 15 minutes on the recumbent elliptical and 15 minutes on the recumbent bike. That’s a full 30 minutes, which also provides ample time for people-watching and internal commentary.

    I plan to do more equipment and maybe even free weights. Eventually.
    But the poison of chemo still lives rent-free in my muscles and back, so we’re negotiating.

    Here’s the truth:
    I am slow.
    I sweat a LOT.
    I have zero speed on any machine.
    No one has spoken to me yet.

    I know. Shocking.

    To be fair, I don’t always give off a “Hi! Please chat with me while I gasp for oxygen!” vibe.

    Still—it’s helping. I feel more confident. More relaxed. I might even lose some weight. Or at least earn the right to eat snacks without guilt.

    So despite my many misgivings, my official judgment is this:

    JUST. DO. IT. (Ooops, don’t tell Nike I said that!)

    Slowly. Sweaty. Judging quietly.
    But do it anyway.

  • Congratulations, You’re Cancer-Free. Now Go Figure It Out.

    When you’re in active cancer treatment, you have a whole damn professional posse.

    A cancer treatment team.
    Oncologist. Nurses. Techs.
    Dieticians. Counselors. Social workers.
    People who actually answer the phone at 2 a.m.

    Feel a little warm? Call.
    Feel weird? Call.
    Feel like your toe might fall off or your brain might be melting? Call.

    They’ve got you. Constantly. Comfortingly. Competently.

    And then one day you ring the bell, get your all-clear PET scan, and—SURPRISE!—they send you home with a smile, a pat on the head, and instructions to “come back in three months.”

    Three.
    Whole.
    Months.

    No one says, “Hey, by the way, we’re still here.”
    No one says, “Call us if your brain loses its damn mind.”
    The oncologist doesn’t say, “Questions? Anxiety? Existential dread?”
    The dietician does not check in.
    The team doesn’t disappear… but they sure stop waving you back in.

    Meanwhile, your friends and family are THRILLED.
    You’re cured! You won! You should be HAPPY!
    Grateful!
    Sparkly!
    Full of bubbles and light and inspirational Instagram captions!

    Except… you’re not.

    Because you just spent six months—or years—fighting a war in hell.
    You survived.
    But your brain and emotions are still in the foxhole.

    So you cry.
    You worry.
    You spiral.
    You do not feel happy happy joy joy. Instead, you feel guilty.

    The first time I landed in this weird no-WOman’s-land, I developed a crippling fear of going outside. Anywhere. Ever. I couldn’t walk out my apartment door without a full-blown anxiety attack.

    I lived like that until my first three-month checkup. I finally told my oncologist.

    He said, “Don’t worry. It’ll go away.”
    (Oncologists are very chill about things that are not life or death – to them.)

    But the nurse?
    She leaned in and said, “You still have access to the team. Let me set you up with a counselor who will COME TO YOU.” (No virtual reality in 2003.)

    And she did.
    For a month, we worked through it.
    The fear faded—just like the doctor said it would.

    But here’s the thing: how long would it have taken without the team?
    How much unnecessary suffering happens because no one tells you that you’re allowed to keep asking for help?

    This time around, I’m doing better—because I knew this part was coming.
    Some days I’m genuinely happy.
    Some days I’m absolutely not.

    And that is VERY confusing for the people who love me.

    Let’s get one thing straight:
    I am a KICK-ASS WARRIOR.
    And if you’re standing where I’m standing right now—so are YOU.

    But even warriors get tired.
    And scared.
    And emotionally wrecked.

    So don’t beat yourself up.

    Celebrate when you can.
    Cry when you need to.
    Sleep.
    Be sad.
    Do nothing at all if that’s all you’ve got.

    This part will pass.

    And when it does—
    you will still be a
    KICK. ASS. WARRIOR. 💥

    Sun on the water,
    sparkling like diamonds—
    I wish I could make them
    the thoughts in my head.

    I don’t remember
    when my mind was unburdened,
    when nothing pressed in
    or demanded to stay.

    Once there was only
    the shine of what’s coming,
    sparkling water ahead—
    a future of light.

    So I sit with the water,
    borrow its quiet persistence,
    letting each small sparkle
    remind me how to look forward again.