Third Act With Pattie

Tag: life

  • Night Sweats

    I am sick and tired of night sweats. Sick. Sick. Sick. There, I’ve said it out loud.

    And no, I am not talking about menopausal night sweats.
    I conquered those decades ago like the warrior woman I am.

    I am talking about the clothes-drenching, sheet-drowning, middle-of-the-night baptismal pool night sweats caused by lymphoma and chemotherapy.
    The double whammy.
    The overachiever of bodily betrayal.

    Three, four, sometimes five times a night.
    Every night.
    For weeks.
    Every. Single. Night.

    Bedtime is no longer bedtime. It is logistics.

    Before bed, I line up five sets of pajamas like I’m staging a quick-change Broadway show. Each stack is carefully oriented so when I grab it half-asleep, the front is actually the front. This is not my first rodeo.

    Next: towels. Five or six of them.
    Last time I used sheets and realized this time… I don’t care that much anymore.

    You fall asleep hopeful (rookie mistake), having turned the air down because surely this will be the night it doesn’t happen.
    Spoiler alert: it happens.

    You wake up drenched. Absolutely soaked.
    And somehow also freezing, because the air is blasting and your body has turned itself into a swamp.

    So you sneak out of bed, shaking and shivering, and stumble over to the stash.
    You peel off the wet clothes.
    Put on the dry ones.
    Repeat this process while trying very hard not to wake up too much or fully question your life choices.

    First towel: hair.
    Fortunately—thanks to chemo—I don’t have much hair, so that’s efficient at least. That towel goes back with the stack.

    Second towel: to the bed.
    It gets laid over the bottom sheet.
    You flip the pillow.
    Then you wad up the wet top sheet and shove it to the foot of the bed under the covers.

    I’m short. I don’t need that part anyway.

    Two hours later… you do it all again.
    And then again.
    And then again.

    Eventually it’s after 4 a.m., and anything after that is officially get-up time, whether you like it or not.

    The interesting thing—at least for me—is that this doesn’t start at the beginning, when the cancer is at its strongest.
    It starts later.
    With the cumulative effect of the chemo.
    Like a delayed punchline no one asked for.

    I am very grateful the chemo is over.

    And I will be extra glad—borderline celebratory—when the night sweats finally decide to pack up their towels and leave.

    Until then, I’ll be over here, running a one-woman overnight laundry service, wondering how it’s possible to be both soaked and freezing at the same time.

    Again.

  • On the Edge of a New Year

    As I sit on the precipice of a new year, I’m having trouble letting the last one go.
    I’m also having trouble being completely honest.

    So here it is.

    I spent the last six months of 2025 terrified. Sick. Lost. Unable to imagine a life that didn’t revolve around chemotherapy schedules and side effects and fear.

    People, as people do, eventually grew tired of the constant ups and downs. Life went on for them. I, as I often do, withdrew further and further into myself—quietly convincing myself that I didn’t want to be a burden, while simultaneously wondering why I felt so alone.

    On the days when it all became too much, I cried in the solitude of my own making, telling myself I had no one—despite knowing that wasn’t entirely true.

    I wanted to leave 2025 with a victory lap.
    With a clear test result.
    With a doctor saying, Yes, you’re in remission.

    Chemo is over, but that one final test hasn’t happened yet. And because of that, I brooded. I whined. I pouted privately. I obsessed over the ending I didn’t get instead of honoring the story I survived.

    And honestly? I disgusted myself a little for that.

    Because here’s what I did get in 2025.

    I got a cancer caught so early it didn’t even show up in my regular bloodwork.
    I got a chance to fight before it had time to take more from me.

    I was never alone.

    My husband—my partner—did not miss a single doctor’s visit or chemotherapy session. Not one. He showed up every day, steady and unflinching, even when I couldn’t be.

    My granddaughter kept me anchored to life itself—reminding me that I was still here and still needed to live.

    Family members and friends checked in, called, texted, cared. One friend made it her personal mission to send me an encouraging message every single day.

    And Sassy—sweet, intuitive Sassy—took it upon herself to care for me daily, in all the quiet ways only a dog can.

    So yes, I didn’t get the final word in 2025.

    But I got something far greater.

    I got love.
    I got presence.
    I got another chance at living.

    And now, I’m ready.

    Ready to put the last six months behind me.
    Ready to step into 2026 with gratitude—for life, for family, for friends, and for Sassy.

    Whatever happens in 2026, I will meet it knowing this:

    I am still here.
    And that matters more than any test result ever could.

    And as I step into 2026, I do so believing that healing doesn’t always arrive with certainty—but it always begins with hope.

  • 🐾 Sassy the Wonder Dog Walks Again 🐾

    Hello everyone.
    It’s me. Sassy. The Wonder Dog.
    Since Mama has been suspiciously quiet for about a week, I have taken over communications. You’re welcome.

    Here’s the scoop.

    That last chemo?
    Yeah. It flattened Mama like a pancake you accidentally sat on. Since then, it’s been an up-down-up-down situation. Christmas was… not normal. But Daddy? Oh my dog. Daddy WORKED that kitchen like he was auditioning for a Food Network special. Mama noticed. I noticed. I supervised closely from floor level. We really appreciate Daddy.

    I do keep seeing Mama try to write sometimes. She sits down, types a bit… and then suddenly runs off to that horrible room where they attempt to drown me with soap and water and where she sits on a strange white throne. I do not approve of this room. AT ALL. I try not to even look in there.

    Now we are up at the lake, Mama’s Happy Place, and let me tell you—Mama is slowly getting her mojo back. She sits on the deck soaking up sunshine (excellent life choice), and I lay nearby pretending I am a decorative rug but watching her every move. She walks around the property a little, tries to be “normal” going up the stairs, and then immediately remembers that breathing is still optional but highly recommended.

    BUT THEN.
    YESTERDAY HAPPENED.

    Mama let ME take HER for a walk.

    We walked all the way around the yard.
    AND up the driveway.
    AND all the way to the community mailboxes.

    People, this was BIG.
    She was exhausted afterward and took a two-hour nap. Naturally, I napped with her to ensure survival. It’s called being responsible.

    Now she says later today we might walk all the way to “the green thing.”
    I don’t know what that is.
    I don’t care what that is.
    What I know is Mama is determined, and when she decides to do something, she usually does it—even if she has to stop and huff and puff and lean on me (which is fine, I am very sturdy).

    So until Mama gets her writing brain fully rebooted, here’s the official Sassy Update:

    ✔️ Mama is okay
    ✔️ Mama is getting stronger
    ✔️ Mama is walking again
    ✔️ Mama is even talking about cooking food someday (Daddy is VERY excited).

    Stick with us.
    We’re walking forward—one mailbox, one green thing, and one nap at a time.

    Love,
    🐾 Sassy the Wonder Dog
    Head of Walks, Naps, and Mama Supervision

  • Punkinhead SquarePants Goes to a Holiday Party 🎄

    Last weekend was a very important Christmas party/Retirement Party — one of those annual, can’t-miss gatherings with a special twist. So I made a promise to myself that I would do everything possible to go.

    Let me tell you — this was no small feat.
    I am deep in the chemo weeds right now. The cumulative effect (plus the rain and dreariness) has been chewing on my sanity like Sassy on a leftover dog toy. For the first time in my later years, I can honestly say I hate the way I look.

    Between the steroids, the sitting, and the snacks that mysteriously keep finding their way into my hands, my face has turned into a full-blown pumpkin, and my body into SpongeBob SquarePants — complete with square legs and all. Nothing fits. The round-faced lady in the mirror doesn’t look like me… she looks like she swallowed me. Yes, I know I’ve whined about this before. It is a minor problem to be sure – but apparently I am a petty petty girl these days!

    But I’d promised. So off we went.

    The Great Wardrobe Expedition

    Enter Makenzie, my beautiful 25-year-old granddaughter and personal fashion therapist. She could tell I was about to cancel before I’d even started trying on clothes. So she stepped in — part stylist, part nurse, part therapist — helping me find something I could stand to be seen in public wearing. Pettiness, I know – I am fortunate to be able to go out in public, I know! And yet, I whine!!

    We finally landed on a flowing top, soft slacks (the only pair that fit), a fluffy scarf that doubled as both festive accessory and emergency warmth (since my jackets are all in witness protection) and sneakers. No slipping and falling on my Squarepants for this Punkinhead.

    Arrival of the Square-Bodied Elf

    It was cold that night, and by the time we walked to the door, I was already wheezing like a 90-year-old accordion. The place was decked out to the heavens — twinkling lights, poinsettias, and one of those towering trees that looks like it came straight from a Hallmark movie budget.

    We found a table in the corner (prime real estate for introverts and chemo warriors alike) and settled in. I smiled, chatted, and tried my best to remember what it felt like to be the life of the party.

    The food was amazing. There was laughter, music, the sound of high heels clicking across hardwood, and a few questionable renditions of “Jingle Bell Rock.”

    The Great Escape

    After an hour or two, the energy — and my stamina — ran low. Makenzie and I slipped out to the car for a quiet break, both of us just sitting in silence, watching our breath fog up the windows. No words, just a peaceful truce between exhaustion and effort.

    Then we went back in.

    My Early December Christmas Miracle

    And by then, the dance floor was alive. Everyone twirling, laughing, glowing in the warmth of the season. I stood on the sidelines, watching them move — the old me itching to join, the current me just grateful to feel the want again, a true Christmas Miracle for me.

    As I watched them dance, I made myself a quiet little vow:
    Next time, if there’s music playing and I have half the energy — I’m not sitting out.

    I may be Punkinhead SquarePants for now, or forever, but this ol’ square body still remembers how to move and be alive and kicking – okay maybe not actual kicking.

    And when I finally do — you can bet your mistletoe I’ll be celebrating the blessing of living!!!!

    🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁

    Oh, and today the sun is SHINING!!!! Happy Holidays!!!

  • Digging Toward the Light

    So, you haven’t heard from me for a while.
    But trust me, I’ve been thinking about you.

    I’ve been down in a deep, dark hole — the kind that swallows up your days, your plans, and your sense of humor. Pain took the wheel for a while, and confusion rode shotgun. It wasn’t pretty.

    But here’s the thing about holes: if you can’t climb out, you can at least start digging toward the light.
    And thanks to some pain meds that actually work, I’m doing just that — one shaky, stubborn scoop at a time.

    You’d think that being this close to finishing chemo (only two more on the schedule!) would have me doing cartwheels down the hallway. Spoiler: it doesn’t.
    Instead, I’m more afraid now than I was at the start.
    Because what happens after?
    What will the next PET scan show?
    Will this be the end of treatment — forever, for now, or not at all?

    So many questions, none with clear answers. And when you’re tired, those questions echo louder.

    I’ll be honest: I look like I’ve been through a war zone — round-faced, square-bodied, and about seventy-five years older than my birth certificate says. Nothing fits, not my jeans, not my energy, not even my reflection some days.
    But maybe that’s okay.
    Maybe this version of me — the one with no eyelashes, no patience, and no filters — is exactly who I’m supposed to be right now.

    Because here’s what I’ve learned in the dark:
    Hope doesn’t live on the surface.
    It hides deep down in the cracks of you, where the light can reach only when you’re still enough to notice.

    And I think — just maybe — I’m starting to see a glimmer again.

    So if you’re in your own hole right now, hold on.
    Take the meds. Ask for help. Complain loudly. Laugh when you can.
    And when the light starts to peek through, even just a little — don’t question it.
    Just climb toward it.

    I’ll meet you there.