Third Act With Pattie

Tag: mental-health

  • 33 Days Post Poisoning

    It has been 33 days since my last official poisoning by chemotherapy.
    Yes, poisoning. Let’s not sugarcoat it — this was not a spa treatment.

    And yet… the effects are still hanging around like an unwanted houseguest who “just needs one more night” and has now been here a month.

    Exhaustion, I have learned, is not just being tired.

    No no.

    Exhaustion is a personality.

    Some days I wake up feeling like a fully functioning human. I do all the things.
    Laundry? Done.
    Errands? Conquered.
    Cooking? Look at me being domestic.

    This energetic miracle can last for several days and I start thinking wildly optimistic thoughts like:

    “Well hell, maybe I’m fine now.”

    That is when the reckoning arrives.

    For the next day or two, I am emotionally and physically paralyzed — like every energetic molecule has been vacuumed straight out of my body. The only known treatment is full vegetation on the couch.

    Not resting.
    Not relaxing.

    Vegetating.

    My brain refuses to form orderly thoughts, so I watch television shows I’ve already seen. Not because they’re good — but because they require absolutely no participation. I cannot handle plot twists. I cannot meet new characters. I cannot commit.

    I need television that says,
    “Don’t worry. You already know how this ends.”

    Looking back, this happened the last time too. I just assumed it was because I had an open wound trying to kill me from the inside. Reasonable conclusion.

    This time, though, there’s no open wound.
    There is, however, the minor detail that I am 21 years older.

    So naturally I thought,
    “Oh. This must just be because I’m 69.”

    But no.

    Turns out it’s not age.
    It’s chemo — still swinging long after the bell rang.

    If history repeats itself (and cancer does love consistency), this phase will pass too.

    Which brings me to my current burning question:

    What the hell comes after this?

    Do I get energy?
    Brain cells?
    Motivation?
    A complimentary tote bag?

    No idea.

    But for now, I will remain on the couch, staring blankly at familiar TV characters who ask absolutely nothing of me — and waiting for my body to remember how to be human again.

    One day at a time.
    Preferably with snacks.

  • The View From Right Now

    It’s been almost three weeks since my last chemotherapy treatment, and I am feeling… so many feels.
    Like, Costco-sized feelings. In bulk.

    On the bright side, I haven’t had a night sweat in five whole days. FIVE.
    That alone deserves a parade. Or at least fresh sheets that don’t feel like they were wrung out by a lifeguard.
    I feel better. My mind is a little clearer. I’ve even started tiptoeing into that dangerous mental neighborhood called “Life After Cancer.”
    You know—the place where people make plans. And assumptions. And maybe even buy concert tickets more than a month out.

    But then there’s the other hand.
    I’m still tired. A lot.
    Like, do one thing and need a lie-down tired.
    My motivation seems to have a strict one-activity-per-day policy, and my brain shuts down the moment exhaustion shows up—which is often and without notice. Concentration just packs up its little suitcase and says, “Nope. I’m out.”

    And then there’s the third hand.
    Which I don’t technically have, but my anxiety has graciously supplied.

    This hand is busy worrying.
    Worrying that I’m not cancer-free yet.
    Worrying while I wait for a test that hasn’t even been scheduled because insurance is apparently on a scenic route.
    Worrying that even if I am cancer-free now, what about next year?
    This was my second round—does that mean I get a punch card? A loyalty program? Do I do this forever?
    Will it be a long life?
    A shortened one?
    Is all this mental ping-pong the reason I sometimes feel completely frozen, like my body just hits the pause button?

    Probably.

    The truth is, the view from right now keeps changing.
    Sometimes it’s hopeful.
    Sometimes it’s foggy.
    Sometimes it’s downright scary as hell.

    But here’s the thing I’m trying to hold onto: right now is not the whole story.
    Right now includes dry sheets, a clearer mind, and small signs that my body is still trying—still healing.
    Right now doesn’t require me to solve next year, or the rest of my life, or every possible outcome.

    Right now just asks me to sit here.
    Breathe.
    Do one thing.
    And trust that the view will change again.

    And maybe—just maybe—the next version will be even better.

  • 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.

  • 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.