It could be said that when you’re fighting cancer, every day is a self-care day — you know, since you’re literally ingesting poison to stay alive. Cute concept, but no. That’s not my idea of self-care.
Real self-care is what I’ve been doing these last few days: sitting on the deck, watching the geese, and soaking up the warm sunshine like a lizard on vacation.
Today’s agenda? Massage. Because sometimes “healing” looks less like IV poles and more like someone working the knots out of your shoulders while your soul exhales.
So… no post today. Unless you count this one. Which, honestly, you should.
Time is weird. I’m calling this Day 2, even though the calendar swears otherwise. But my cells, my soul, my spinning little chemo-altered molecules—they insist Thursday was Day 1. So Day 2 it is.
Yesterday’s question: Do you ever wake up and wonder where YOU went? Today’s realization: apparently, “becoming” requires traveling somewhere else entirely—no luggage, no return ticket, just a brain on shuffle.
Chemo was short, mercifully. I even came home with my jet-pack—my white-cell superstarters ticking quietly on my arm, a tiny biochemical fireworks show set for 1 p.m. And then… I disappeared.
I slid into bed like melting butter. Shivering, sweating, freezing, burning. Fan on. Fan off. Every molecule arguing with its neighbor about the thermostat of existence.
Time folded in on itself. When I woke, the light had shifted but nothing else had. I drifted to the couch, a parallel universe where gravity hums louder and blankets weigh more than regret. I didn’t eat. I barely sipped water. I just floated in and out of body, like my brain had clocked out for interdimensional maintenance.
Around 6:30, Luke appeared—steady, sun-warm—and said, “Come sit by the water.” He might as well have said, Come back to Earth. I sat beside him, blinking at the ripples like they were breathing.
My mind was mushy honey. My thoughts, ping-pong balls in zero gravity. Winnie the Pooh would’ve understood. He said it loud and clear “Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?
So yeah, I was here yesterday. Physically. But mentally? I was off somewhere between the stars and the shivers. Maybe that’s what becoming really is—your brain goes on a field trip to rearrange the furniture while your body holds down the fort.
I wonder what version of me will step off the bus next time. I wonder if there will be a green sofa,
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. 💚
There’s this moment — sometimes it’s an hour, sometimes it’s just a breath — when the dark starts to loosen its grip. It’s quiet at first, just a small flicker. A reminder that the flame inside me never really went out, it was just waiting for air.
And then the sun comes out. And everything changes.
I can see the flame again. I can feel the power I thought I’d lost start to stretch, yawn, and whisper, “Hey girl, I’m still here.”
Isn’t it crazy how the dark can hide your will and confuse your heart? It convinces you you’re out of fight, when really you’re just out of light.
But a little light — just a crack through the blinds, a kind word, a wagging tail, a red bird on a branch — is all it takes. And suddenly, you’re not sinking. You’re rising. You can see yourself take flight.
Because even after the longest night, the sun still shows up. And so do I. 💚
It’s the middle of the night, and nothing feels right. I’m awake. I’m asleep. I’m cold—then sweating through the sheets.
The body can’t decide which crisis to lead with. The mind keeps score. The stomach’s staging a riot. And somewhere deep inside, the question whispers again:
“The poison is poisoning… but is it winning?”
I shift, stretch, ache, repeat. Get up, sit down, open the laptop, search for answers I already know aren’t there. The clock blinks 3:17 a.m.—mocking me in neon red.
Middle of the night. Middle of the cycle. Middle of the fight.
The poison does what it does. And I do what I do— stay, breathe, endure, and keep asking the question, even when I already know the answer.
Because I’m still here. Still fighting. Still standing. Still winning.
Third Act With Pattie 