Third Act With Pattie

Tag: non-hodgkins lynphoma

  • The Great Escape (For Now)

    It’s been a great week — and I’m as shocked as you are.
    Five whole days of sunshine, and I finally crawled out of that dark, muddy hole I’d been sulking in. And let me tell you, it was fantabulous!!

    Sorry to be AWOL from the blog, but honestly? It felt too good to feel good. I didn’t want to think about cancer, chemo, or any of that. AT. ALL.

    Instead, I did totally normal, boring, glorious things. I cleaned my house – well some of it. I made spaghetti sauce from scratch. I sat in the sunshine — at home and by the lake. I even caught myself smiling like some Hallmark movie extra.

    But (and there’s always a “but” in Chemo Land), today is chemo day. The damn hole is waiting with its arms wide open. I can almost hear it whispering, “Come on back, sweetheart.”

    And I don’t want to go. Not to chemo. Not to the hole. Even though there’s only ONE MORE left after today — I still don’t want to. Because the hole will be waiting, and the body and mind both know it. That’s just how chemo works: cumulative exhaustion and a side of psychological warfare.

    But I’m doing it. Because sunshine weeks are worth crawling out for. And after this… there will be only one.

  • 🐾 Sassy Walks: “Digging Out with Mama”

    Hey Everyone —
    I’ve been in a hole with Mama for a few days.
    And let me tell you, she has no idea how to appreciate a good hole.

    At first, she just lay there crying in the dirt.
    I mean, seriously? You get a whole hole — prime digging territory —
    and you don’t even sniff around or toss a little dirt for fun?

    I tried to show her how it’s done —
    scratch a little, paw a little, maybe wag while you’re at it —
    but noooo, she just sat there looking all sad and “deep.”
    (Whatever that means. I’m deep every time I nap under the blanket.)

    Apparently, Mama’s hole wasn’t a digging hole,
    it was a “people feelings” hole.
    She says she had to “work her way out”
    like it was some kind of mission from the People Council.
    Honestly, I will never understand humans.
    Why can’t they just bark it out and chase a squirrel?

    Anyway, she finally started digging —
    with the tiniest little spoon you ever saw.
    It was pitiful, but I wagged and supervised.
    And you know what?
    Bit by bit, spoon by spoon, she’s climbing out.

    So I guess that’s what “healing” looks like for humans.
    Slow, messy, confusing… but at least we’re headed back toward the sunshine.

    And me?
    I’m just glad she’s finally learning the true art of a good dig.

    #SassyWalks #SecondBattleSameMe #MamaAndMe #DiggingOut #PeopleAreWeird #DogLogicWins

  • 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.

  • Happy Thanksgiving

    Hi everyone, it’s been a rough week. The cumulative effect of chemo is taking its’ toll. I wrote this last week at chemo and saved it for today. I hope you find love, hope, and gratitude at Thanksgiving.

    Sitting here in the chemo room — hour five — and I am tired.
    Tired of sitting.
    Tired of waiting.
    Tired of watching the faces around me — some blank, some worried, some so quiet you can almost hear their thoughts.

    There’s a look that settles over this room sometimes.
    It’s the “Will I still be here next Thanksgiving?” look.
    And some, bless them, are already convinced they won’t.

    But the truth is, none of us really know.
    Not even those of you who aren’t sitting in recliners hooked up to IV poles. Life doesn’t come with guarantees, not even with the turkey and dressing.

    What I do know is this — hope is sneaky.
    It slips into the room in the form of a grandchild’s text, a photo from a friend, or a nurse who calls you “sweetheart” like she means it. It sits in the corner, humming softly, waiting for you to notice it again.

    Maybe this year, we can all — every one of us — choose to be grateful. Grateful for still being here, for one more laugh that turns into a snort, for one more hug that lingers, for one more text or phone call that starts with, “Just checking on you.”

    Whether you spend Thanksgiving surrounded by family or curled up quietly with your own thoughts, I hope you feel love reaching toward you.

    Because it’s out there — in every friend who calls or texts, every family member who worries, every person still fighting their way through another long day.

    So here’s to being here.
    Here’s to love that holds steady.
    Here’s to hope that won’t quit.
    And here’s to many more Thanksgivings — together!

  • Chemo Chronicles: Halfway and Hanging On (Barely)

    It’s been a while since I’ve felt like writing. Halfway through treatment felt like a victory lap — confetti, trumpets, maybe even a parade float with me waving from the top. I had a few good days and thought, well, maybe I’ve got this chemo thing down.

    Ha. Rookie mistake.

    Because then came treatment number “just past halfway,” and it marched in like a mean girl with a grudge. It ripped through my veins like it was late for a meeting in hell — leaving pain, misery, and a new appreciation for modern pharmaceuticals.

    That one was Friday.
    Today — finally — is the first morning I woke up without the chemo fog. You know the one — that fuzzy-brained nonsense where you wake up asking, Where am I? What day is it? And why does everything taste like pennies and regret?

    So, as the sacred chemo cycle goes, I’ll start feeling a little better each day until the next treatment rolls around and knocks me flat again. Then we rinse, repeat, and call it progress.

    But here’s the thing: each round means I’m that much closer to the end of this part of the ride.
    Closer to breathing without that fog.
    Closer to tasting coffee that actually tastes like coffee.
    Closer to being done.

    Halfway there — still standing, still snarky, and still me.