Third Act With Pattie

Tag: non-hodgkins lynphoma

  • Before the Sun

    It’s still dark outside.
    But I know this will be a good day.

    I’m awake—
    and more importantly, my brain is awake.
    (If you’ve ever had chemo fog, you know that’s headline-worthy news.)

    I can hear it churning again,
    where sometimes there’s been nothing but silence.
    Thoughts forming, sparks flickering,
    that little hum of life coming back online.

    The air feels almost electric—
    like the world is holding its breath
    waiting for me to exhale.

    It’s still dark outside.
    But I feel alive.

    And that, my friends,
    is how you know the light’s already winning.

  • Three Days After Chemo: The Strange Place Between Nap and Nausea

    Three days after long chemo is a weird neighborhood to live in.

    You don’t quite exist so much as melt slowly into the recliner.
    Exhaustion hits like a drunk elephant — you can’t stay awake, but you’re also too wired (and too achy) to sleep.

    The poison’s doing its sacred little dance —
    burn, heal, destroy, rebuild — all at once.
    My stomach’s auditioning for a horror movie:
    hungry but disgusted by every option.
    If it smells good, it’s probably coming back up.
    So I sip, nibble, and call that “fine dining.”

    The world spins a little, my eyelids weigh a ton,
    and focusing on anything longer than thirty seconds feels like graduate-level concentration.

    But still — under all the blur and ache — there’s the whisper of hope.
    That fierce, stubborn little spark that keeps saying,

    “Better days are coming. Hang on. The poison’s working.”

    And that’s enough to make me smile
 before my next nap

  • Go Away…

    From a cherry to a pinto bean,
    From an almond to a pea—
    I watch the numbers fall,
    the nodules fade,
    the poison do its sacred burn.

    Shrink.
    Dissolve.
    Disappear.

    Your're disssolving,
    Youu should never have thought that I play.
    Go Away 
    And don’t come back
    another day.

  • Cherries, Almonds, and a Smart-Mouthed Sidekick

    Two days ago, I got the happiest kind of news: the chemo is working!

    Cue the confetti cannons, lime-green ribbons, and one happy little red bird doing loop-de-loops over my head. After weeks of wondering, worrying, and silently negotiating with the universe, I finally got the word that things are shrinking. Me! Shrinking things!

    The celebration continued with a long but surprisingly pleasant day in the always-entertaining chemo room — that magical land of heated chairs, cold IV poles, and nurses who could moonlight as comedians. All was well in my soul.

    Luke and I drove home talking about the future again, like normal people do. I could actually breathe again. I swear I felt my shoulders drop three inches from relief. For the first time in months, we weren’t just surviving the moment — we were daring to plan what comes next.

    And then came yesterday.

    Apparently my brain didn’t get the “we’re okay now” memo. Between the pre-programmed crazy in my head, the toxic cocktail dripping through my veins, and the endless wisecracks from that internal smart-aleck I call Chemo Boy, peace didn’t last long.

    My “quick nap” turned into a full-blown horror flick.
    Somewhere between hour two and four, I dreamed I was being attacked from the inside — an Invasion of the Body Snatchers situation starring
 wait for it
 cherries and almonds.

    Yep. In my subconscious, the once-monstrous “cancer nodes” became produce aisle invaders. They multiplied, pressed, and squeezed until I thought I’d explode into a fruit salad. I don’t do horror movies. And now, apparently, I don’t do long naps either.

    When I woke up, sweating and slightly homicidal toward Chemo Boy, I did what every rational cancer fighter does: I reread the PET scan report and the doctor’s notes. Twice. Okay, maybe three times.

    And here’s the reassuring truth: I am no longer invaded by cherries and almonds. The latest scan says it’s down to a pinto bean and a pea.

    That’s right — my invaders have been demoted to side-dish size.

    So I can stop holding my breath again.

    Because here’s what I know for sure:
    I am in this battle until the very end.
    I’m going to beat this cancer.
    And one of these days, I’m going to silence that sarcastic little Chemo Boy once and for all.

    (Maybe I might miss him a little. NOT A CHANCE!)

  • Chemo Chronicles V5:

    Minions, Mama’s Chair, and the Great Heater Debate

    Today  was  a great day! After the great PET scan news, I skipped down to the Chemo Room. Even though it was long chemo day.  It was the first Chemo of the last of the protocol. Five more sessions in the plan!

    Entering the chemo room, my main concern was making sure that my chair was NOT under the heat.  It was hot as hell in there to me.  And I stayed hot.  In fact, I eventually took off my shoes and socks.  Three or four of the chairs under the heater had people with sweaters, heated blankets, and caps.  I am sure they were almost cooked before they left. 

    All the nurses were dressed for Halloween.  They were all Minions.  It was so cute.  But of course, since I can’t remember anything, including faces, I couldn’t tell them apart.

    There was lots of action in the chemo room today.  Off and on it was a full room, then emptied out to just me, tjrm a full room again. 

    Once again somebody took Mama’s chair.   It was a young man.   She sat right next to him and spread out her stuff, and then fell fast asleep –maybe with her mouth open.  I bet he won’t do that again. Why can’t these people learn – the minions should just put a taken sign on that chair.

    All in all, a long 7 hour day, but a good one.
    Minions, heaters, naps, and all — just another episode in the ongoing adventure of Chemo Chronicles.