Third Act With Pattie

Tag: Second Battle

  • In Memory of 9/11

    Twenty-four years ago, on September 11, 2001, I sat glued to the TV, watching in shock as the first tower burned and the second plane hit. Like everyone else, I thought, this cannot be happening in the United States. But it did. And nearly 3,000 lives were gone in a single morning.

    These were people just doing what we all do—heading to work, starting their day, drinking coffee, planning lunch. Firefighters, police officers, EMTs—heroes who ran into the chaos while everyone else was trying to get out. Ordinary people who turned extraordinary in a heartbeat, helping strangers down smoke-filled stairwells. None of them woke up expecting it to be their last day. But it was.

    And it didn’t end there. The recovery stretched on for months. Brave men and women worked in the rubble, many of them later getting sick, many of them dying because of what they breathed in down there. Families were shattered—spouses left without their person, kids growing up without a mom or dad, parents burying children they should never have had to bury. The grief didn’t leave when the news cameras did. It still sits heavy for so many.

    So today, I just want to say thank you. Thank you to the heroes of that day. Thank you to the ones who stayed and dug and carried and comforted. And my heart is with every family who had their world ripped apart.

    We don’t move on from something like this. We move forward with it.

    At this time of year, many of us find ourselves wanting to five back to the people and communities so deeply affected by this tragedy.

    In the spirit of giving back to the 9/11 community and beyond, many 9/11 family members and first responders began charities, providing everything from mental health support to financial assistance.

    I have chosen VOICES Center for Resilience (Formerly Voice of September 11th), founded by 9/11 family members Mary Fetchet and Beverly Eckert This charity began as an organization to help other family members, first responders, and recovery workers navigate complex processes to find health-related and financial resources. Drawing on lessons learned and expertise, VOICES has evolved to assist countless other communities impacted by mass violence and natural disasters. If you would like to research this charity, or donate, following is a link.

    https://voicescenter.org/

    Not just remembered. Forever carried.

  • Sassy Walks: V2

    Turtle Edition 🐾🐢

    Hi y’all, Sassy here—your faithful reporter on all things Mama. And doggone it, I’ve got a tale to tell.

    Mama is not exactly burning up the sidewalks these days. I spent the whole weekend trying to talk her into a walk, and today she finally caved. Honestly? I think she just wanted me to quit bugging her. Because let me tell you—this woman was moving slower than a turtle on vacation. (Which, come to think of it, explains why the turtle is totally her spirit animal. Mystery solved.)

    And the soundtrack? Lord help me. She huffed and puffed like a herd of elephants stomping through the Sahara. I know chemo makes her tired, but nobody warned me it would be that embarrassing to walk her in public.

    But I stuck with her. We managed to make it all the way to the street and back. Sure, I’ve got four legs and she’s only got two—but even if I crawled on my belly, I’d still have lapped her. (And trust me, three weeks ago she could’ve belly-crawled faster than she walked today!)

    Don’t worry, I didn’t tease her. Nope, I was a good girl. I stopped to sniff and pee on every single blade of grass I could find, just to give her a breather. Between us, I faked a few of those stops—but hey, she never suspected. The highlight of the whole trip? My big ol’ poop. Mama was oddly proud, like I’d just won a medal. You’re welcome.

    Before we got back inside, she promised we’d do it again tomorrow. And I’m holding her to it. Taking care of Mama is my job—even if she still can’t speak fluent Dog. Maybe tomorrow I’ll convince her to cross the street. Baby steps, right?

    Here’s to four legs, endless patience, and dragging Turtle Mama along one block at a time. 🐕💚

  • Cancer Food

    The Not-So-Gourmet Guide

    You’d think that when you get diagnosed with cancer, the rules of eating would go right out the window. Like, “Congrats—you’ve got cancer! Please enjoy your unlimited pass to nachos, milkshakes, and midnight drive-thru feasts.” Sadly, no. Apparently, I still have to care about what goes into my mouth.

    It’s the same logic as the chain-smoker who says, “The damage is already done,” except my version involves cookies and french fries. And let’s be real: I’ve been chubby/fat/obese-all-my-life. I know my way around a snack aisle like it’s a second home. I’ve dieted enough to lose at least three entire humans along the way, but the chart still says I’m not “normal.” (Oh Honey, in so many ways! That’s a whole ‘nother blog!)

    So no, this is not the time to “diet.” If I couldn’t do it when my biggest stress was whether to order cake or pie, I’m sure as hell not doing it while juggling cancer and chemo.

    Here’s the thing, though: food really does matter. Not in the Pinterest-perfect “green smoothie in a mason jar” way, but in the “your body is being poisoned, so maybe give it a fighting chance” kind of way. My granddaughter calls me daily, demands pictures of my meals, and lectures me about vitamins. She’s basically my own personal food parole officer.

    So I’ve made a deal with myself. Every time I look at food (and I use that word loosely—Oreos count in my world), I ask: “Will this hurt me or heal me?” Sometimes I actually listen and grab salmon and broccoli, or fruit. Other times? The cake wins. I’m aiming for balance—lots of vegetables and protein at meals, fruit for snacks, and yes, an occasional cookie to keep me from becoming a menace to society. Or less of a menace, my sharp tongue has been particularly slicing these days.

    Am I perfect? Absolutely not. Do I sneak junk? You bet your Dairy Queen I do. But here’s the truth: eating well gives me energy, helps me feel less like a zombie, and maybe—just maybe—helps the chemo do its dirty work.

    So yeah, I’m trying. And if anyone asks, I’ll tell them: I’m basically a spinach smoothie away from sainthood. (But don’t you dare touch my Oreos—I’m not that holy.)

    If you have any suggestions or healing recipes you’d like to share, I’d love to see them!

  • Finding the Light

    I’m fighting an enemy
    I cannot see.
    It whispers in shadows
    and lingers in me.

    I wonder if I can trust myself,
    to remember it’s real,
    when it feels like a dream
    yet threatens to steal.

    The rules stay steady:
    rest when I can,
    nourish my body,
    walk when I’m able,
    hold hope in my hand.

    Today it is quiet,
    just me and my thoughts,
    wandering in circles,
    searching for ground.

    Still, I ask:
    Will I stand?
    Will I fight?
    If the light fades,
    can I find it again?

    Yes—
    because I have before,
    and because I am still here.

  • Chemo Chronicles -V2

    Dateline: Infusion Center. Chair 4—my lucky spot, my turf, my assigned recliner throne.

    This visit was a little different. But that’s the thing with cancer—you can’t trust it. Just when you think you’ve got the routine down, it switches things up.

    Fridays appear to be the “Quick Lane” days. (It’s a Ford thing, IYKYK). Folks breeze in for one-and-done infusions or quick little shots. It’s basically the drive-thru menu version of cancer treatment. And surprise—this week I landed in the quick lane too! (Who knew this disease had an express option? Now if only they handed out fries with that stuff…)

    Of course, I managed to put my papers in the wrong place—again. I was gently “re-instructed” on proper sign-in performance, because apparently there’s a choreography to this. Reminder: pole dancers do not play!

    The People of Recliner Row

    • Chair 2 was occupied by a shot-and-go pro. She brought her own blanket, clocked in under 30 minutes, and left with the efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew.
    • Chair 7 hosted a gentleman who nodded off before his bag was even hooked up. Snoring achieved decibel levels impressive enough to drown out an infusion pump alarm.
    • Chair 11 is the only chair that faces the hallway. I would never sit there. But as an older lady (okay, my age) was wheeled into that chair, her daughter loudly announced that Mama loves this chair so she can see all the comings and goings. Hmmmm. Maybe I would sit there after all.
    • The Nurses: still pirouetting between poles, juggling syringes, and keeping everyone moving through the lanes. Gold medals, every one of them.

    Meanwhile, I picked up a lot of new info this visit. Same me, just older me—learning the ropes all over again, taking more naps, heading to bed earlier, and laughing at my own clumsy lack of sign-in etiquette.

    Chair 4, quick lane, and still me. Cancer may not be trustworthy, but my stubborn streak is rock solid.