Third Act With Pattie

Tag: travel

  • Not Today Gravity

    Not Today Gravity

    Hubby and I are on a weekend trip with friends.

    Yes, I know.

    We are in the middle of managing two houses, packing one, moving into another, and generally living in a state best described as “controlled chaos.”

    So naturally…
    we ran away for the weekend to make life easier.

    Solid plan. No notes.

    It’s day one, and I’ve already gathered material.

    Because if there is one thing I bring to any trip—besides snacks and mild sarcasm—it’s my lifelong commitment to falling.

    Not metaphorically.

    Physically.
    Spectacularly.
    With range.

    I am what you might call… an expert faller.

    Trip-over-air, fall-on-my-face, recover-like-nothing-happened kind of faller.

    I have fallen a lot. In some truly bizarre ways.
    And somehow? The worst of it has been scratches, bruises… and my pride.

    Olympic-level.

    Gold medal. No question.

    Now, let’s talk about the equipment I’m working with.

    I am under five feet tall.
    A grandiose height that I reached… in seventh grade.

    Short arms.
    Tiny hands.
    Little bitty feet.

    Song in your head? Welcome to my daily life.

    And then Mother Nature said, “You know what would really tie this together?”

    And added… hips, thighs, and a center of gravity that… gets involved.

    So essentially…

    I am built like a Tyrannosaurus rex – better hair, worse balance.

    So the falling?

    Not a phase.
    A lifestyle.

    My first truly memorable public humiliation was at sixteen.

    I was attempting—keyword attempting—to walk into a golf pro shop.

    My tiny foot caught the door ledge. Maybe. And I launched myself headfirst into the building like I’d been fired out of a cannon.

    As I scrambled up, praying no one noticed, an older “gentleman” announced:

    “Some people. You can dress ’em up, but you just can’t carry ’em anywhere.”

    I did what any strong, confident teenage girl would do.

    I went and sat in the car while everyone else played golf…and sat there red-faced sucking back tears.

    Injury report:
    One bruised ego. No physical damage.

    Future me: gravity gets the fall. Not the tears.

    Then there was the pregnancy fall.

    Very pregnant.
    Waddling laps in the mall like that baby and I were in negotiations.

    No slippery floor.
    No misstep.
    No warning.

    Just… boom.

    Flat on my backside.

    A crowd gathered immediately, because nothing draws attention like a pregnant woman hitting the ground in public.

    And without missing a beat, I told them:

    “The baby kicked really hard and startled me.”

    That child stayed put for three more weeks.

    Coincidence?
    I think not.

    And so it went.

    Decades of falls.

    Fast. Slow. Heels. Flats. Paying attention. Not paying attention.

    Didn’t matter.

    Gravity and I have a relationship.

    At some point, I stopped fighting it.

    I started leaning into the fall—literally.

    Roll with it. Break it. Pop back up.

    Smile like I meant to do that.

    By the time I met Hubby, I was already competing at an elite level.

    Now that I’m older, people like to blame my age.

    Or the chemo.

    Or “just being careful.”

    Do I correct them and explain that I am structurally designed like a top-heavy dinosaur with trust issues?

    No.

    I let people believe what makes them comfortable. I’m considerate like that.

    My last official fall was two months ago.

    Senior Walk at prom.

    Sidewalk.
    Crowd of parents.
    Maximum audience.

    One minute I’m walking…
    the next minute I’m not.

    Down.

    Concrete.

    Hands and knees took the hit.

    No injuries.

    Absolute perfection.

    Gold medal performance.

    And then…

    today happened.

    We were walking down a crowded sidewalk in a new town.

    Cute shops.
    People everywhere.
    Hanging baskets of flowers that looked like they had their own Instagram manager.

    I was being careful. Focused. Aware.

    I saw it.

    A bright red fire hydrant. Directly in my path.

    At the exact same moment… I saw the flowers hanging above.

    So I told myself:
    “Stop. Look at the flowers.”

    And my brain said:
    “Great idea.”

    And my feet said:
    “We’re gonna keep going.”

    I walked directly into the fire hydrant.

    Full commitment. No hesitation.

    Sharp hit to the thighs. Momentum forward.

    And then…

    something miraculous happened.

    I teetered. I rocked.

    Time slowed.

    I could feel the fall coming— the familiar, inevitable descent into another gold medal moment.

    And then…

    I DID NOT FALL.

    At least 1,999 absolutely committed falls flashed before my eyes – like a highlight reel… career highlights.

    And somehow…

    I stuck the landing. Nailed it.

    For the first time in sixty-nine years…

    I almost fell—

    and didn’t.

    Now, I could tell you this is about balance.

    Or growth. Or awareness. Or aging gracefully.

    But let’s not get carried away.

    I’m choosing to believe it’s the shoes.

    Barefoot shoes.

    Not wisdom.
    Not evolution.
    Not inner peace.

    Footwear.

    So here’s what I know:

    I have spent a lifetime falling.

    Getting up.
    Laughing it off.
    Pretending I meant to do that.

    But today?

    I didn’t fall.

    Which means one of two things:

    Either I have finally evolved…

    or this is just the setup
    for the most spectacular, career-ending, gold-medal, slow-motion fall
    of my entire life.

    Honestly?

    Based on my track record…

    I’d stay tuned.

    -Pattie

    P.S.

    As I was writing this, Hubby – very lovingly, of course -asked if I included:

    The fall in Nashville.
    The fall in Key West.
    The fall in the airport.
    The fall in—well, everywhere.

    I told him I’m writing a blog.

    Not War and Peace.

    Subscribe so you’ll know when it’s a fall… and when it’s not. Apparently, that matters now.

  • My Lake Girl Era is Off to a Rough Start

    My Lake Girl Era is Off to a Rough Start

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  • Getting Away (Wheelchairs, Wind, and Unexpected Victories)

    Getting away from home is always fun.
    Getting away from home with great friends is even better.

    So we met some friends in Key West — because apparently my post-chemo self still believes in optimism and ocean breezes.

    When I left home, my stamina was kaput — as my mother would have said. Completely gone. Missing in action. Possibly hiding under the bed.

    I even agreed to a wheelchair ride through the Atlanta airport.

    Now let’s be clear: the wheelchair was hard, uncomfortable, and absolutely not what you’d call luxurious.
    BUT — being whisked through crowds like airport royalty and taking the elevator instead of the escalator?

    Well. For once, the last six months offered a perk.

    The Key West airport is MUCH smaller, so I walked out on my own two feet.

    I didn’t realize it at the time, but that little walk turned out to be a metaphor.

    The first day the weather was beautiful. Luke and I enjoyed the resort, met up with friends, ate, drank, laughed, and had one of those rare days where cancer didn’t get an invitation.

    The next morning was even better.
    We rented a golf cart and spent three glorious hours touring the island — which is now officially my favorite form of transportation. Minimal exertion. Maximum joy.

    We returned around three and did what mature adults with medical trauma do.

    We took a nap.

    Around five, we heard what sounded like a pack of wild children racing through the hallway. As we opened the door to head to an outdoor reception and dinner on the beach, the wind hit me so hard I thought:

    “Well. This might be it. Blown clean into the Atlantic.”

    And that wind?
    It stayed.
    All week. And brought temperatures in the fifties! In Key West!
    Relentless. Rude. Completely unimpressed by my beachy dreams.

    That did not stop us from walking and playing and enjoying ourselves!

    Naturally, the day we were leaving was perfect.

    Of course it was.

    But here’s the thing — despite the wind and the cold, we had a fabulous time.

    Luke and I spent real time together.
    We laughed with friends.
    We lived instead of just enduring.

    And when we returned home, I walked through the Atlanta airport on my own two feet.

    No wheelchair.
    No escort.
    Just me — stronger than when I left.

    Sometimes the miracle isn’t sunshine or calm seas.
    Sometimes it’s realizing you’re walking forward again — even when the wind is trying to knock you over.

    And that made it a wonderful time. ❤️

  • Planes, Ports, and Protruding Feet

    Planes, Ports, and Protruding Feet

    Got up at 6, left the house at 7, dropped Sassy at the farm by 8:30. She about beat my leg red with that happy tail of hers—dog joy is a full-contact sport.

    Then it was Atlanta Airport time. Biggest and busiest airport in the world . And because I’m apparently allergic to common sense, I refused Delta assistance. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. So my poor husband shuffled along at turtle pace, pushing both our suitcases and our bookbags, while I trudged like I was reenacting the Oregon Trail.

    We don’t check bags. Don’t ask me why—WE just don’t.

    TSA: Tales of Suspicion and Attitude

    We have this fancy TSA Pre-Check Touchless thing where your driver’s license photo matches your real-time picture. Except mine didn’t. Cue the angry TSA man glaring at me like I was trying to sneak through in a Groucho Marx disguise.

    “Why haven’t you updated your ID?” he barked.
    “Well, my hair was just cut…before it falls out. My numbers were low. I just found out yesterday I could even come.”
    Translation: zero sympathy, double lecture.

    When he finally waved me through, I tossed a snark grenade: “Only my hair changed—the face is the same.”
    My husband, ever the helpful peanut gallery, asks, “Did you take your mask off?”
    No, my darling, I did not assume my license photo included a pandemic mask. Bless his heart.

    Then came the security shuffle. Pockets emptied, bins filled, walk this way. I flashed my “I have a port” card like it was a backstage pass, got sent through the full-body scanner, endured the pat-down, and had my suitcase searched because prescription powder apparently = suspicious contraband. Never a dull moment.

    Socks of Doom

    Doctor’s orders: wear compression socks on the plane. Problem: my legs are 11 inches from knee to ankle and my calves are, let’s say, generous. Walmart and Walgreens had nothing. Husband’s compression socks? Way too long. Solution? Scissors. Cut those suckers down to size and made myself some footless Franken-socks.

    I hated them. So I waited until almost time to board to wrestle them on in a bathroom stall. At one point my bare foot was sticking out into the neighbor’s stall while I grunted, groaned, and fought with fabric. Every time I bent over, the toilet flushed. I was basically starring in my own airport bathroom comedy show. Got them on, but never again. (Okay, once more on the flight home. Then never again.)

    Sleeping Beauty, Airline Edition

    Finally boarded, slapped on my hat, headphones, and neck wrap, and was asleep in less than five minutes. I honestly have no memory of taking off. Two glorious hours gone in a blink. Woke up just in time to find a bathroom and prepare for landing, only to find my husband had scored me two of the best cookies in the world. Keeper, that one.

    Reverse and Repeat

    Off the plane we did the reverse struggle—restrooms, escalators, trains, restrooms again—until we finally made it to the hotel. The room was perfect. I napped. We ate downstairs instead of prowling the streets, and miracle of miracles, the food was fantastic.

    Bonus entertainment: a bridal party taking pictures and friends we came to see. By 6:00 local time (aka 9 past-my-bedtime o’clock), I was tucked back in bed. Asleep within the hour, no regrets.

    Worth Every Awkward Moment

    As Vegan Coach Naomi nailed it after a mountain-biking crash: “Doing shit you want to do is totally worth it—even if you fall.”

    So yes, oncologist, I followed the rules. And yes, friends, the whole chaotic, exhausting, ridiculous day was worth every second (my shamelessly stolen motto). Even if it did end with my bare foot in a stranger’s bathroom stall.

    P.S. I swear I did not wear those crocks! Or short pants. Imagine if the franken-socks were visible. Oh hell no!!