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 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
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.
It’s not the news I wanted, but it’s the closest it can be — which, in this world, counts as awesome.
Thank you all for your crossed fingers and toes, your thoughts and prayers, and your pleas to Mother Earth. I appreciate every single effort on my behalf.
Luke and I waited in that small little room for what seemed like hours (but was probably fifteen minutes). Me — my usual version of “calm,” meaning foot pumping, standing, sitting, standing again, stomping, sighing, repeat. And Luke — sitting perfectly still with his trademark Starfighter calm.
Finally, the doctor came in — and her radiant smile told it all before she even spoke.
I won’t bore you with the doctor/scientist version, but here’s the simple truth: I had two affected lymph nodes, and they are now much smaller. And much less bright.
PET scans use an isotope that “lights up” the cancer — and where I once glowed like a neon sign at 14, I now barely shimmer at 3.
Hallelujah.
So, when you look at the photo — the left side is the first PET scan and the right side is the new one. A cherry became a pinto bean. An almond became a little English pea.
Normally, I hate peas. But I love this one.
As for brightness — the first scan could shine in full sunlight, and the new one? You’d barely spot it under a quarter moon.
So here we are — halfway done, and if all goes as planned, it should be over by Christmas.
🎃 Happy Halloween to all — from your half-lit, pea-loving, halfway warrior. 💚
Third Act With Pattie 