Itās been a few days since I posted, and I hope you werenāt worried that I was feeling awful ā because I wasnāt! From Saturday through right now, Iāve felt surprisingly great. No pain pills, no nausea meds, no reason for nausea meds. Itās been a fabulous stretch ā almost enough to make me forget Iām fighting Cancer Boy. Almost.
But when youāre in this battle, even the good days come with a shadow. No matter how great you feel, that little voice in your head never quite shuts up: āIs this working?ā āAm I getting better?ā āWill I have to ditch this chemo and start all over again?ā Itās always there, quietly humming along in the background of every moment.
Today is PET scan day ā the big one. The test that tells us if things are getting better, holding steady, or spreading. It should feel exciting, but honestly? Itās terrifying. More terrifying than a haunted house.
So after a few blissful days āoff,ā Iām suiting up again ā lucky shirt on, battle mind engaged, and (in theory) my best poker face in place. (In reality, Iām about as unreadable as a Hallmark card.)
Cross your fingers. Cross your toes. Whisper to Mother Earth or pray to your God ā Iāll take all the good vibes you can send. And know that Iām deeply grateful for every single one of you who cares. š
One would think the obvious answer is that the cancerāor the treatmentācould kill you. But for me, thatās not it. Not yet, anyway. The possibility of death, even with the diagnosis and the poison, still feels far away. Which is, frankly, my preference.
Itās not the constant sickness or nausea. Itās not the hours of shivering and chills, or the sliding-down-a-razor-blade thrill of eliminating bodily waste.
Itās not the isolationāboth physical and internal. Itās not that most food tastes like metal, or that eating and drinking enough each day sends you right back to that razor-blade ride.
Itās not even the endless naps, the half-conscious fog, the 8 p.m. bedtime, or the sense that lifeās fun is happening somewhere else without you.
But I digress. The question was: what is the worst part of having cancer?
Your hair is gone. Your face looks puffier. Your body changes. You tell yourself those are just shallow thingsābut then you start forgetting words, and where you were going, and why. You canāt recall names youāve known for years. You sit in the dark and cry for any reasonāor no reason at all.
And the biggest thing you lose? Your common sense.
Take a few days ago, for example. A fine case study in cognitive chaos.
I got up early, determined to leave by 8 a.m. because Sassy the Wonder Dog had a 9 oāclock grooming appointment. (Sassyās favorite hobby is rolling in the stinkiest piles imaginable.) With Lukeās help, I loaded the car and finally got dressedāonly to realize my diamond ring was missing.
Common sense immediately exited the premises.
I went to grab my phone to call Lukeāonly to discover that it, too, was missing. Lost ring. Lost phone. Obviously Lukeās fault.
So I ran outside and started tearing apart everything he had just loaded into the car. Found the phone, not the ring. Maybe not Lukeās fault after all. But I called him hysterical anyway, and he promised to rush home.
Meanwhile, I ransacked the house: dishwasher, clean sheets, folded blanketsānothing. Luke arrived, calm and logical (as usual), and asked where I was when I first noticed it was gone. He checked the dressers while I tore apart the blankets on my side of the bedāstill mid-meltdown, crying about how useless I am, how I keep losing everything, how Iām losing my brain, and what if I never get back toā
And then I looked under the bed.
āFOUND IT!ā I shouted, with what can only be described as a psychotic smile.
Luke looked up. āFound what?ā
āMy ring!ā I chirped.
He didnāt actually say this, but I swear I heard:
āHm. Thought maybe you found your senses.ā
It was only 8 a.m., and I was already crazy. Sad to say, the crazy lasted all day.
And letās be honestāitāll be back tomorrow. Because common sense is not a product of chemotherapy.
Time is weird. Iām calling this Day 2, even though the calendar swears otherwise. But my cells, my soul, my spinning little chemo-altered moleculesāthey insist Thursday was Day 1. So Day 2 it is.
Yesterdayās question: Do you ever wake up and wonder where YOU went? Todayās realization: apparently, ābecomingā requires traveling somewhere else entirelyāno luggage, no return ticket, just a brain on shuffle.
Chemo was short, mercifully. I even came home with my jet-packāmy white-cell superstarters ticking quietly on my arm, a tiny biochemical fireworks show set for 1 p.m. And thenā¦ I disappeared.
I slid into bed like melting butter. Shivering, sweating, freezing, burning. Fan on. Fan off. Every molecule arguing with its neighbor about the thermostat of existence.
Time folded in on itself. When I woke, the light had shifted but nothing else had. I drifted to the couch, a parallel universe where gravity hums louder and blankets weigh more than regret. I didnāt eat. I barely sipped water. I just floated in and out of body, like my brain had clocked out for interdimensional maintenance.
Around 6:30, Luke appearedāsteady, sun-warmāand said, āCome sit by the water.ā He might as well have said, Come back to Earth. I sat beside him, blinking at the ripples like they were breathing.
My mind was mushy honey. My thoughts, ping-pong balls in zero gravity. Winnie the Pooh wouldāve understood. He said it loud and clear “Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?
So yeah, I was here yesterday. Physically. But mentally? I was off somewhere between the stars and the shivers. Maybe thatās what becoming really isāyour brain goes on a field trip to rearrange the furniture while your body holds down the fort.
I wonder what version of me will step off the bus next time. I wonder if there will be a green sofa,
You ever wake up and wonder where you went? Because I do. Every damn day lately.
When I started this blog ā Second Battle, Same Me ā I really believed that. That I could go through cancer again and still come out the same woman. But lately Iām not so sure.
Twenty-one years ago, I fought this battle once before. Back then, I donāt remember if I became someone else ā or if I just put on a stronger version of myself to survive it. But now, walking through it again, I can feel the shift happening all over.
Chemo is stealing things from me. My ability to stand up for myself. My ability not to cry at every damn thing. My ability not to apologize for not being superwoman. I used to be strong. I used to be in charge. I used to juggle ten things at once and still have enough left to carry someone elseās load too.
Did I become that woman after the first battle? Or was she always in there ā the warrior, the doer, the fixer? And if she was, does losing her now mean Iām losing meā¦ or just becoming something new?
Because right now, I feel like a shell of her. I cry too easily. I apologize too much. Iām angry enough to break glass. And some days, I want to lie on the floor, blanket over my head, and just stop being brave for a minute.
Yeah, thatās where I am. Chemo stole my personality ā or maybe itās stripping me down to whatās left underneath it. The parts I never had time to meet when I was too busy being āfine.ā
Hereās the thing no one tells you: When everything that made you you gets blasted away, you find out whoās hiding underneath the noise. And maybe thatās the quiet kind of hope ā not in the old me, or the strong me, or the version that looked like she had it all together ā but in the woman whoās still standing here anyway. Still showing up. Still writing. Still trying.
Maybe chemo didnāt steal everything after all. Maybe it just peeled me back to real.
And that woman ā broken, teary, tired, messy ā sheās still here. Sheās still me. And I think she might be becoming someone even stronger than before.
I wonder who sheāll be next. But for once, Iām not afraid to find out. š
Oh my gosh, you guys ā LOOK what my Uncle Bobby and Aunt Beth made just for me! š¦øāāļø A Super Cape for Sassy the Wonder Dog! šš I mean, seriously ā could there be better humans in the whole wide world? If you see them, tell them how awesome they are.
As soon as it arrived, Mom took me up to Dadās office to show me off. Everyone needs to see a superhero at work, right? I strutted across that shiny white tile floor like I owned the place. The cape even matches Momās cancer colors ā bright lime green and purple ā which makes me an official sidekick in the battle.
It was good for Mom to go, too. She doesnāt like going there much anymore. She says she ālooks like crapā because her hair is falling out. (I donāt get that part ā mine falls out every day and nobody panics about it. Humans are weird.) She also says sheās gotten fatter (and shhh, that part might be true), but itās the medicine, and she canāt help it. I still think sheās perfect.
Taking care of Mom is my full-time job. That means making sure she rests, too. Yesterday was a big day (wonder dogging is hard work), so we went to bed early ā 8 p.m. sharp. I curled up beside her all night to keep watch. She was pretty restlessā¦ probably still excited about the cape I think.
Thank you again to the bestest Uncle Bobby and Aunt Beth in the whole wide world! š You made this Wonder Dog feel truly super.
Third Act With Pattie 