This week I’m heading to a place that is supposed to be warm and sunny, with clear blue water and all that vacation brochure nonsense.
Naturally, the forecast did not get the memo.
WDNC that it might be cool.
WDNC that the ocean may be for looking at, not swimming in.
WDC that we get time together—actual, uninterrupted, no-agenda time—with each other and with friends.
Sunshine is optional.
That part is not.
It’s been almost three weeks since my last chemotherapy treatment, and I am feeling… so many feels.
Like, Costco-sized feelings. In bulk.
On the bright side, I haven’t had a night sweat in five whole days. FIVE.
That alone deserves a parade. Or at least fresh sheets that don’t feel like they were wrung out by a lifeguard.
I feel better. My mind is a little clearer. I’ve even started tiptoeing into that dangerous mental neighborhood called “Life After Cancer.”
You know—the place where people make plans. And assumptions. And maybe even buy concert tickets more than a month out.
But then there’s the other hand.
I’m still tired. A lot.
Like, do one thing and need a lie-down tired.
My motivation seems to have a strict one-activity-per-day policy, and my brain shuts down the moment exhaustion shows up—which is often and without notice. Concentration just packs up its little suitcase and says, “Nope. I’m out.”
And then there’s the third hand.
Which I don’t technically have, but my anxiety has graciously supplied.
This hand is busy worrying.
Worrying that I’m not cancer-free yet.
Worrying while I wait for a test that hasn’t even been scheduled because insurance is apparently on a scenic route.
Worrying that even if I am cancer-free now, what about next year?
This was my second round—does that mean I get a punch card? A loyalty program? Do I do this forever?
Will it be a long life?
A shortened one?
Is all this mental ping-pong the reason I sometimes feel completely frozen, like my body just hits the pause button?
Probably.
The truth is, the view from right now keeps changing.
Sometimes it’s hopeful.
Sometimes it’s foggy.
Sometimes it’s downright scary as hell.
But here’s the thing I’m trying to hold onto: right now is not the whole story.
Right now includes dry sheets, a clearer mind, and small signs that my body is still trying—still healing.
Right now doesn’t require me to solve next year, or the rest of my life, or every possible outcome.
Right now just asks me to sit here.
Breathe.
Do one thing.
And trust that the view will change again.
And maybe—just maybe—the next version will be even better.
I am sick and tired of night sweats. Sick. Sick. Sick. There, I’ve said it out loud.
And no, I am not talking about menopausal night sweats.
I conquered those decades ago like the warrior woman I am.
I am talking about the clothes-drenching, sheet-drowning, middle-of-the-night baptismal pool night sweats caused by lymphoma and chemotherapy.
The double whammy.
The overachiever of bodily betrayal.
Three, four, sometimes five times a night.
Every night.
For weeks.
Every. Single. Night.
Bedtime is no longer bedtime. It is logistics.
Before bed, I line up five sets of pajamas like I’m staging a quick-change Broadway show. Each stack is carefully oriented so when I grab it half-asleep, the front is actually the front. This is not my first rodeo.
Next: towels. Five or six of them.
Last time I used sheets and realized this time… I don’t care that much anymore.
You fall asleep hopeful (rookie mistake), having turned the air down because surely this will be the night it doesn’t happen.
Spoiler alert: it happens.
You wake up drenched. Absolutely soaked.
And somehow also freezing, because the air is blasting and your body has turned itself into a swamp.
So you sneak out of bed, shaking and shivering, and stumble over to the stash.
You peel off the wet clothes.
Put on the dry ones.
Repeat this process while trying very hard not to wake up too much or fully question your life choices.
First towel: hair.
Fortunately—thanks to chemo—I don’t have much hair, so that’s efficient at least. That towel goes back with the stack.
Second towel: to the bed.
It gets laid over the bottom sheet.
You flip the pillow.
Then you wad up the wet top sheet and shove it to the foot of the bed under the covers.
I’m short. I don’t need that part anyway.
Two hours later… you do it all again.
And then again.
And then again.
Eventually it’s after 4 a.m., and anything after that is officially get-up time, whether you like it or not.
The interesting thing—at least for me—is that this doesn’t start at the beginning, when the cancer is at its strongest.
It starts later.
With the cumulative effect of the chemo.
Like a delayed punchline no one asked for.
I am very grateful the chemo is over.
And I will be extra glad—borderline celebratory—when the night sweats finally decide to pack up their towels and leave.
Until then, I’ll be over here, running a one-woman overnight laundry service, wondering how it’s possible to be both soaked and freezing at the same time.
Again.
As I sit on the precipice of a new year, I’m having trouble letting the last one go.
I’m also having trouble being completely honest.
So here it is.
I spent the last six months of 2025 terrified. Sick. Lost. Unable to imagine a life that didn’t revolve around chemotherapy schedules and side effects and fear.
People, as people do, eventually grew tired of the constant ups and downs. Life went on for them. I, as I often do, withdrew further and further into myself—quietly convincing myself that I didn’t want to be a burden, while simultaneously wondering why I felt so alone.
On the days when it all became too much, I cried in the solitude of my own making, telling myself I had no one—despite knowing that wasn’t entirely true.
I wanted to leave 2025 with a victory lap.
With a clear test result.
With a doctor saying, Yes, you’re in remission.
Chemo is over, but that one final test hasn’t happened yet. And because of that, I brooded. I whined. I pouted privately. I obsessed over the ending I didn’t get instead of honoring the story I survived.
And honestly? I disgusted myself a little for that.
Because here’s what I did get in 2025.
I got a cancer caught so early it didn’t even show up in my regular bloodwork.
I got a chance to fight before it had time to take more from me.
I was never alone.
My husband—my partner—did not miss a single doctor’s visit or chemotherapy session. Not one. He showed up every day, steady and unflinching, even when I couldn’t be.
My granddaughter kept me anchored to life itself—reminding me that I was still here and still needed to live.
Family members and friends checked in, called, texted, cared. One friend made it her personal mission to send me an encouraging message every single day.
And Sassy—sweet, intuitive Sassy—took it upon herself to care for me daily, in all the quiet ways only a dog can.
So yes, I didn’t get the final word in 2025.
But I got something far greater.
I got love.
I got presence.
I got another chance at living.
And now, I’m ready.
Ready to put the last six months behind me.
Ready to step into 2026 with gratitude—for life, for family, for friends, and for Sassy.
Whatever happens in 2026, I will meet it knowing this:
I am still here.
And that matters more than any test result ever could.
And as I step into 2026, I do so believing that healing doesn’t always arrive with certainty—but it always begins with hope.
Hello everyone.
It’s me. Sassy. The Wonder Dog.
Since Mama has been suspiciously quiet for about a week, I have taken over communications. You’re welcome.
Here’s the scoop.
That last chemo?
Yeah. It flattened Mama like a pancake you accidentally sat on. Since then, it’s been an up-down-up-down situation. Christmas was… not normal. But Daddy? Oh my dog. Daddy WORKED that kitchen like he was auditioning for a Food Network special. Mama noticed. I noticed. I supervised closely from floor level. We really appreciate Daddy.
I do keep seeing Mama try to write sometimes. She sits down, types a bit… and then suddenly runs off to that horrible room where they attempt to drown me with soap and water and where she sits on a strange white throne. I do not approve of this room. AT ALL. I try not to even look in there.
Now we are up at the lake, Mama’s Happy Place, and let me tell you—Mama is slowly getting her mojo back. She sits on the deck soaking up sunshine (excellent life choice), and I lay nearby pretending I am a decorative rug but watching her every move. She walks around the property a little, tries to be “normal” going up the stairs, and then immediately remembers that breathing is still optional but highly recommended.
BUT THEN.
YESTERDAY HAPPENED.
Mama let ME take HER for a walk.
We walked all the way around the yard.
AND up the driveway.
AND all the way to the community mailboxes.
People, this was BIG.
She was exhausted afterward and took a two-hour nap. Naturally, I napped with her to ensure survival. It’s called being responsible.
Now she says later today we might walk all the way to “the green thing.”
I don’t know what that is.
I don’t care what that is.
What I know is Mama is determined, and when she decides to do something, she usually does it—even if she has to stop and huff and puff and lean on me (which is fine, I am very sturdy).
So until Mama gets her writing brain fully rebooted, here’s the official Sassy Update:
✔️ Mama is okay
✔️ Mama is getting stronger
✔️ Mama is walking again
✔️ Mama is even talking about cooking food someday (Daddy is VERY excited).
Stick with us.
We’re walking forward—one mailbox, one green thing, and one nap at a time.
Love,
🐾 Sassy the Wonder Dog
Head of Walks, Naps, and Mama Supervision
It’s five days before Christmas, and today I am doing something wonderfully ordinary.
Or at least my version of ordinary.
For decades, my granddaughter and I had a tradition: a little Christmas shopping on the Saturday before Christmas, followed by a movie. No rushing. No pressure. Just wandering, laughing, and then sitting in the dark with popcorn while the world paused for a couple of hours.
Life grew up, as it tends to do. She became an adult. Schedules filled. Responsibilities shifted. This year, she even took over my major Christmas shopping — a gift I didn’t know I needed, but one I’m forever grateful for.
Today, though, we’re bringing a piece of that old tradition back.
We’re heading out into the hustle and bustle. We’ll shop a bit, soak in the Christmas energy, and then do the best part — sit down at a movie. Maybe squeeze in some lunch if the stars align and the universe behaves.
I don’t know how this “normal” day will go. I don’t know how long I’ll last, or how much energy I’ll have, or what my body will decide to do halfway through. But what I do know is this:
I’m excited.
Excited to step outside.
Excited to reach for normal.
Excited to live inside a small, beautiful moment that feels like Christmas used to — and still can.
Happy five days before Christmas.
Today, hope looks a lot like a movie ticket and time with someone I love. 🎄✨
Do you have an ordinary holiday tradition? Share it with me, please, I need more ordinary!!!
As I approach my last chemotherapy treatment, I have finally figured out the cycle of how chemo affects me.
Only took me five months.
Clearly, I am a genius.
Here’s the thing no one really prepares you for: along with my chemo IV cocktails come some lovely liquid steroids. And when I have the long chemo days, I also get to take a whole lot of steroid pills.
One hundred and twenty mgs a day.
Hence the transformation into Punkinhead Squarepants, combined with Crying Witch Woman, mixed with Can’t Sleep for a Week, topped off with Bitchy Bitchy Bitchy.
It’s a stunning look. Truly.
Tomorrow I take my last steroids. Which leads me to wonder…
How long does bitchy bitchy take to go away?
Asking for myself. And for everyone who loves me.
Another thing I’ve finally figured out: after the steroids pile on, the exhaustion and misery pile on too. Enter the deep, deep hole.
Now, are you supposed to quit steroids cold turkey?
No.
But that’s exactly what happens every long chemo week.
And every time, the hole gobbles me up.
This week—because it’s the week before Christmas and not a single decoration is up—I am trying very hard to stay outside the hole. I’m allowing myself to look into it, but not climb in and unpack.
Next week should be my last chemo treatment.
But it’s not the end.
Anyone who has ever been through this knows that it never really ends. The side effects linger. The fear lingers. You become a person who questions every symptom:
It takes a toll. And it never completely goes away.
I was almost there once.
Twenty-one years since my last cancer. I was almost at the place where cancer was no longer my go-to diagnosis.
And then I found a lump on my back.
And it all fell apart.
So here I am again, with my old go-to firmly back in place.
None of this is to say that I am not grateful—because I am.
Grateful to God.
To family.
To friends.
To Sassy.
To sunshine.
To the universe.
Grateful for another chance to remember just how precious life is.
I fully intend to live it.
Fully.
It just might take a little while.
Reporting live from the Chemo Room, folks, where the IV poles sway and the recliners are almost comfortable. It’s 10:30 a.m., and this joint is hopping — every single chair taken. That’s right, the chemo lounge is standing-room-only (well, reclining-room-only). I haven’t seen this kind of turnout in eleven visits. Clearly, today’s the day everyone got the “Let’s poison cancer!” memo.
To my far right sits a young lady with all her hair. All of it. Long, shiny, shampoo-commercial hair. Naturally, I had to investigate (journalistic integrity, people). Turns out she’s here for an iron infusion. Bless her. May her iron rise and her hair remain glorious.
Meanwhile, I stepped away to the restroom and came back to find the man to my immediate right completely covered by a blanket. Like, entirely. Head completely covered, a human burrito of concern. And you know in this room, we don’t talk about dead people — it’s bad mojo. So yes, I stared until I saw his chest rise and fall. Whew. Crisis averted. No grim reaper sightings today.
Now, on my left sits a woman who clearly did not get the chemo memo about looking half-dead. She looks fabulous. Black shiny hair (real — I checked, again, reporter skills), perfect makeup, and an outfit that screams “Cougar Christmas Chic”: black sweater, leopard-print pants, and matching boots. I want to be her when I grow up.
Across the room, two elderly gentlemen (okay fine, probably my age, damn it) are having the time of their lives chatting about everything under the sun. I’ve seen both of them here before, alone and quiet, but today? They’re laughing, talking about old times. (Sadly, I remembered a lot of it myself.) But it’s nice. It feels like a tiny bit of joy snuck in with the saline drip.
Somebody’s in Mama’s old chair today. I haven’t seen her in weeks. Maybe she’s cured. God, I hope she’s cured!
And in the far corner? A little gaggle of women talking about Christmas crafts they’ve made. Glitter, glue guns, and garland galore. I wish I could join that table, but a reporter’s got to stay on her beat.
Fast-forward to 2:30 p.m. The chemo crowd has thinned out, leaving just me and the two gents — still solving the world’s problems and condemning the evils of some drug or another. The room hums quietly now. I can see the sunshine pouring through the window, a soft reminder that there’s life happening outside these IV poles.
It’s been a good day in the chemo room.
No deaths. Some laughs. A little envy. A little sunshine.
And me — still here, still reporting.
Chemo Chronicles: signing off until next drip.
The gentlemen just told their age. I am AT LEAST 10 years younger. Boy, I feel even better now!
It’s been a great week — and I’m as shocked as you are.
Five whole days of sunshine, and I finally crawled out of that dark, muddy hole I’d been sulking in. And let me tell you, it was fantabulous!!
Sorry to be AWOL from the blog, but honestly? It felt too good to feel good. I didn’t want to think about cancer, chemo, or any of that. AT. ALL.
Instead, I did totally normal, boring, glorious things. I cleaned my house – well some of it. I made spaghetti sauce from scratch. I sat in the sunshine — at home and by the lake. I even caught myself smiling like some Hallmark movie extra.
But (and there’s always a “but” in Chemo Land), today is chemo day. The damn hole is waiting with its arms wide open. I can almost hear it whispering, “Come on back, sweetheart.”
And I don’t want to go. Not to chemo. Not to the hole. Even though there’s only ONE MORE left after today — I still don’t want to. Because the hole will be waiting, and the body and mind both know it. That’s just how chemo works: cumulative exhaustion and a side of psychological warfare.
But I’m doing it. Because sunshine weeks are worth crawling out for. And after this… there will be only one.
Last weekend was a very important Christmas party/Retirement Party — one of those annual, can’t-miss gatherings with a special twist. So I made a promise to myself that I would do everything possible to go.
Let me tell you — this was no small feat.
I am deep in the chemo weeds right now. The cumulative effect (plus the rain and dreariness) has been chewing on my sanity like Sassy on a leftover dog toy. For the first time in my later years, I can honestly say I hate the way I look.
Between the steroids, the sitting, and the snacks that mysteriously keep finding their way into my hands, my face has turned into a full-blown pumpkin, and my body into SpongeBob SquarePants — complete with square legs and all. Nothing fits. The round-faced lady in the mirror doesn’t look like me… she looks like she swallowed me. Yes, I know I’ve whined about this before. It is a minor problem to be sure – but apparently I am a petty petty girl these days!
But I’d promised. So off we went.
Enter Makenzie, my beautiful 25-year-old granddaughter and personal fashion therapist. She could tell I was about to cancel before I’d even started trying on clothes. So she stepped in — part stylist, part nurse, part therapist — helping me find something I could stand to be seen in public wearing. Pettiness, I know – I am fortunate to be able to go out in public, I know! And yet, I whine!!
We finally landed on a flowing top, soft slacks (the only pair that fit), a fluffy scarf that doubled as both festive accessory and emergency warmth (since my jackets are all in witness protection) and sneakers. No slipping and falling on my Squarepants for this Punkinhead.
It was cold that night, and by the time we walked to the door, I was already wheezing like a 90-year-old accordion. The place was decked out to the heavens — twinkling lights, poinsettias, and one of those towering trees that looks like it came straight from a Hallmark movie budget.
We found a table in the corner (prime real estate for introverts and chemo warriors alike) and settled in. I smiled, chatted, and tried my best to remember what it felt like to be the life of the party.
The food was amazing. There was laughter, music, the sound of high heels clicking across hardwood, and a few questionable renditions of “Jingle Bell Rock.”
After an hour or two, the energy — and my stamina — ran low. Makenzie and I slipped out to the car for a quiet break, both of us just sitting in silence, watching our breath fog up the windows. No words, just a peaceful truce between exhaustion and effort.
Then we went back in.
And by then, the dance floor was alive. Everyone twirling, laughing, glowing in the warmth of the season. I stood on the sidelines, watching them move — the old me itching to join, the current me just grateful to feel the want again, a true Christmas Miracle for me.
As I watched them dance, I made myself a quiet little vow:
Next time, if there’s music playing and I have half the energy — I’m not sitting out.
I may be Punkinhead SquarePants for now, or forever, but this ol’ square body still remembers how to move and be alive and kicking – okay maybe not actual kicking.
And when I finally do — you can bet your mistletoe I’ll be celebrating the blessing of living!!!!
🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁
Oh, and today the sun is SHINING!!!! Happy Holidays!!!
Second Battle, Same Me 