Tough Twinkie

"Are you good?" Well, since chemotherapy infusions ended, I am no longer a “Paskahousu” (shit pants)! Yet, I believe when folks ask, “Are you good?” Really they want know, “Is the cancer gone?” And yes, I am cancer-free, as much as I know! However, the treatments — chemotherapy infusions, breast surgeries, immunotherapy, and now hormone suppressants — have left skid marks. The disconnect between looking recovered and living in a body that is adjusting wears on me. I continue to meet with several specialists because of many side effects. My body does not feel young anymore and the health appointments pile on. It is emotionally dehydrating to respond to, “Are you good?” Each day is a toss up — energetically, physically, and mentally, just as it was throughout chemotherapy. How do I describe the level of depletion? The level of confusion? This Tough Twinkie is at a loss for words.  Like a mime at the circus.

107-Year-Old Italian Longevity Tip The rumors are true. Yes, I've been distant and quiet. I’ve been reflecting. Also navigating spikes in ADHD that no one prepared me for. In fact, I’ve written several blog posts in my head, they just haven’t landed via the keyboard. However, I am back. There is something to clarify: only 1-year has been checked off the 5 -year treatment plan . It’s a circus, ladies and gents. So, let’s wheel in a cage match between certainty and reality, sponsored by promises. Having worked in marketing, I caught on early to how industries capitalize on our desire for certainty. Possibilities are spruced up to sound more like certainties. And indeed, treatment has introduced me to spruced-up possibilities. I've heard countless versions of: eat this way, move this way, avoid that... Yet, the fact is the genealogy test labeled the cancer as, “Environmental”, with no specifics of what caused it. Science has its place; after all, it's one of the reasons I'...

“Health is Wealth.” The line sounds like it was cracked from a fortune cookie— yet, wise words indeed. Part of my journey to becoming “wealthy” required sifting through grief after the cancer treatment. It hit me how terrifying the whole event was. I knew grief would be part of the circus, and yet I wasn’t prepared for the draining act. After the last post, I want to thank everyone who responded with such compassion. A friend sent this message: “Your straightforward honesty is amazing and just one of your many superpowers. Go there (grief), and then come back. We’re all here for you.” I could feel in my body they were right.  This difficult journey (going on one year) revealed deeper sisu (grit) and self-confidence— I can honor grief without letting it dominate me. Also, all of you sent encouraging words that really helped, like soothing lines from fortune cookies. It  unveiled the power of community.  I’m so appreciative, and I’d like to share some words here, because he...

Nah, Treatment Has More to Say Important notice: there is mention of depression, loss, and grief. Read it when you feel ready. Treatment — that was done and over, right? Well, no. There’s a new performance in the circus line-up. The medical term is perimenopause . This magician has a hat full of tricks — forgetfulness, stiff joints, muscle aches, hot flashes, night sweats, mood swings… and apparently, ‘not giving a frick’ can trickle out. That one, I’m actually okay with — finally, a useful skill to hoard in my adult toolbox. Before I could ride along with zero fricks, I landed in a stint of depression. Hold up — a bonus level of despair in the hat? Radiating positive numbers, my lab results confirmed that my body was bouncing back and normalizing. Overall, the outcomes from chemotherapy and surgery were positive, even “delightfully unexpected,” as the care team shared. Full of hope, I wanted to move on with life. I threw a celebration to close the past and honor a healthy start. But ...

To Enjoy ME Time Hey, it’s me, Tough Twinkie. Yes, I’m still marching through treatment, and even though  chemotherapy infusions are over and the surgery is done, I’m still in treatment. I’ll tell you all about it, I pinky promise. But right now, I’ve got some tea to spill. Between the never-ending appointments, I’ve discovered something shocking: I CAN DRIVE my own self around. Imagine that — a fully grown 33-year-old adult behind the wheel. Shocking, right? If you see me on the road, just scoot over, please. I’m enthusiastic these days, I’ve got places to be and people to see! My busy thumbs will make their grand return to this blog after the holiday season. While I’m “out of office,” I’ll be greasing up my digits because—PLOT TWIST—the treatment circus has tagged in menopause and it brought along joint stiffness. More on that soon. Well folks, thank you for your continued support, and enjoy the end of 2025. I won’t hold back from welcoming in a new year (and neither should you) ...

Now a Tough Twinkie Recently, I wrote an article for the local newspaper since October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. Check it out: https://soprissun.com/breast-cancer-and-the-trapeze-of-self-empowerment/

So NOT CLEAN “Ain’t nobody as stench as me — I’m just so NOT FRESH , and so NOT CLEAN .” It’s time my favorite duo, Outkast, tag in for the circus. Here I sit, marinating in my own limited-edition stench, packaging it up like a holiday candle no one asked for. “I love when you sniff, then scatter away from me — I’m just so NOT FRESH , and so NOT CLEAN .” Even the dogs are quarantined from my orbit. Baby wipes and sponge baths recommended after surgery, but… “I’m the itchiest grasshopper on the planet. (In my mind) there’s a flea infestation closing in — go on and panic.” Adhesive bandages are the latest act in this freak show: glued into my skin, protruding rashes and blisters. “Got me thinkin’… we fling open that patio, Crank that stank like a rodeo, Buck a bronco, let it go!” Coated in itchy rashes and stench… the time came to pack it up, freak show! At the clinic the bandages were removed and finally my skin could breathe. A few more sponge baths over a few days and the itchy rashes...

Hair is Back, Tell a Friend How will the new sprouts on my head grow in? Throughout chemo, my adorable  niece (loose compliment) loved pointing out my bald head. Once she gasped, “OH WOW! I wouldn’t recognize you in public with no hair.” Cute, right? Well, “Guess who’s back? Back again?” That’s right, the hair on Shea’s. . . no, not on my chinny, chin, chin, but on my scalp, finally ! So it is time for a vote.  Cleo (and the rest of you), state your opinions. . . or your bets, on how the hair will regrow. The first person to guess correctly wins a chia pet! Options Include: 1. Slime-Shady Blonde & Straight. 2. Slime-Shady Brown, Straight Remix. 3. Ron the Weasel Red & Straight. 4. Hairtrix Dark & Straight. 5. Timberlake-Noodles Blonde & Curly. 6. Timberlake-Noodles Brown & Curly. 7. Shaun-That-Ain’t-White, Red Curls / Waves. 8. Timothee-Let-Us-See Dark Curls. 9. Trebek-Ya-Didn’t-Expect White & Straight. 10. Muaha-Mu-GOT-YOU White Curls.

Not in my Calendar = NOT REAL Breaking Report:   Nurses at the infusion center warned Tough Twinkie that “Chemo Brain is real.” Sources confirm she believed them… sort of. In  the same way people “believe” Mercury is in retrograde. Dismissively. Early infusions showed only minor lapses of memory. After the final infusion, round  6, the condition escalated. Witnesses say entire appointments vanished from memory. “Um, my bad?” said Twinkie in a press release. Experts have since confirmed: if it’s not written in the official calendar or backed by a blaring phone alarm, then the event does not, in fact, exist in this reality.  The Tough Twinkie administration urges friends and family to proceed with caution and with paper trails. It is advised to hate the game (chemo) and not hate the player (Tough Twinkie).

The Chemotherapy Crumbles Everyone groans at glitter: “UGH, what a mess!” At least glitter promises fun. Crumbs? No fun. Just a mess.  Corn Flakes promise “simple goodness” on the box but in reality they leave dust behind. Like chemo, weeks of treatments leave behind dusty crumbs — lingering side effects that stick, float, and tumble around. One of my favorite activities, hiking, has been neglected for months. I wasn’t prepared for the Tonya Harding sabotage that whacked out my legs. Even going up and down the apartment stairs feels like climbing Everest. It’s been depressing, like a lukewarm bowl of soggy Corn Flakes . Most days I barely make it across the driveway without sharp stabs trickling down my thighs and across my shins — like shin splints on steroids. The Cancer Team’s regimen — Advil, Claritin , and Tylenol — was supposed to manage the pain and swelling. Some days, it felt more like a placebo, just enough to let the dogs outside. Theories among Oncology teams wobbled ...

A Jingle About Chemo #6 Just step right up and feel the fright, The fright of the chemo circus flip, The side effects all tumble in, About 5 days post the IV drip. Swollen legs take center stage, Bone zings spark and fill the air, It’s pulling on pants that lets the Beast out the cage… So, do you dare? You can’t ignore, The chemo circus tour, Come, see what’s in store, On the chemo circus tour!  Round 6, the last of the chemotherapy infusions and the grand finale, was  supposed to end with an Olympic gold medal at the finish line.   Instead, my skeleton betrayed me, collapsing over the line with no medal in sight. Only a balloon animal, shaped like a taser and buzzing with actual shock waves. A cruel circus joke that left me stunned and immobile. Yet this Tough Twinkie didn’t get sawed in half. I’m still standing, still sarcastic, still undefeated — and so, that is victory.

MISSING from the Left Side Color: Deep Brown, referred to as “Espresso” by makeup brands. Arch: “St. Louis” resemblance. Temperament: Not dangerous, just judgmental and a tad dramatic. Movement: Creeps along like a suspicious caterpillar. Last seen July 24th at the infusion center.  May now be posing as   your   brow, so check closely. I’m not saying you stole it… but if you’re wearing it, hand it over. My right side is pulling double shifts and it’s hard to rock the “Tough Twinkie” look with only one brow. It’s time to get “ Symmetrical… Symmetricaaall!”  as Olivia Newton-John would sing. Reward: Facial symmetry. It’s priceless yet so appreciated.

How to Respond While Falling Apart Instead of stumbling for answers to the dreaded “How are you?”, I started consulting my Magic 8-Ball . Here is what it says through the lens of chemo side effects, exhaustion, and just trying to survive the circus: 1. Under Reconstruction Yes, I’m still here. No, I’m not available . Tried rebooting but all I got was an error message, Fresh Out of Feelings. 2. “Gag Me With a Spoon” Just kidding — it’s pills, supplements, and a task list longer than a Costco receipt taped to my last nerve. 3. Nah, It’s Nap Time Somewhere over the rainbow, my hopes and dreams are yodeling without me. Probably dressed in matching jumpsuits too. 4. Are We There Yet? Even the TV looks like it’s melting off the wall from the psychological heat of binge-watching The Bear. 5. Walk it Out Oh wait — thighs on fire just from the stairs? So clutch! Now let’s trick my body into cardio… by standing on a vibration plate like a Tickle-Me-Elmo. 6. . . Anyone? Anyone? All operators van...

The Wicked Witch is Melting When the cancer journey began the tumor was measured at 3.2 cm. That was in February 2025,  back when I still had defined eyebrows and a smidge of patience.  Somewhere along the speed-dating circuit with oncology teams, a nurse casually mentioned it was 3.9 cm. My finely tuned BS detector—honed by years of politely nodding through unsolicited advice—immediately called it: false. That was the first and last time I heard that number, and no one else seemed inclined to defend it. Now it's July 2025, and four chemotherapy infusions later— drumroll, please —the wicked witch is down to 0.3 cm. It is melting!  Chemotherapy, despite its daily circus of side effects,  is working. And for that, I am relieved. Two more infusions to go. Then this Tough Twinkie will finally wave goodbye to chemo like a high school reunion that I have no intention of attending. If  cancer taught me anything, it is to be way more intentional. So high school? Yeah… n...

Cancer is an Experience When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I was thrown into a hot seat. A tumor was growing inside of me, and yet I needed to separate myself from it. From the very beginning, I recognized:  I am not cancer. Cancer would be something that I moved through — cancer would be an experience, and not an identity. Cancer does not define my humor. It does not carry my compassion. It does not extend the kindness and love I show others. That is because cancer is not my character . It may have taken shelter in my body but my spirit is kicking it out. Most days I feel like a 5’10” crumb. Emotionally I am drained. Physically I am strained. Energetically I am zapped. Chemotherapy brings a full circus of side effects. It is relentless with every infusion and I do not “bounce back” easily. I ask you to hold that truth with me because honestly, I don't feel great, and I need you to assume that is the baseline. If you recall the Pepto Bismol jingle line, “nausea, heartburn, in...

An Honest Reply from a Cancer Patient Insight from Chemotherapy Infusions: I usually pause when someone asks me, “How are you?” The pause is to reflect on whether they really want the overstuffed, slightly-questionable, and loaded enchilada; or would they prefer a bite-sized version, such as, “I’m hanging in there”? The simple answer is that I haven’t been great. Although for those genuinely curious, here’s the messy and loaded enchilada. The lingering anxiety after the scare about a  pulmonary embolism  (blood clot) didn’t help. Details of that in the post, Stand & Spiral . Plus, mix in the usual post-infusion ‘specials’ (constipation, diarrhea, and bloody noses) but now my thigh muscles? They  feel like anchors. I squat to grab the ball for Juniper and it’s like the anchors pin me and then fling me back up like a clumsy rubber band. My thighs burn every day. Not the motivational kind like, “Feel the burn!” It’s more like a stubborn protest. And what the heck is up w...

When the Threat is Vertical Details from Chemotherapy Infusion #3: An infomercial parody about standing up and spiraling into chaos. Starring Twinkie, her dog Juney, and her father Papa Mark as the Narrator. OPEN SCENE: [Insert: Thunderous heartbeat: KAW-KAHK-DOOM! ] *Fog rolls back to reveal TWINKIE. She is wearing mismatched socks and a slouchy cardigan. She rises slowly from the couch, swaying like she’s on a ship. TWINKIE   (softly singing): “99 bottles of agua on the wall… take one down…” *She takes three shaky steps toward the kitchen. [Enter: JUNEY bursting into frame and locking eyes with the camera. She lets out an ear-piercing yip.] *Camera snaps back to TWINKIE. She freezes mid-step. Her eyes widen and then spiral into animated vortexes . TWINKIE   (eerily calm): “E-I-E-I-O… oh no.” *She collapses in slow motion. THUNK . Juney fans her with a grease-stained pizza box. [Interject: Narrator voice.] PAPA MARK: “Stand & Spiral™—for those who crave the thrill of surv...

Inside Twinkie’s Chambers Welcome to my collection of horizontal surfaces, where chemotherapy and I deepen our twisted and one-sided relationship. No celebrity mansions here; just raw and unkempt zones I can barely clean thanks to body aches and pains. People ask, “How do you pass the time?” It’s easy — by passing out . So let’s get started before I do just that. Let’s begin with an unconventional spot: the floor. This spot chose me after the third chemotherapy infusion. Standing up became a panic attack. Racing heart? Check. Hot flashes like I’m melting in a sauna? Check. Vision like a blackout curtain? You betcha. So down to the floor I go and it’s flat-out comfortably uncomfortable. Who is the star of this horror film? That’d be Tough Twinkie, but spoiler alert: “Tough isn’t here anymore, Ms. Twinkie.” Since we’re on the horror vibe, let’s slide into the bathtub, half-submerged and half-functioning. I’ve mastered the “half-bath” because I’m too exhausted to sit up straight. My feet...

It Means “Shit Pants” Details from Chemotherapy Infusion #2: Channeling Grandma Elvera again. Lately, that stern, no-nonsense Finnish woman seems to rise up from within me. I catch her reflection in the mirror bundled in a robe and head wrapped tight. Her sharp, unforgettable phrases tumble out of my mouth, like the Finnish paskahousu , (PAH-SKA-HO-SOU) literally, "shit pants." It’s as if time folded in on itself, passing down her habits — equal parts sisu (grit) and grace. I feel her presence with me on this health journey, standing nearby with arms crossed and expression unreadable but her heart quietly full. Much like myself during a recent weekend away. My own arms were crossed protectively over my gut as I half-laughed at the very real threat of becoming a paskahousu on the streets of Denver. Not exactly the title I desired to earn. Still, I was out in the world and deeply grateful to be. Round two of chemotherapy delivered fewer side effects, although the couple that ...

What is Chemotherapy Servin’ Up? On the TV show Kitchen Nightmares , Chef Gordon Ramsay delivered a wake-up call to a restaurant owner who misunderstood “soup of the day.” Ramsay, with his face crinkled like an omelet and his voice booming like Oz, clarified it meant fresh soup made that day with available ingredients — certainly NOT reheated sludge from a week ago. Well, let me tell you, chemotherapy listened to Ramsay. Every day it serves up a special “symptom du jour” from whatever ingredients it collects in my nervous system. This menu changes daily and it is not a comforting bowl of chicken noodle soup. Here is what chemotherapy has served to me: Put Me on the Couch Pozole Bursting with a deeply spiced broth that zaps your soul — gripping your body with haunting discomfort, stinging your muscles with creeping tension, and clouding your mind with a haze of pessimism. Wait… was that supposed to be in the recipe? Bloody Bisque Enveloping the palate with a velvety richness so intense...