Tough Twinkie

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...