Tough Twinkie

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...