Recliner Recovery and Sanitizing Wipes

Recliner Recovery and Sanitizing Wipes

🌼 Date: Friday, May 22, 2026

⚡ Energy: Conserving the tank

❤️‍🩹 Status: Chilling at home with puppy nurses and germ patrol supplies

🤨 Outlook: New normal is weird, but I’m learning the rules

Today was a pretty chill day at home.

Nothing exciting.

No big medical update.

No appointment.

No dramatic new symptom.

No giant hospital gown.

No bunny chase.

No fresh chapter of What Fresh Hell Is This, Breast Cancer Edition.

Just home.

The recliner.

The puppy nursing crew.

Potty trips.

A little dozing.

A little resting.

A lot of trying to conserve whatever energy my body decided to give me today.

And honestly, there is something to be said for a quiet day.

Not every day in recovery is going to be a breakthrough.

Sometimes recovery looks like staying in your recliner with tiny dogs on your lap and letting your body do whatever behind-the-scenes repair work it is trying to do.

Sometimes healing looks suspiciously like laziness.

But it is not laziness.

It is strategy.

Today’s strategy was simple:

Rest enough during the day so there would be enough left in the tank to go to dinner later.

Because these days, even dinner is an event.

Once upon a time, dinner out was just dinner out.

Now it is a whole little production.

Do I have enough energy?

Do I need a hoodie?

Do I have my mask?

Do I have my sanitizing wipes?

Is my body going to cooperate?

Will my feet behave?

Will I need to hold on to Casey?

How many people will be there?

Will I make it through without needing to come home and immediately turn into a medically dramatic pumpkin?

These are the questions now.

Very glamorous.

Very spontaneous.

Very “cancer recovery planner with built-in germ anxiety.”

The puppy potty trips are actually helpful, though.

I am grateful for them because they force me to get up and walk around outside.

Left to my own devices, I could absolutely become one with the recliner.

A tiny, bald-ish, one-boob, compression-accessorized recliner goblin.

But the dogs have needs.

They do not care about fatigue, neuropathy, lymphedema, low white blood cells, or whether Mommy has conserved enough energy for dinner.

They need to potty.

They need to sniff.

They need to investigate the yard.

They need to supervise the wildlife, especially now that Maizy has discovered the bun buns and apparently believes she is property security.

So I get up.

I go outside.

I walk around a little.

I breathe fresh air.

Then I come back inside and return to my recovery throne.

It is not exactly a fitness plan, but it counts.

At this point, I am taking credit for every movement that does not end with me lying on the floor wondering who approved gravity.

By later in the day, the goal was to have enough energy to go to dinner and meet with whoever might show up.

There is always someone.

That is part of the fun.

It keeps things exciting.

Of course, these days, even dinner with just Casey feels exciting because I do not get out of the house much unless it is for appointments.

That is one of the weirdest parts of this season.

Treatment is done.

Chemo is done.

Radiation is done.

I am clear.

And yet I still cannot just throw myself back into the world like everything is normal.

Because my body is still recovering.

My immune system is still rebuilding.

My white cell count is still dangerously low.

And every time I go out, I am putting myself at risk of catching whatever virus is currently trending in the general public.

Which, let’s be honest, is always something.

People are out there coughing, sneezing, touching everything, and saying, “It’s just allergies,” while the rest of us silently back away and reconsider humanity.

I always wear a mask going in and out of places.

But eating with a mask on is one task I have not mastered yet.

I know.

Shocking.

After everything I have learned during this journey — drains, expanders, radiation positioning, self-checks, lymphatic massage, compression sleeves, medical portal messaging, and how to identify the difference between normal weird and call-the-doctor weird — somehow masked eating remains beyond my skill set.

So when we go out to eat, I do what I can.

We stick to familiar places.

Places where we know the people who work there.

Places where we trust the cleaning procedures.

Places where I feel a little safer.

Not perfectly safe.

There is no perfectly safe right now.

But safer.

And that matters.

I am not trying to jinx myself, but so far I have managed to dodge the nasty germs floating around out there.

And I would very much like to keep that streak going.

Cancer may be clear, but my immune system is still walking around like a tired substitute teacher on the last day of school.

It needs help.

It needs backup.

It needs the public to stop being gross.

Since I cannot control the public, which is unfortunate because I do have notes, I control what I can.

I keep sanitizing wipes in my purse.

As soon as we sit down, I wipe the table.

I wipe the chair.

I wipe anything I am going to touch.

I am not saying I have become a full germ-control goblin.

But I am also not not saying that.

This is my life now.

Phone.

Wallet.

Lip balm.

Sanitizing wipes.

Mask.

Possibly snacks.

Probably emotional damage.

It is funny how your habits change after something like cancer.

Before, I probably noticed germs the normal amount.

Now I notice them like a detective.

Who touched that?

Was that wiped down?

Is that person coughing?

Why is that child sticky?

Why is anyone allowed to be sticky in public?

Did the server touch the menu and then the glass?

Should I wipe the salt shaker?

Is wiping the salt shaker too much?

No, it is not too much.

Give me the wipe.

This is not because I want to live in fear.

I do not.

I want to live.

That is the whole point.

I want to go to dinner.

I want to see people.

I want to laugh.

I want to feel normal.

I want to participate in the world again.

But I also want to make it home without bringing back a souvenir virus that my low white cell count cannot properly fight.

So this is the balance.

The new math.

The new normal.

Rest during the day.

Puppy nurses on my lap.

Potty trips for movement.

Doze when I need to.

Save enough energy for dinner.

Mask going in and out.

Wipes in the purse.

Familiar places.

Careful choices.

A little joy.

A little risk.

A lot of hand sanitizer.

It is weird.

But I am learning the rules.

Cancer recovery is full of new rules.

Some are medical.

Some are emotional.

Some are practical.

Some are just things you figure out as you go.

Like how many activities fit into one day before your body starts threatening legal action.

Or how long you can sit upright before the recliner calls your name.

Or which purse has enough room for sanitizing wipes without making you look like you are smuggling a cleaning cart into dinner.

Or how to enjoy going out while still protecting a body that has already been through enough.

Today was not exciting in the big dramatic sense.

But maybe it was exciting in the small way.

Because I rested.

I listened to my body.

I let the dogs force me outside.

I conserved energy.

And I still planned to go out into the world for a little slice of normal.

That is not nothing.

That is recovery.

Recovery is not always a giant milestone.

Sometimes it is a recliner day with puppy nurses and a dinner plan.

Sometimes it is choosing rest before joy so you actually have enough energy to enjoy the joy.

Sometimes it is wiping down a table and chair because your immune system is still under construction and people cannot be trusted.

Sometimes it is accepting that this new normal is weird, but it is still a version of normal.

And for now, I will take it.

With a mask.

With wipes.

With Casey.

With the puppy nursing crew waiting at home.

And hopefully with enough energy left in the tank to enjoy dinner like a semi-functional human being.

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One Badass Day at a Time