One Spoon, 150 Steps, and the Tina I Miss

One Spoon, 150 Steps, and the Tina I Miss

🌼 Date: Monday, June 1, 2026

⚡ Energy: One spoon, maybe half a backup spoon if the puppies cooperate

❤️‍🩹 Status: Fatigue is still running the show, and I am not amused

😪 Outlook: I want my stamina back, but apparently my body did not get the memo

Have you ever found yourself falling asleep in the middle of the day?

Do you sit at your desk and take five-minute catnaps just to keep yourself going?

Can you sleep standing up?

Do you watch TV while “resting your eyes,” even though everyone in the room knows you are absolutely asleep?

Now take that kind of tired and throw it in the trash, because cancer treatment brings on a whole different level.

Tired is not even close to the right word.

Exhausted.

Worn out.

Run down.

Bone tired.

Drained.

Weary.

Fatigued.

None of those really cover it either.

There should be a special cancer fatigue word.

Something dramatic.

Something ugly.

Something that sounds like your soul is dragging a wagon full of wet cement through knee-deep mud while your body is blinking on low battery.

Because that is closer.

Cancer fatigue is not “I stayed up too late.”

It is not “I need a nap.”

It is not “I had a busy week.”

This is a full-body shutdown request.

This is my body saying, Ma’am, we are not accepting additional tasks at this time. Please try again never.

And the frustrating part is that people do not always understand why it lasts so long.

Treatment is done, right?

Chemo is over.

Radiation is over.

The surgery was months ago.

So why am I still so tired?

Why do I have no stamina?

Why does walking to the mailbox feel like a field trip?

Why does taking a shower feel like I just competed in an Olympic event I did not train for?

The answer is because cancer treatment does not just take one thing from your body.

It takes from everywhere.

Surgery takes energy to heal from.

Chemo attacks fast-growing cells, but it does not politely stop there. It can affect blood counts, nerves, digestion, muscles, taste, appetite, sleep, and basically every system that was previously trying to mind its own business.

Radiation keeps working even after the last treatment. Your body is still repairing the damage. The skin, tissue, chest wall, muscles, and everything underneath are still trying to figure out what just happened.

Low white blood cells are part of it, yes, because the immune system is still rebuilding and that takes energy.

But it is not only white blood cells.

It is inflammation.

It is anemia or low red blood cells for some people.

It is poor sleep.

It is medications.

It is pain.

It is stress.

It is months of being on high alert.

It is muscle loss from not being able to move like before.

It is emotional exhaustion.

It is your body trying to repair itself while your brain is still carrying the trauma of everything that happened.

Basically, every department inside me is understaffed, underfunded, and sending passive-aggressive emails to management.

And management is me.

Unfortunately, management is also tired.

I love the spoon analogy people use for chronic illness.

If you only have one spoonful of energy to use for an entire day, what are you going to spend it on?

Are you going to clean the house?

Shower and get dressed?

Go shopping?

Go to a doctor’s appointment?

Meet friends for dinner?

Do laundry?

Take the puppies outside?

Or are you one of the lucky ones who can get two events out of one spoon?

Maybe you can shower and go to an appointment in the same day.

Fancy.

Look at you, rich in spoons.

Those are the choices I am now faced with.

Do I want to spend all of my energy on one thing, knowing I am expected to do another later?

And if I try to squeeze in two things today, am I prepared to be down for the next day or two?

Because that is the part people do not always see.

They see the activity.

They do not see the recovery cost.

They see dinner.

They do not see the nap before, the crash after, the careful planning, the medication timing, the “do I have enough in the tank?” calculation, or the next day when my body says, Cute outing. Now we punish you.

I have to check my schedule before I can commit to anything big.

And by “big,” I mean normal human activities.

A shower.

An appointment.

A grocery trip.

Dinner.

A visitor.

A load of laundry.

A walk to the mailbox.

It is sad that my life has come to that.

And I know I should be gentle with myself.

I know recovery takes time.

I know my body has been through hell.

I know all of that.

But knowing something does not mean I have to like it.

And I do not like it.

Not one bit.

I used to be this bubbly, vivacious, sparkly Tina.

The one who could get up at 4:30 in the morning.

Work a ten-hour day.

Go out to dinner.

Come home.

Do a load of laundry or two.

Clean the kitchen.

Meal prep for the next day.

Watch TV with Casey.

Go to bed.

Get up and do it all over again the next day.

That was normal.

That was just life.

That was me.

I miss that Tina.

I miss her energy.

I miss her stamina.

I miss her ability to just do things without holding a committee meeting with her body first.

I miss not having to ask, Can I afford this?

Not financially.

Energetically.

The new Tina has counted the steps to the mailbox.

It is 150 steps from the porch to the mailbox and back.

One hundred and fifty.

That is now a workout for me.

A mailbox trip.

That is where we are.

By the time I get back to the porch, I have to sit down and rest.

I do not have the strength or stamina to go much farther.

And let me tell you, that is a humbling little piece of information.

There is nothing quite like realizing your cardio program is called Retrieve the Mail Without Needing a Rescue Team.

When I take the puppies out in the morning to go potty, I dread the days when Maizy decides she is not just going potty, she is going exploring.

Because sometimes that tiny little five-pound girl ends up three driveways down the street.

Three driveways.

That is way more than 150 steps.

And I refuse to count those steps because I do not need that kind of negativity in my life.

At that point, I can only focus on my feet hitting the ground evenly with each step and keeping Maizy in my sights.

That is the whole plan.

Step.

Balance.

Breathe.

Find the puppy.

Step.

Balance.

Breathe.

Do not fall.

Do not lose the puppy.

Do not pass out dramatically in the driveway like a Victorian woman in need of smelling salts.

By the time we finally make it back home, I have to catch my breath, sit down, rest, and rehydrate.

From a potty trip.

Not a hike.

Not a workout class.

Not a day at Disneyland.

A potty trip.

It has been eight months since my surgery.

Four months since I finished chemo.

Almost six weeks since I finished radiation.

And maybe I am expecting too much from my body.

Maybe I am.

But also?

Come on already.

I am done playing this Tina the Weakling game.

For those of you who know me, this is definitely not Tina-like.

I am used to running things.

Not having things run me.

I am used to being the one with the clipboard, the plan, the answer, the red pen, the backup plan, and the “let’s get this handled” energy.

Now I am over here negotiating with my own body like it is a dramatic toddler who skipped nap time.

Can we shower today?

No.

Can we walk to the mailbox?

Maybe, but you will regret it.

Can we go to dinner?

Only if you rest all day and do not get fancy.

Can we do laundry?

One load, and don’t get cute.

Can we be normal?

Define normal.

Rude.

My doctors tell me recovery takes time.

And I believe them.

I do.

But no one can tell me how much time.

That is the part that makes me crazy.

Give me a timeline.

Give me a target.

Give me a chart.

Give me a countdown.

Give me something I can circle on the calendar and say, Okay, this is when I might start to feel like a person again.

But recovery does not work like that.

It is vague.

It is slow.

It is rude.

It moves at the speed of a sloth carrying a backpack full of wet towels.

And I am not known for my patience.

This patient has no patience.

I have a life I would like to get back to.

But then the scary question sneaks in.

Is this another thing I have to say goodbye to?

Do I have to accept the loss of the Tina I used to be?

Is the old energy gone?

Is the old stamina gone?

Is the old version of me just another casualty of cancer?

I do not know the answer.

And I hate that.

Maybe some of it will come back.

Maybe slowly.

Maybe in pieces.

Maybe one mailbox trip at a time.

Maybe my body is still rebuilding, and I am standing here tapping my foot like an impatient little gremlin while the construction crew is still pouring the foundation.

Maybe I need to give myself more grace.

Maybe I need to accept that one spoon is still a spoon.

Maybe today’s victory is not ten hours of work, dinner, laundry, meal prep, and TV.

Maybe today’s victory is walking to the mailbox and back.

Maybe it is taking the puppies out.

Maybe it is resting before I crash.

Maybe it is choosing not to spend tomorrow’s energy today.

Maybe it is admitting that I miss the old Tina without giving up on the new one.

Because that is the hard part.

I can miss her and still keep going.

I can grieve her and still build forward.

I can be frustrated with this body and still respect what it survived.

I can hate how weak I feel and still understand that healing is happening underneath the exhaustion.

I can be grateful and pissed off in the same breath.

Honestly, that might be my specialty now.

So today, I am naming it.

The fatigue.

The lack of stamina.

The one-spoon life.

The mailbox workout.

The Maizy driveway marathon.

The grief of missing the sparkly, high-energy Tina who could do it all.

And the frustration of living in a body that currently says, Best I can do is 150 steps and a nap.

I do not know how long this part lasts.

I do not know how much energy will come back.

I do not know if I will ever be the exact same Tina I was before.

But I know I am still here.

Still trying.

Still walking.

Still resting when I have to.

Still annoyed, obviously.

Still hoping.

Still counting spoons.

And still very much wanting my life back.

Even if I have to rebuild it one tiny, exhausting, mailbox-sized victory at a time.

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