Petrone Bartels

The Third Round — When My Good Week Became the Hardest Week

As I prepare for my fourth round of chemotherapy tomorrow, I find myself looking back at round three and everything that has happened since.

Strangely, I feel that my third round was my worst round yet—even though, for the first time, I wasn’t hospitalised.

Perhaps that was part of what made it so difficult.

When you’re in hospital and drifting in and out of consciousness, there are parts of the suffering you simply don’t remember.

This time, I was fully aware.

I felt the pain.

I felt the dizziness.

I knew what it was like to look at the floor and struggle to put one foot in front of the other.

I felt the frustration of needing assistance with even the smallest things—the things we normally do without giving them a second thought.

And that was hard.

Really hard.

But eventually my “good week” arrived.

The week when I should have been feeling stronger. The week when life could feel a little more normal again.

Instead, during my good week, I experienced some of the worst days of my life.

Eight of us girls decided to spend a beautiful day in Airlie Beach—some shopping followed by lunch at Northerlies.

Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?

And it was.

After lunch, naturally, the photos had to happen.

Anyone who has been there knows the spot—the arch on the beach with that magnificent turquoise ocean stretching out behind it.

Absolutely stunning.

I wasn’t going to join the photos. I thought I would just stay at the table and let the ladies enjoy themselves.

But Loraine, who was visiting from Gladstone, looked disappointed that I wasn’t coming.

So I changed my mind.

By the time I reached the arch, everything changed.

My mum was standing on the rock in terrible pain in her left leg.

I helped her down from the rock and began doing breathing exercises with her because she was complaining of dizziness and I was trying to help her regulate herself.

Then suddenly she collapsed forward.

Her head dropped between her legs and her body began convulsing.

I screamed for someone to call 000.

As I lowered her onto the ground, her face had turned blue. Her eyes looked glassy, her tongue was curling out of her mouth, and I could not find a pulse.

I immediately began resuscitation and screamed for help.

Thank God, a nurse and a physiotherapist happened to be nearby.

They came to help.

I was hysterically crying while desperately trying to regulate myself enough to do whatever I could for my mum.

There I was—a cancer patient, still recovering from chemotherapy, trying to find enough strength in my own body to help save my mother’s life.

Eventually Mum regained consciousness.

The ambulance arrived and we went to Proserpine Hospital, where the staff were absolutely amazing.

After assessment, Mum was able to come home with new medication after they discovered she had a heart arrhythmia.

I thought we had made it through the worst of it.

But then Sunday came.

Mum developed diarrhoea and nausea, and suddenly it happened again.

Once more she became unresponsive.

Once more, she needed resuscitation.

Once more, I watched the person who gave me life lying there while we fought to keep her with us.

The ambulance was at our house incredibly quickly, and the paramedics were wonderful.

At Mackay Base Hospital, another piece of the puzzle was identified: Mum was also diagnosed with vasovagal syncope. We were told that, together with her heart rhythm problem, this helped explain these frightening episodes.

There are some experiences for which words simply aren’t enough.

Watching your mum appear to die in front of you once is traumatic.

Experiencing it twice within a matter of days is heart-wrenching.

And somewhere in the middle of all of this, I am still walking my own cancer journey.

I am still recovering from chemotherapy.

My body is still fighting.

My strength is still returning.

And tomorrow, I walk back through those doors for round four.

If I am truthful, I am carrying a lot into that treatment chair tomorrow.

My body remembers what the previous rounds have done.

My heart remembers what happened to Mum.

My mind remembers those moments on the beach and at home.

But my spirit remembers something else too.

God was there.

He was there when I was too weak to put one foot in front of another.

He was there on that beautiful beach when our lovely afternoon suddenly became an emergency.

He was there when I screamed for help.

He was there in the nurse and physiotherapist who happened to be nearby.

He was there through the paramedics.

He was there through the doctors and nurses at Proserpine Hospital and Mackay Base Hospital.

And He will be there tomorrow when I sit down for chemotherapy again.

I don’t know what round four will bring.

But I know Who goes with me.

So tonight, I am asking my beautiful family and friends to pray with me. 🙏🏻

Please pray that Mum continues to recover and that her heart and body remain strong and stable.

Please pray that I walk into round four strong, fit and in good spirits.

Pray that my body tolerates this treatment well.

Pray for strength when I feel weak, peace when my mind remembers frightening moments, and protection over both Mum and me.

Tomorrow I will sit in that chemotherapy chair again.

Not because I am fearless.

Not because this has been easy.

But because the race is still before me.

And I am still running.

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”
— Philippians 4:13

Round four, here I come.

Mum and I are still here.
We are still standing.
We are still trusting.
And God is still faithful.

Please keep us both in your prayers. 🙏🏻💗🎀

To God be all the glory

I Knocked on Heaven’s Door — But God Said, “You Still Have Work to Do“

11 September 2026

As I sit here today, the first day after another round of chemotherapy, I find myself reflecting on just how far this journey has already taken me.

My first and second rounds of treatment were harsh.

After my first round, I spent up to six days in hospital. Then, following my second round, I experienced a PR bleed that caused my blood pressure to fall dangerously low.

I remember calling Neville, my husband, when my blood pressure was 91/60.

He was home within nine minutes.

By the time he arrived, I could no longer walk. We had to use an office chair to wheel me out to the car.

When we arrived at Emergency, I felt incredibly weak and dizzy. The staff responded quickly and placed me in a secluded room with one other patient—a little girl who was being assessed after a possible reaction to penicillin.

She was crying because she didn’t want them to take her blood.

Even in the middle of everything happening to me, my heart hurt for her.

She was so little.

So frightened.

I remember watching her and feeling such compassion for this little girl who was facing something she didn’t understand.

Then my own condition deteriorated.

My blood pressure dropped to 70/45.

Neville was sitting across from me.

I looked at him, motioned towards the monitor and told him that I couldn’t see him properly and that I was going to faint.

That is the last thing I remember saying.

What happened next is difficult to put into words.

I was unconscious for approximately three minutes.

But in that moment, I felt my spirit leave my body.

I knew I was dying.

And yet, I came back.

When I think about that experience now, there is one sentence that sits so strongly in my heart:

I knocked on Heaven’s door, but God said, “You still have work to do.”

I believe we are created for a purpose.

We are here to build His Kingdom.

We are here to love people.

We are here to serve, encourage, show compassion and use whatever God has placed in our hands for His glory.

Perhaps that is why the little girl remains part of my memory from that day.

Even when my own body was failing, God allowed me to see someone else who needed compassion.

This journey continues to remind me that life is precious.

Purpose is precious.

People are precious.

And every day we are given is a gift.

Today is the first day after my latest chemotherapy treatment, and it is also Lipegfilgrastim (Lonquex) injection day. This injection helps stimulate my bone marrow to produce more white blood cells, helping my body protect itself against infection after chemotherapy.

I have already taken my dexamethasone tablets today, and tomorrow I have another two to take.

So now we wait and see how my body responds to this round.

After what happened following rounds one and two, there is naturally a part of me that knows what could happen.

But I refuse to live today afraid of tomorrow.

Instead, I am asking you to do something with me:

Please pray with me that there will be no hospital visit this round. 🙏🏻

Pray that my body tolerates the treatment.

Pray that my blood counts recover.

Pray for protection from infection and complications.

Pray for strength for Neville as he continues walking every step of this journey beside me.

And pray that whatever comes, I will continue to use this journey for the purpose God has given me—to love people, encourage others and give Him the glory.

I also want to say thank you to everyone who continues reading my updates, praying for me, messaging me, checking on Neville and me, and walking this road alongside us.

And while you are here, I would love to invite you to support my Pink Ribbon Brunch this October, raising funds for breast cancer research. 🎀💗

Research is not an abstract thing to me anymore.

It is personal.

One of the drugs being used as part of my treatment only became available very recently. Without researchers, clinical studies, medical advances and the countless people who have given their time—and sometimes participated in trials themselves—my treatment options today could look very different.

So to every researcher who spends endless hours searching for better treatments, better outcomes and ultimately ways to save lives:

Thank you.

Thank you for the hours nobody sees.

Thank you for continuing when the answers don’t come easily.

Thank you for giving people like me more options and more hope.

I believe that God gives wisdom and knowledge according to His purpose, and I am deeply grateful for the minds, hands and hearts He has equipped to advance medicine.

I am grateful to you.

And above all, I am grateful to God. ♥️

I came frighteningly close to the edge during this journey.

But I am still here.

Still loving.

Still praying.

Still serving.

Still running my race.

There is still work to do.

There are still people to love.

There is still a Kingdom to build.

And as long as God gives me another morning, I intend to use it.

To God be all the glory. 🙏🏻🎀💗

Day Two — Joy Comes in the Morning

23 August 2026

Today is day two after chemotherapy and my HER2-targeted injection.

At 5:00 this morning, the migraine arrived.

Usually, I absolutely love waking up to the sound of the birds chirping in the trees. There is something so peaceful about hearing creation come alive outside my window. But today? Today those beautiful little birds feel like they are launching a personal attack, every chirp piercing straight through my brain.

Still, I will not shoo them away or wish for them to be quiet.

Instead, I choose to hear them as a gentle reminder:

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” — Psalm 30:5

And even on a morning like this, there is joy.

Not necessarily the kind of joy that makes me feel wonderful. My body certainly doesn’t feel wonderful today. But there is a deeper joy in knowing that God is here.

I am so grateful that He is with me through every single step of this journey. I know this would be so much harder if I didn’t have Him walking beside me.

Psalm 46:1 says:

“God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.”

Ever-present.

Not sometimes present.

Not only present on the good days.

Not waiting somewhere at the finish line for me to get through this.

Present. Here. Now.

So I know for certain that He is here with me today—in this room, in this migraine, in the nausea, in the exhaustion and in the fog.

And goodness, the nausea!

A migraine brings its own nausea, and then there is chemo nausea on top of that. Add the chemo brain—or chemo fog—and today I am definitely feeling under the weather.

This morning, all I feel like eating is scrambled eggs. It is the only thing that seems tolerable. My taste buds feel almost numb, as though I can’t really taste anything, and somehow eggs tasting like almost nothing makes them manageable.

I know how important it is to eat, even when I don’t feel like it, so scrambled eggs it is.

And then there is my husband—the love of my life.

Even writing those words makes me emotional.

I look at everything he is doing and sometimes my heart feels like it could burst. He has quietly picked up the slack without hesitation. He looks after me, makes sure I have everything I need, constantly checks on me, makes those scrambled eggs when they are the only thing I can stomach, brings me water and my tablets, and takes care of all the little things that I simply don’t have the strength to do for myself right now.

I am grateful.

So, so grateful.

But if I am truthful, there is another emotion mixed in with that gratitude. Sometimes it feels terribly unfair that this has become part of his life too. He didn’t choose cancer. He didn’t choose chemotherapy. Yet my diagnosis has changed his everyday life as well, and now he carries so much because I cannot.

That is difficult for me.

And yet, he just does it.

Not begrudgingly. Not making me feel like a burden. He does it with so much love, care and tenderness that sometimes all I can do is watch him and thank God.

There is something incredibly beautiful about being loved like this.

In one of the most difficult seasons of our lives, I find myself falling more and more in love with my husband every single day.

He is not simply taking care of me.

He is walking this road with me.

Through his hands, his patience, his scrambled eggs, the glass of water beside me, the tablets he remembers when my chemo brain doesn’t, and the tenderness with which he cares for me, I am reminded again that God’s provision sometimes arrives through the hands of the people He has placed beside us.

My husband is a gift from God to me.

And I will never stop being grateful for him.

Some of the simplest things feel difficult today. Even checking my blood sugar has become a challenge because the machine doesn’t seem to want to cooperate with me. I’m probably doing something wrong, and with chemo brain today, who knows!

But that’s okay.

Today doesn’t have to be perfect.

Today I just need to keep going.

I find myself returning again to Psalm 23:

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.”

The word that stands out to me is through.

I am not staying in this valley.

I am walking through it.

And I am not walking through it alone.

I am unafraid because I know God is with me. Whether I am walking in the brightest light or through the darkest shadows, He is there—protecting me, guiding me and going before me.

My story did not begin with this diagnosis.

Before I was formed in my mother’s womb, God knew me.

And I hold tightly to the promise of Jeremiah 29:11:

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

Cancer did not take God by surprise.

Chemotherapy did not take God by surprise.

This migraine at five o’clock this morning did not take God by surprise.

He is still in control of my life, and I am grateful that He is.

That is why I can continue running this race without fear. I know He has gone before me. Whatever may come, I will face it when it comes—not because I believe I am strong enough on my own, but because my strength comes from Him.

Sometimes we underestimate just how much we can endure. We don’t know the strength God has placed within us until we are standing in circumstances we never imagined we would have to face.

And when I feel like I cannot do another thing, I look up.

“I lift up my eyes to the hills—where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.” — Psalm 121:1–2

So today, I look up.

Migraine and all.

Nausea and all.

Chemo fog and all.

Scrambled eggs and numb taste buds and uncooperative machines and all.

And with the love of my life beside me, quietly caring for me through it all.

And even those ridiculously loud little birds outside my window.

Let them chirp.

Because every chirp reminds me that morning has come.

I am still here.

God is still here.

My husband is still beside me.

And joy comes in the morning.

Today, I am grateful.

Today, I keep walking.

Today, I keep running my race.

And today, as always, my help comes from the Lord.

My Journey So Far — I Am Victorious - Petroné Bartels

My Journey So Far — I Am Victorious

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” — Philippians 4:13

On 31 July, I walked into my first chemotherapy and targeted treatment.

There are moments in life when you know you are stepping into something that will change you. This was one of those moments.

For an hour and a half during my treatment, I had the cold glove treatment on my hands. It was uncomfortable, but instead of allowing my mind to focus on the discomfort or fear, I prayed.

Over and over, I held onto the words God has placed so deeply in my heart:

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”
— Philippians 4:13

For those 90 minutes, that Scripture became more than words to me.

It became my declaration.

Christ is my strength.

The days that followed were not easy.

I became very unwell and was hospitalised for six days with severe headaches and starvation due to the ongoing issues with my stomach.

My body was weak.

There were difficult days and long nights.

But even there, God was with me.

I have never believed that being victorious means we will never experience pain, weakness or difficult circumstances. Victory is knowing Who walks with us through them.

And by His grace, I am still here.

Still standing.

Still believing.

Still trusting.

Still continuing the race set before me.

And I choose to run it victoriously.

Then came 20 August — my second chemotherapy and targeted treatment.

Once again, I sat in that chair knowing what might follow, but also knowing something far greater:

I do not sit there alone.

The nausea has been severe. The headaches have returned. My body is tired and this journey continues to challenge me physically.

But my spirit knows where my strength comes from.

“He who is in you is greater than he who is in the world.”
— 1 John 4:4

Cancer does not get to define who I am.

Chemotherapy does not get to define who I am.

A hospital bed does not get to define who I am.

My circumstances do not get the final word over my life.

Christ does.

I am not walking this journey pretending that it is easy.

I am walking it knowing that my God is greater.

When my body is weak, He remains strong.

When the road becomes difficult, He remains faithful.

When I cannot see what tomorrow holds, I know Who holds me today.

This journey is teaching me that courage does not always look like standing tall and feeling strong.

Sometimes courage is lying in a hospital bed and still saying, “Lord, I trust You.”

Sometimes faith is receiving another treatment while declaring, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

Sometimes victory is simply getting up again and continuing the race.

We decide how we run our race — either as a victim or as a victor.

I have made my choice.

I will not run this race as a victim.

I am victorious.

Not because the road is easy.
Not because I don’t experience pain.
Not because I know what tomorrow will bring.

I am victorious because Christ is in me, Christ strengthens me, and Christ walks every step of this race with me.

So I will continue.

I will pray.

I will trust.

I will believe.

And I will keep running the race God has placed before me.

Not as a victim of my circumstances.

But as a victor through Christ who strengthens me.

There may still be difficult days ahead. There may be more nausea, more headaches, more treatments and moments when my body feels exhausted.

But there is one thing I know:

He who is in me is greater than he who is in the world.

By His grace, I have come this far.

By His grace, I will continue.

And whatever this journey brings, my declaration remains:

I am a victor through Christ who strengthens me.

I am still running my race.

I choose victory.

I am victorious. 🎀💗

To God be all the glory