Today was a big day.
I finished radiation.
Twenty-five treatments.
Five weeks.
Not that I was counting.
Okay…I was absolutely counting.
Radiation is a process.
This morning felt different.
There was excitement.
Relief.
A little disbelief.
One last time, I traded my clothes for the purple paisley gown.
One last time, I walked into the semi-dark treatment room that had become strangely familiar.
One last time, I climbed onto my custom-made cocoon, settled onto the table, raised my arms overhead, and grabbed onto the bars.
The techs checked my positioning.
“90.7…”
I repeated the numbers with them.
No adjustments.
No shifting.
No offsets.
All zeros.
Perfect.
Apparently after twenty-four practice rounds, I’d become a professional.
I asked what today’s ceiling picture would be.
“Hawaii.”
Perfect.
The same place Garrin and I honeymooned.
One of my favorite places in the world.
I’ll happily take that little bit of serendipity.
I have to admit, today almost wasn’t today.
Last week, I found out the radiation department would be closed for the Fourth of July holiday.
My original finish line was supposed to be July 3rd.
Instead, my last treatment would be pushed to July 6th.
Three days.
That’s all it was.
Three little days.
But after staring at that finish line for five weeks, it suddenly felt much farther away.
Lying on the treatment table that day, I felt the sting of disappointment.
I didn’t actually cry.
But I definitely got choked up.
Another bump in the road.
One I hadn’t seen coming.
Looking back now, it seems silly that three days carried so much weight.
But when you’re counting to a finish date…
Three days can feel like forever.
Thankfully…
Today really was the day.
Then…
Nothing.
The machine started moving.
Made one strange clicking noise.
Stopped.
And refused to do anything else.
Of course.
Because apparently my radiation machine wanted one last dramatic moment before letting me graduate.
The techs reset it.
Nothing.
They disappeared behind the wall.
Pushed the big reset button.
Adjusted the table.
Still nothing.
Meanwhile, I remained perfectly still.
Fortunately, after twenty-four treatments, lying perfectly still has become one of my more refined life skills.
Eventually the engineer arrived.
Thankfully, Jeff worked his magic.
A few minutes later…
Zap.
Done.
We were absolutely finishing that treatment one way or another.
Then came the part I’d been imagining since the day I first saw it.
The bell.
I marched back into the waiting room wearing my now very familiar purple paisley gown.
Garrin was there.
My brother Mike.
My sister-in-law Carrie.
My cousins Kathy and Steve.
Ready to celebrate.
When I rang the bell, Garrin captured the whole thing on video.
Then he took another picture.
This one might become my favorite.
I’m standing beside the bell, smiling, holding my breast cancer bear—the last gift my mom gave me.
That little bear made the trip with me every single day.
A quiet reminder that even though she couldn’t walk this part of the road beside me…
A piece of her still did.
I’ll treasure those memories—and that picture—forever.
What’s funny is, when I started radiation, I didn’t really understand what the bell meant.
The first time one rang, I actually missed it.
I walked into the waiting room just after another woman had finished.
People already taking her picture surrounded by what felt like half the town cheering her on.
For most of my treatments she was scheduled right before me.
We never really talked.
Just smiled.
Waved.
One of those familiar strangers who quietly become part of your routine.
She was usually alone during treatments.
Seeing so many people show up for her that final day made me unexpectedly happy.
Then last week…
I watched my cousin Kathy ring that very same bell.
Different cancer.
Same room.
Same doctor.
Garrin and I intentionally stayed after my appointment so we could celebrate her milestone.
It meant the world to me that she came back to celebrate mine today.
Cancer introduces you to people in ways you never would have chosen.
But somehow…
It also creates connections you never expected.
Today I met another woman.
She had just finished her planning appointment.
Tiny tattoos.
New diagnosis.
Breast cancer.
She asked if she was waiting in the right place for her doctor.
Then she quietly admitted she was scared to death of radiation.
She had also lost her mother to breast cancer.
Immediately, I was transported back five weeks.
Back to wondering how bad radiation would be.
Back to the unknown.
I don’t know if anything I said truly helped.
I hope it did.
Even just a little.
Because sometimes that’s all we can offer each other.
A little hope from someone who’s simply a few steps farther down the road.
One afternoon while we all waited for our appointments, something made me smile.
The waiting room turned into a discussion about baking.
Favorite cookies.
Family recipes.
Desserts.
For a few minutes…
No one was cancer patients.
We were simply people debating baked goods.
It felt wonderfully normal.
I’ve realized this journey is filled with people showing up.
Family.
Friends.
Coworkers.
Kind strangers.
Women in purple gowns exchanging knowing smiles.
People sharing recipes while waiting for radiation.
Thoughtful cards.
Unexpected messages.
Encouragement exactly when it’s needed.
It all matters.
More than I can put into words.
The journey isn’t over.
Not yet.
Tomorrow I begin hormone therapy.
Next week I return to OT to work through the tightness radiation stirred back up.
I still have my final fills.
Reconstruction still waits ahead.
There are more appointments.
More milestones.
More waiting.
But there are also fewer potholes behind me.
Fewer speed bumps.
More miles traveled than I sometimes give myself credit for.
I started this journey writing about potholes in the road.
Since then, there have been monsters.
Speed bumps.
Stickers.
Disco lights.
Grease monkeys.
More waiting than I ever thought possible.
Today…
I finally rang the bell.
Not because the road is over.
But because I’ve traveled farther than I once thought I could.
There are still miles ahead.
More appointments.
More healing.
More waiting.
But there are also fewer potholes behind me.
And today…
That feels worth celebrating.
