Radiation complete

Yesterday I completed treatment number 30. With this comes the priviledge of ringing the bell. I rang it hard and long.

As she lined me up one last time, I conversed with Linda, the radiation therapist. She told me that she never gets tired of hearing the bell. It speaks to her, she says, because it somehow captures the journey - all the challenges, difficulties, and required perseverance in these lives with whom she has come into contact. She is in her second career after raising kids who have all moved out now. Her story is like so many employees here. The way many of them talk about it, they see their vocation as a ministry. They know death is all around here - not exactly the most pleasant work environment. And while most of us avoid the subject altogether, they want to do what they can - however small the effort - to move towards that hope of death's defeat. Linda's eyes were moist as she spoke of the "hope that is wrapped up in the the bell". And the hope she has for me. When I first saw the bell -- on a little plaque with a cute rhyme: "ring this bell, three times well..." -- I was a bit skeptical (as I am about anything that even hints of sentimentality) But I was wrong. In this technosicence era, where what really matters is clinical protocol, statistics and survival data and where "the patient" is an object of study with a bar code, the bell serves an important function - one that I now realize is sorely needed. Everyone seemed to know that around here but me.

With the tradition of bell ringing comes the tradition of a little party. So Christine and I brought a grocery store cake and some plastic forks and enjoyed it with total strangers, all of whom were waiting to get zapped. The interesting thing about waiting rooms at MD Anderson is that these perfect strangers are also in a way close friends. They know me and my life better than just about anyone. And I can listen to them and form a bond closer than most others in their lives. The patients cheer for each other, hold each others hands, and sometimes cry with each other. Faces give each other knowing looks, knowing smiles, knowing sighs. Humanity joined against a common enemy.

I did invite one old friend to the party. Dr. Jaffe is the pediatric oncologist who treated me for bone cancer many years ago and has been a good friend to me ever since. He is retiring next year. Hard to believe, given his passion for what he does. But he wants to spend some years resting and writing. He is 73 years old, after all.

(click images to enlarge)
<-- My radiation therapy team - Dana, Cathy, and Linda.