Bell choir with one member

I was sitting in the waiting room where people chatted in low voices so as not to disturb others. But suddenly the silence and politeness were broken.

A series of metallic “dings” rang out, quiet at first, but it increasing in volume and interrupting the tranquility. At first, I thought the building was on fire and an alarm had gone off.

But no. Fires do not usually elicit smiles and applause from their victims. And people were clapping and grinning broadly.

I had heard of this tradition before but I had never witnessed it, so I felt honored just to be present. This simple tradition: when you finish your treatment, you ring the bell. They put one in the waiting room just for such a purpose.

The woman had rung timidly at first, and then with notes increasing with volume and victory. She was almost in tears. “Thank you,” she said quietly. Then there were hugs, laughter, pictures, and the shared pleasure of strangers united in common experience and personal triumph.

The receptionist smiled at me. She and the other staff were very positive people, passing along good vibes and hope to us patients. “It won’t be too long before you get to ring the bell,” she said.

“I’m looking forward to the day! But I will miss you folks. You have been good to me.”

“We’ll miss you too.”

People appreciate being appreciated.

She said it would be soon, but it still seemed like it would take forever. My oncologist had recommended 40 sessions of radiation treatment, five days a week for eight weeks. Fortunately, the treatment itself doesn’t take long, only ten minutes or so per session. But still, eight weeks of anything is a lot.

The treatment is not painful; you really don’t feel anything. But it does cause fatigue as a side effect. It’s a strange feeling to lie there for a few minutes, then get up, sluggish with exhaustion. Why am I so tired? I haven’t done anything! But it’s all part of the process.

The radiation therapists have excellent “table-side” manner. (It had sheets on it and I reclined there, but it wasn’t a bed, it was a table. So I don’t say “bedside.”) They were always friendly and chatted with me as I got ready.

One thing you have to do to prep is drink 20 ounces of water an hour before treatment and hold it. Some days it wasn’t so bad, but some days it was excruciating. You never know how your body is going to react. So whenever they asked me “Hey, what are you doing for the weekend?” I would tell them: “I’m going home and drink anything but water.”

Most of the staff is younger than me (how hard could that be?) and many are even younger than my daughter (a much more challenging accomplishment). So when my treatment ended, the average age of people I hang out with went up about 50 years.

When the final day came, I spent my ten minutes getting zapped and then came out to ring the bell. I told everyone that I had 40 treatment sessions, so I should hit the bell 40 times. They said, “Go for it!” And I did.

And that is how I became a bell choir with one member. But I’m also part of a bell choir with millions of ringers: all the patients in all the oncology centers all over the land who have done it. Who have clanged a brash song of triumph and said, “Not today, cancer, not today.”