When the Bell Rings

As I sit in the waiting room just before my last chemo, a little pamphlet draws my attention. It’s funny how the mind works; I have been to this waiting room many, many times and never noticed this pamphlet before. Maybe it wasn’t there; maybe my mind decided to see it that day because this was my last infusion; the information in it was my very next step, and my attention invited this information in. 

 

As I read it, the questions jumped off the page:

 

What happens after cancer treatment is done?

 

What happens after the constancy of medical appointments starts fading away?

 

The pamphlet says I will feel more vulnerable when I don’t see my medical team as often as I did in active treatment.  

 

I let out a quiet smirk. I learned to curiously question every pamphlet, a skill I am sure you also developed after going through some years and experiences. All my instincts leading up to this day said I would gladly run away from that infusion center and not look back. I never thought about the possibility that I would miss the constant input of medical appointments.

 

I pondered this duality in the world of cancer. Treatments that come with side effects while at the same time providing some strange feeling of security, like swimming within the walls of a swimming pool for those weeks or months. There is a certain amount of “safety” in that.

 

My family and friends might have pictured my last day of treatment as a finish line… a way back to how life was before. 

 

That drive to get back to life before… maybe it’s driven by what’s familiar; the life before doesn’t have the threat of cancer looming over the daily bustle of comings and goings. 

 

We were all tired of being afraid…

If I genuinely searched my heart, I knew the minute I heard my diagnosis that life before was complete, never to return to its exact previous form again. 

I had a choice on how I was going to handle that.

I could treat it as a loss and lament all I loved about that life; I took some time to do just that. The question I asked myself was, could I find a way to grieve AND choose not to stay there in that loss?

Is there a way to see an opportunity to take all that was good and build on it to make it better in the future? The picture of the future I built for myself had some clear wishes:

 

• Deepen my relationships with family and friends,

• Step into parenting teenagers with confidence and building a relationship of trust and authority with our three kids,

• Be very intentional about the environments I engage with, both in my outside world and my inner thoughts,

• Become clear about the work I do and show up in the most authentic way to achieve both success and fulfillment,

• Value time freedom in a very different way.

 

All of these shifts would equal a whole new way of being in the world after cancer.

Better… Is that even possible? 

The short answer is a resounding YES. It would take time, patience, clarity of thought, and choices. You can consider many choices for yourself, some big and some small, all of them authentically YOURS.

For me, the ringing of the bell signified a starting line. It was like a farewell party for a swimmer ready for her open-water swim outside of the safety of the swimming pool. 

I didn’t know what that would hold for me; nobody ever does. Life is an inherently unpredictable experience. All I knew was that I was heading out into the unknown; the only thing sure was what I wanted for my life going forward. 

I tried to find a way to decide that knowing only that desire, the picture of the life I wanted to live, was enough to guide my next step. I wanted to know that my very next step was enough, that I was enough…

My cancer diagnosis and treatment have become the great unraveling of my layers of mind, body, and soul. I said yes to that from the beginning, even when each new layer felt like a giant leap of faith, a tiny death of what was my life before. I felt at my core that this was the way to my survival and even more than that. 

You will notice I highlight many questions, mostly because I know that when you dare to ask good questions, you get good answers if you are willing, to be honest and precise when noticing how you see the world and yourself in it. Your questions might be different from mine; ask them anyway.

From the beginning, I consciously evaluated my every decision by asking myself, am I doing this out of fear or purpose? 

I wanted my every move to be from a deep conviction that this was the very next step that brought me closer to what I wanted, that image I built in my mind of my life after cancer. 

Who is this woman? 

What does she value? 

What does she wear? 

How does she walk into a room, even if it’s the chemo infusion room? 

How does she react when that cup of coffee accidentally spills in her lap at a restaurant?

After I rang that bell, I knew I would dive into a new chapter in the coming weeks. I would call this chapter “Shaping the Woman I Become.”

But first, I stopped to savor the victory of a difficult journey complete, the ending of a chapter: closing that piece and finding the exhilaration of an empty page for a story yet to be written. 

I refused to fear this empty page because I decided to be this story’s author. My family and friends gathered in the lobby to ring the bell with me; this was their journey, too! 

I truly celebrated with them while I made three silent promises to myself that day.

 

• Without reservation or apologies, I will give my body all the rest, support, and movement it needs to live the life I choose.

• I will guide my brilliantly logical mind to serve my purpose—my mind as a servant, not the ruler.

• I will make space and watch in awe as my soul steps to center stage and becomes the quiet captain of this new story.

 

Survivor to survivor, I want to welcome you to this space, where you will find support for your continued health and vitality. A place where we ask good questions so you can discover answers that are the right fit for your life, your health, and your picture of the future. We are all so glad you are here.