Ringing the Bell

Tonight, I took to Google to look up how ringing the bell at the completion of cancer treatment began. According to MD Anderson, 1966 was the starting point:

A rear admiral in the U.S. Navy, Irve Le Moyne, was undergoing radiation therapy for head and neck cancer and told his doctor, Kian Ang, M.D., Ph.D., that he planned to follow a Navy tradition of ringing a bell to signify “when the job was done.” He brought a brass bell to his last treatment, rang it several times and left it as a donation. It was mounted on a wall plaque in the Main Building’s Radiation Treatment Center with the inscription:

Ringing Out

Ring this bell
Three times well
Its toll to clearly say,
My treatment’s done
This course is run
And I am on my way!

— Irve Le Moyne

Ringing the bell is a celebration of finishing the hard and long journey of cancer treatment. On Thursday, one of the chemotherapy patients rang the bell. All applauded. Several of the nurses gave her a hug. And I had an unexpected inner reaction.

I’ve rung the bell three times: once in October 2016 for the completion of chemotherapy, then again in April 2017 for the completion of radiation therapy, and much later (after my first recurrence of cancer) for the completion of chemotherapy in January 2025. Somehow the act helps make the end of treatment seem a little more real.

My unexpected inner reaction yesterday was tears coming to my eyes. I suddenly felt grief that I will never ring the bell again. My treatment will either last until the end of my life, or if it stops working, making me near the end of my life.

What my reaction suggests to me is that I still hold grief over having terminal cancer. I’ve had lots of grief over leaving my family behind but little grief over how much my life has changed. Oh, I am very blessed for sure, but I live with fatigue that keeps me from doing much of anything. I used to visit my youngest brother on Whidbey Island every few years, but travel is out of the question now. I used to enjoy going to garage sales, but I’m not up to those now. Any errands I can do have to be short, and grocery shopping by myself is out of the question. I am immediately recognized as a cancer patient because wigs are not for me—too warm. In fact, this summer I may swallow the rest of my pride and go bald in public instead of wearing one of my turbans because they get too warm as well.

So, now I’ve gotten that out of my system and can go back to the blessings of family and friends; of reading, writing, and reflecting; of the comfort of my recliner and bed, and most of all, of drawing closer to Jesus. He brings so much peace and joy into my life each day. Pure gifts. Perhaps the antidote to grief is thankfulness for the blessings and continuing to simply accept that though my lifestyle is limited now, God still has purpose for my life. To that, I will say Amen!