I remember walking into my first day of radiation like it was yesterday.
I was so freaking happy to be there.
It was the last thing I needed to complete, and then I was done with treatment.
As long as my scans came back clear, then it was finished.
Complete.
Over.
Done with.
One more hurdle to get through.
Thirty-three treatments stood between me and done.
Done felt like the most beautiful word I could have ever heard.
I couldn't wait to ring that bell.
Done meant no more chemotherapy chairs.
No more surgeries (for a while).
No more waking up and having appointments and my life ruled by the things that I had to do every day.
No more people telling me what was going to be done to my body.
I knew that cancer wasn't going to magically disappear from my life at the end of radiation.
I knew that there would still be scans and follow-ups and daily medications.
But the end of radiation meant I didn't have to be inside a hospital every day anymore.
And I was jazzed to be there.
The Cranky Man in the Radiation Waiting Room
I walked in the front doors, checked in with the front desk ladies, and walked back.
I changed into my gown and waited in the second waiting room.
In that little waiting room, there were a couple of other people sitting there and chattering amongst themselves.
And then there was this one guy that looked cranky as hell.
He was distinctive because everyone else was so cheerful looking.
He was sitting away from everyone else.
Wrapped in his robe, not a gown.
With this look on his face like, "Don't even think about it."
And I didn't.
Like he couldn't stand being there.
I remember thinking, "What are you so pissed about? This is the easy part!"
I was thinking from my own experience.
Radiation was practically my victory lap.
I had just been through radiation to my hip, then five and a half months of chemotherapy, a double mastectomy, they took my ovaries, and here I was sitting almost at the finish line with this one last hurdle to get over.
Radiation.
And it was the easy part in my mind.
I just had to show up every day for 33 days.
I had to walk in, wave at the front desk person, walk through the door, change into a double gown, top one opening in the front, and then wait to be called back.
Easy.
Lay on the table and hold my breath while the machine did its invisible work and then walk out.
Easy.
Get changed and go home.
Easy.
Nothing about that seemed particularly hard, so this man looking all cranky was confounding to me.
I just thought, "Couldn't be me. I am stoked to be here."
The Selfie Countdown & the New Guy
32 days left. Showed up, waved, changed, took a selfie of my chest, sat in the waiting room with a smile on my face.
30 days left. Did it again. Sent a silly selfie to my husband.
28 days left. Rinse, repeat. Goofy selfie to husband. Trying to make him and myself laugh.
21 days left. Showed up, waved, sighed, changed. Took the selfie because that's what I did every day. Sat in the waiting room with my face.
Somewhere in there, the selfies stopped being goofy all the time.
I wasn't trying to make anyone laugh anymore.
I was documenting another day crossing off the list.
Every day, it felt a little harder to get out of bed.
At this point, it was the middle of the holidays.
I was just trying to make it to Christmas.
Getting out of bed every morning felt like a chore.
My body felt heavy.
My chest burned.
My skin was starting to peel.
The skin coverings they gave me weren't working, so I was having to change my clothes multiple times a day.
Everything felt hard.
15 days left. Showed up.
I remember walking in the doors, and there was a new guy in the second waiting room.
He had a brain tumor.
And he was LOUDLY telling everyone about it.
And he was cheerful as all get out.
And I could have strangled him.
As he went on and on about his tumor and his cancer treatment and how hard it had all been, I found myself quietly comparing my experience to his.
And just thinking, "Pft. If you only knew what hard is, buddy."
I found myself jealous of his cancer treatment.
I would have loved a little bout of brain cancer.
"A little dizziness every once in a while and mild side effects overall," I remember him saying.
What I wouldn't have given at that point to not have had my body mutilated.
To not have scars running across my chest.
To be able to cover my scars with the hair on my head when all this was over and carry on.
To not have anything visible for anyone to see.
To be done with treatment and just go back to normal.
In my exhausted mind, he was going to finish treatment and just go back to normal.
Of course I didn't know that.
I didn't know what his life looked like outside that room any more than he knew what mine looked like.
But that didn't stop my brain from writing the story.
And I wanted normal.
For my arms to move like they used to.
For my breath to move freely.
For my skin to look even.
To have my breasts.
To not be in menopause.
To not have been through any of this.
As he described getting to go back and wear a piece of headgear that holds his head still while they do the radiation, I kept thinking, "Wouldn't that be nice."
I was full of rage.
I literally couldn't handle the sound of his voice.
The sound of his story.
I had to leave the room.
To be clear, I did not want his cancer.
I didn't actually think having a brain tumor was easy.
But exhaustion isn't particularly rational.
The Cancer Olympics: Comparing Our Suffering
Somewhere along the way, I had entered myself into the Cancer Olympics, and this poor man, who was existing and telling his story, had become my competition.
You think THAT was hard?
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't kind.
And it wasn't really about him at all.
Every day when I would show up for treatment, he was there.
I would text my husband, "Loud mouth is here again."
I started wearing my noise-canceling headphones.
And standing in the hallway.
As far from him and his joy as I could possibly be.
Because I couldn't stand to be around it.
I couldn't handle it.
I was so ready to be done with my treatment that I just wanted to run away from anyone who could possibly be po