Thoughts on ringing the bell

As I went through my last two cycles of chemotherapy, I looked forward to ringing the bell that hung on the wall of the oncology unit, signalling the end of treatment. I imagined shouting “Yee haw!” and going crazy with the bell rope. Maybe doing a little happy dance before an exhilarated final exit out of the unit, skipping like Dorothy down the yellow brick road.
In the days leading up to the end of treatment, however, I noticed I was tearing up each time I thought about ringing the bell. Hmmm. When the big moment came, I could barely smile for my photo before collapsing in tears that lasted for a couple of hours.

Why do we ring the bell at the end of chemotherapy treatment?
According to the MD Anderson Cancer Centre website, it’s because of US Navy admiral Irve Le Moyne, who in 1996 completed his cancer radiation therapy. On the final day, he brought a bell to ring, because in the navy, bellringing indicated the end of a difficult journey, or the accomplishment of a particularly arduous task. He donated his bell to the MD Anderson Cancer Centre and a tradition was born. Or at least that’s how the MACC tells the story.
 
Maybe I should not have been surprised at my own response. I recall my father-in-law wondering aloud why people cry at weddings; his brother, in true brotherly fashion, said “Well Dave, it’s called emotion.”  I expected to feel nothing but happiness finishing treatment. Instead, it was as if something opened up inside me, that I’d been holding tightly closed like a sweater against a cold wind. I didn’t cry a lot during the six months of chemo, instead counting on self-affirmations like this treatment will heal me and I can do hard things and strong and calm. There were very dark and sad days but I didn’t want to bring others down with me. I think the tears were all those I’d held back since diagnosis and surgery and through the treatment; they signified that I made it, I actually made it. A lot of people told me they cried watching the video; I’d much rather have shouted “F**k cancer!” and pumped my fist in the air and had everyone feeling inspired and celebratory. But sometimes, circumstances are bigger than us.
 
When my husband and I were in Italy, many years ago, we went to see the famous Duomo, a very old and beautiful domed cathedral in Firenze (Florence). When we arrived, they were just locking the doors, closing up for the day. Seeing our disappointment, the worker said “why don’t you climb the bell tower?”
We decided to do so, climbing what felt like a million serpentine steps, which got smaller and shallower as we ascended. The view at the top was incredible. We were so glad we’d taken on the task, when suddenly the entire tower vibrated. It was six o’clock, and the enormous bell was ringing. Immediately, church bells across the city also began ringing. It was a cacophony of bells, surrounding us as we took in the gorgeous view, and it was also our anniversary, so it was easy to pretend the bells were just for us.
 
I tell this story because that Italian bell ringing episode was filled with joy and awe and gratitude, all the things I expected to feel ringing the oncology bell. And even though the moment at the hospital did not go as I expected, all those wonderful emotions were also there under my tears; I’ve found and embraced them now. Arduous task accomplished. Time to move forward to new adventures.