The Sound of the Bell

November 4, 2025

Photo by Manny Becerra on Unsplash

If you are reading this on Tuesday, and still haven't voted. Go vote. I’ll wait.

Today, while waiting for my radiation therapy, two separate but connected moments unfolded in the treatment center.

The first came when a woman stepped up to the small brass bell mounted on the wall. It’s the same one everyone looks toward, the one that marks the end of treatment, the declaration of remission or cure, the sound of victory. She was alone. No friends, no family, no one to hold the camera or share the moment. But as she lifted the rope and rang that bell, the sound filled the room. It was clear and bright, the kind of sound that cuts through the quiet like sunlight through clouds.

Then she wept. Not quiet tears, but full, unguarded ones, the kind that carry the weight of months or years of fear, pain, and endurance. Everyone clapped. A few nurses teared up. Even in her solitude, she wasn’t alone.

Moments later, it happened again. This time, a young man walked toward the bell, his family surrounding him. Moments before they surprised him as he walked out of the treatment room. As he rang the bell, cheering, hugging, and crying filled the area. It was the kind of joy that ripples through the room, contagious and alive.

Sitting there, getting ready for my radiation treatment, I felt something shift inside me. Gratitude, yes; I am incredibly fortunate to have my own army walking beside me: Maria, my family, my friends, all holding me up through the long road. But beneath that gratitude, I felt something darker, something I wasn’t prepared to name at first. Something from my lizard brain:

Jealousy.

It startled me, that sudden wave of envy. I’ve been at this nearly a year now; ten, eleven months of tests, treatments, waiting, and hoping. Watching them ring that bell, I felt a deep ache rise up. My mind whispered the question I try not to ask: Why not me?

It’s a hard truth to admit, but I think anyone who’s been in this fight knows it. We celebrate others’ victories while quietly aching for our own. You read stories of people who finish treatment in three months and walk away cancer-free. You want that. You want to believe that your story will follow the same arc.

But that’s not how it works. My cancer isn’t theirs. My story isn’t theirs.

My journey has its own pace, its own battle rhythm, its own ending still being written. The bell will come when it’s meant to. Until then, I hold onto what I can, the sound of hope ringing through the hallway, even if it’s not for me yet.

One day it will be me, and when it is, I’ll ring it for all of us, the ones still fighting, the ones who walked alone, and the ones who never stopped believing that their turn would come.