There are parts of a cancer journey that live in the light, the ones people ask about, the ones that feel easy to name. Then there are the parts that live underground, quiet and cold, the ones you carry in your bones long after the calendar moves on. My eighteen sessions of radiation, from September 7, 2021 to September 30, 2021, belong to that second category.
They were mornings carved out of fear and routine, mornings that felt like stepping into a place where time held its breath.
The Descent
Radiation happened in the basement of the hospital, a place that felt forgotten by the world above. The air was cold, the walls outdated, the atmosphere bleak in a way that settled into your skin. Even though the technicians were gentle and kind, even though they spoke softly and treated me with care, the fear never loosened its grip. Kindness can steady you, but it cannot erase the truth of what you are walking toward.
Every morning, I checked in, changed into the thin hospital attire they handed me, and sat in the waiting room with strangers who were fighting their own battles. People walked in quietly, sat down quietly, and were called in quietly. The silence was heavy, filled with the weight of what we were all trying to survive. It was heartbreaking to see how many of us were there, how many were struggling, how many were trying to be brave in a place that felt anything but comforting.
The Drive Into Stillness
I scheduled every appointment early in the morning, before the world fully woke up. I wanted to get it over with, to face the fear before it had time to grow. The drive to the hospital was mostly highway, calm and quiet, the kind of stillness that feels almost sacred. I drove alone because I didn’t want to burden anyone, because I thought carrying this part by myself was the only way to stay strong.
But the truth is, those drives were lonely. The mask I had to wear because of Covid precautions made everything feel even more isolating. Not seeing faces, not seeing smiles, not seeing the softness in someone’s expression, made the entire experience feel colder and more terrifying. Eyes alone cannot tell you everything you need to know.
The Final Morning
On my last day, my best friend Kristen insisted on coming with me. She stayed outside in the car while I went in, waiting patiently, giving me space but not letting me be alone. Her presence, even from the parking lot, meant more than I can ever fully explain. Knowing she was right there, knowing someone I loved was holding the world steady for me while I walked into that basement one last time, was exactly what my heart needed.
When I walked out after that final session, seeing her car, seeing her waiting, felt like stepping into sunlight after weeks underground. It was the first moment I allowed myself to breathe, to feel relief, to feel supported in a way I had denied myself for so many mornings.
Illumination of Life
Two days after my final radiation treatment, on October 2, 2021, I found myself standing in a completely different kind of darkness. This time, it was the night sky above the Rhode Island State House steps, glowing in soft pink light for the Gloria Gemma Illumination of Life ceremony, where I participated as a torch bearer. My body was still tender from treatment, my emotions still raw, yet there I was, holding a flame meant to symbolize hope, remembrance, and survival.
I walked beside my sister Linda, both of us carrying torches, both of us carrying stories etched into our skin and our spirits. Walking with her felt sacred, like the universe had carved out a moment just for us, a moment where our journeys intertwined in a way only sisters who have faced cancer can understand.
“Two sisters, two torches, one shared fire of survival.”
So many of my family and friends came to support me that night. Their presence created a glow brighter than the torches themselves.
This was also where the photo of Kristen, Dave, and Patsy was taken, the one where they showed up in inflatable dinosaurs with handmade signs, turning fear into laughter and reminding me that joy can exist even in the shadow of illness.
“Only my people would meet my darkest chapters with humor, cardboard signs, and inflatable dinosaurs; Kristen on the left, Dave beside her, and Patsy offering the light that slipped through the cracks and kept me whole.”
There is also a picture from that night of me with my three children, Cassie, Alex, and Sophie, their arms wrapped around me, their smiles steady and proud.
“My three greatest lights, standing with me in every chapter.”
That night felt like a bridge between who I had been during treatment and who I was becoming. A moment where the light finally reached the places that had been underground for so long.
A New Piece of Glass
Those eighteen sessions, and the ceremony that followed, became another shard in my stained‑glass window, a piece shaped by fear and solitude, but also by resilience, community, and unexpected grace. The basement, the masks, the quiet highway, the strangers in the waiting room, the kindness of the technicians, the loneliness of going alone, the warmth of Kristen waiting outside, the torches with Linda, the love of my children, the laughter brought by inflatable dinosaurs, all of it is part of my mosaic now.
Radiation did not just treat my body, it changed me. It taught me how to walk into fear and keep moving. It taught me how to sit with sadness and still find strength. It taught me that even in the coldest, bleakest places, light finds a way in, sometimes through the smallest cracks.
And when I look back now, I see a woman who showed up eighteen times, trembling but determined, alone but never truly abandoned, afraid but still choosing to rise.
Still healing,
still standing,
still gathering every broken piece and turning it toward the light.