It's traditional to ring the bell at the Awareness Garden three times in honor of cancer patients, both survivors and the ones we've lost, and for their caregivers. Here I stand at the end of my treatment, holding the rope to ring the bell for ME. I have earned this privilege. I have struggled for this honor. I have endured 8 months of being poisoned, cut and burned. I have slept, smiled, cried, crumpled, laughed and slept some more while I have waited patiently... well not always so patiently... for my time. But now I can't see a thing for the tears in my eyes. I ring the bell. I cherish hearing the reverberations. I tip my face to the sky and I throw a kiss. I embrace my husband Vaughn, my best friend of 28 years.

Radiation was the last big hurdle to overcome, 30 treatments over 6 weeks with its pain, fatigue, and sunburns in places that have never seen the sun. It started slowly at first seemingly having no effect on me at all. It built little by little until I could hardly bear to wear clothes and I felt exhausted. Ahead of radiation treatment my physical therapist told me to expect to be apply ointments “like it's your job.” She was not far from the mark, I must say. And all this time nerves that have been trying to reconnect since surgery in April are zapping me with electric shocks that range from a mere tickle to drop-me-to-my-knees jolts.

Every morning at 8:45 I walked into a big, dimly lit room that is the home of a huge machine named Voyager. It hovered and rotated over the table where I lay as the nurse technicians aimed the beams precisely in the right places. The women operating these machines (Voyager, Enterprise and Beamer) are amazing. They are all young, intelligent, cheerful, vibrant, chatty and efficient and I am going to miss them. To help aim the beams I was given several tiny tattoos, dots of florescent pink ink. A couple of times, including today, I took off the gown to reveal a tiny drawing of a mouse on my belly, using one of the pink dots for the nose. Excited giggles. “Does it have a name?” I replied, “He's been with me since I was in high school. His name has always been Mouse.”

The first 23 treatments required 3 long exposures from breast bone to armpit to neck. I learned to hold my breath for well over 40 seconds while staying perfectly still. I think 'still' was the harder of the two. The final 7 treatments were called a boost, high intensity beams aimed solely at the location of the primary tumor. I could feel the heat in the 30-ish seconds it took to administer them. Afterward I felt like I had the wind knocked out of me, my breastbone ached and I was weak all over. I felt like a hotdog in a microwave. It became routine to go back to the women's dressing room, chat with some of the other women I have gotten to know over these 6 weeks, slather on the ointments, dress, go home and rest. Tomorrow I had to be ready to do it again... until today.

Now all that is left of treatment is a combination chemo and immunotherapy every 3 weeks until the end of January. It's meant to teach my cells to recognize the proteins that got this ball rolling in the first place and stop them from congregating and turning on the genes that say be fruitful and multiply. It's not so bad. I get sore muscles and a weird soapy taste, and a few other nagging little annoyances. Heck, compared to the rest of it... easy peasy. Piece of cake.

Today I celebrate! I had my last radiation treatment. I made it! I got to ring that beautiful bell.