The Day After

On radiation, waiting, and the quiet moments that changed me

It ended yesterday.

After months of holding my breath…

wondering,

of CAT scans, face-down MRIs, waiting rooms, genetic tests, surgery, and finally, radiation…

it just… stopped.

Friday was it.
One final appointment.

A quiet “we’ll see you in three months,”
and a door that closed behind me.

I still can’t quite believe it’s over.
I haven’t fully exhaled.
My body, my insides, still feel like I’m waiting for the next thing.

This fast-moving train started in August, with a biopsy that wasn’t benign this time.

Unlike 2 years ago, there was no cheerful nurse on the other end of the phone.

No soft landing.

This time, the doctor would have to call.

It’s cancer.
I’m so sorry.
And we don’t know what happens next.

Now Christmas is somehow two weeks away.
It’s like I blinked and three months just evaporated.

My nervous system doesn’t know what to do without the constant anticipation.

My body is tired. Tender.
A little stunned.

October

Surgery was terrifying.

Going under anesthesia, handing my body over to strangers.
Waiting - again - for pathology results.

Tumor margins.
Lymph nodes.

Words that sound clinical until they belong to you.

Then the questions get louder.
Can I keep caring for my kids?
Can I keep working?
Will I be here next year?

Each test brought relief — and almost immediately, fear rushed back in.
What’s next? Chemo? Radiation?
Will this come back?

Relief and fear learned how to coexist.
They still do.

Radiation was “only” five days. And it still took a lot out of me.

I want to say that clearly - but without minimizing it.

I know how lucky I am.

The Waiting

So much of cancer is just waiting.

Waiting for results.
Waiting for calls.
Waiting for treatment.
Waiting to find out if your life is about to change again.

Even when the news is good, your body doesn’t immediately believe it.

You stay braced. You stay alert.

You wait for the other shoe to drop.

The Physical Cost

What surprised me most about all of this is the emotional and physical pain.

The cording around scar tissue.
The pulling in my arm and chest.
Physical therapy layered on top of oncology appointments.

The strange frustration of needing help with your body,
Of having to skip workouts,

Being stuck to the couch like a cinder block has landed on top of you,
all while still being expected to move through the world like nothing is wrong.

The Kindness of Strangers

This week, as I counted down my last days of radiation, I decided to make it public.

Even if someone goes with you,

You walk into that radiation room alone.
You lie there alone while the machine moves around you.

I didn’t want to feel so alone.

So I decided to share a photo each day, not on Facebook, where I’d get a million questions I was too tired and scared to answer…

But instead to strangers here on Substack notes.

I didn’t expect what came back…

Thousands of responses.

Messages from survivors.

From people who knew exactly what those days felt like. Stopping to say I wasn’t alone, to keep going.

From those who have not walked this path, but still sent encouragement.

Your words mattered more than you know.

They carried me through rooms that are hard to walk into,

and it felt like hundreds of people were walking with me when I walked out for the last time.

The Parking Lot

The cancer center is a heavy place… but also a quietly beautiful one.

People trying to do this bravely,
others showing up to support their family, spouses, and friends.

Earlier this week, while walking out to my car, I saw a man helping a woman into their car. She had to lay back in her seat. She looked like she was in real pain.

As I reached my car, I noticed an older woman looking out at me through the window of the driver’s seat.

She was in a handicapped spot.

She smiled at me, so I stopped, asking if she needed a hand.

“I’m not sure yet, let’s see.”

I extended my arm, just in case.

She took it.

Her name was Pam.*

She asked for help getting her walker out of the back, and thanked me for being someone who noticed, because a lot of people just walk by.

She’d been through chemo, she said. Just finished radiation.

And on her last day, she fell and broke her back.

I would guess she’s in her 80s.

Alone.

Using a walker now - and proud of it.

“But hey,” she said, “I’m on this thing now, and I think that’s pretty good.”

She asked me for my name and what I was doing here.

She told me she knew what I was going through.

Boy, did she… and so much more.

The Last Day

On my final day of treatment, my radiation oncologist met with me one more time.

He took his time with me.

Said my prognosis is “over-the-top amazingly good.”

He reminded me that I caught this tumor early. By self-exam, by speaking up with my doctor.

He said, “Sarah, you’re going to do great.”

That sentence landed deeper than he probably realized.

Marking the End

All three of my children insisted on leaving school early to come to my end of treatment at the radiation clinic.

A small certificate.
A gong in the waiting room my kids rang together.
A moment to say: this chapter is finished.

I invited my nurse navigator, who made it over.
Two other oncology nurses showed up… just to hug me.

One of them offered to take photos of me with my kids.

And my kids watched it all… seeing what care looks like.

What community looks like.
What love looks like when you let people show up.

When you don’t pretend you can carry it all on your own.

*names were changed for privacy

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Tomorrow, I want to write about the after — about what comes next, and how this Christmas will look different now that this chapter has ended, but healing is still happening.

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