A Lot to Be Grateful For. And a Lot to Unpack.

Thirty radiation treatments.

Done.

Apparently.

I say apparently because I’m still waiting for the big HOLY SHIT, I’M FINALLY DONE feeling to hit.

The final treatment itself was almost hilariously anticlimactic. After six weeks, the whole thing had started to feel a little like Groundhog Day. Drive there. Walk in. Climb onto the table. Get my head buckled down under that ridiculously tight mask. Get zapped. Leave. Repeat.

Thirty times.

The grand finale was pretty much exactly the same as the other 29, except they made me see the nurse afterward so she could take my blood pressure.

For the first time.

In six weeks.

Apparently on day 30 someone finally thought, Hey, maybe we should check that. 😂

Then they sent me home with my horrible mask and a certificate of completion.

A certificate.

As if I was going to look at that generic piece of paper and suddenly think, OH! NOW I understand. I’m officially done!

And before anyone thinks I’m being a complete asshole, I know that certificate probably means a lot to some people. I’m sure there was a survey somewhere that determined radiation patients appreciate receiving one.

I’m just apparently not one of those radiation patients.

Brian was waiting for me with flowers, though. ❤️

And that meant considerably more.

Maybe part of my strange reaction to finishing is that radiation itself never really felt like an accomplishment to me. People have said things to me this year about how strong I am or how brave I’ve been, and I never quite know what to do with that.

Because from where I’m standing, I mostly just did what I was told.

I’ve always been a bit of a rule follower. Throw in my recovering people-pleaser tendencies, and apparently the little girl inside me who wants to do what she’s supposed to do really knows how to take charge during a medical crisis.

Someone told me I needed brain surgery, so I had brain surgery.

They told me I needed rehab, so I went to rehab.

They told me I needed radiation, so I showed up every weekday for six weeks and let them strap my head to a table.

I didn’t feel brave.

I felt compliant.

And radiation itself was honestly more of a giant pain in the ass than anything else.

Having to go there every. single. weekday. for six weeks, no matter what else was going on, got old.

But somehow those six weeks also went by WAY faster than I thought they would when I was standing at the beginning of them.

And the mask?

It absolutely sucked giant balls.

But it also wasn’t nearly as horrible as I had built it up to be in my head.

Both things can apparently be true.

There was something about that treatment room that never stopped feeling surreal, though. No matter how routine the appointments became, every time I walked into that room and climbed onto the table, it felt like I had stepped into some weird alternate timeline.

One minute I was living my normal life.

The next I was lying completely still with my head literally locked into place while a machine delivered radiation to my brain.

Totally normal Tuesday afternoon stuff.

And there was a smell.

I don’t even know exactly what it was. Maybe the mask. Maybe the room. Maybe some combination of everything.

But I know that smell is filed away somewhere in my brain forever now.

It reminds me of the smell after an airbag deploys. If you’ve ever been in a crash where one went off, you know what I mean. You might go years without smelling it again, but I swear if you ever do, some part of your brain instantly knows exactly what it is.

I think that treatment room smell will be like that for me.

Of everything radiation brought with it, the hardest part was definitely losing my hair.

And that part isn’t finished just because radiation is.

Now I get to figure out what to do with what’s left, whether to shave it, when to shave it, and then wait for it to start growing back.

The fatigue should eventually get better.

My hair should eventually grow back.

But there are other things about this year that aren’t temporary.

A while back—before radiation even started—I had a day where I completely fell apart.

I cried pretty much the entire day.

About nothing.

Or maybe about everything.

I couldn’t really explain what was wrong. The closest I could get was:

I’m me. But I’m not me anymore.

That probably sounds strange.

Realistically, I know I’m the same person I’ve always been.

But I’m also not.

Someone recently asked me about that old saying, “When air hits the brain, it’s never the same.”

First of all, thanks for putting THAT little phrase into my head forever.

At first I took it the way I think most people probably would—as some slightly horrifying way of saying that once someone has brain surgery, they come out of it different.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized…

Maybe it’s true.

Just not for the reason I originally thought.

Of course I’m different.

How could I not be?

Even if you take away all of the random bullshit that came specifically from having my brain operated on, I’ve been through something this year that I never—not once—imagined I would go through.

I learned very quickly how much I had taken for granted.

I learned that my spiritual side wasn’t something I could keep neatly tucked into one little corner of my life anymore. I needed it. Fully. And it helped carry me through some of the strangest and hardest moments of this entire experience.

I learned that nobody really goes through something like this alone.

My family, my friends, my clients—people showed up for me in ways I don’t think I’ll ever forget.

And I learned that there are parts of this experience that will stay with me long after my hair grows back and the fatigue fades.

I’ll have regular MRIs for the rest of my life.

Medical questionnaires are going to require a whole lot more ink than they used to.

I get overstimulated by things that never bothered me before.

And I’m sure there are still things I haven’t even discovered yet.

The recovering control freak in me would really, REALLY like to wrap this entire experience up in a pretty little bow, put it on a shelf labeled DONE, and get on with my life.

But the realist in me knows better.

My life isn’t exactly the same.

I’m not exactly the same.

And maybe I’m not supposed to be.

So for now, I’m learning what my new normal looks like.

Maybe Monday will come and, when I don’t have to get in the car and go get zapped, it will finally hit me that radiation really is over.

Maybe it’ll happen Wednesday.

Maybe it’ll be some completely random moment three weeks from now.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that I’ve spent the better part of this year doing whatever the next thing was that needed to be done.

And now, for the first time in a while, there isn’t another treatment waiting for me on Monday.

I have a lot to be grateful for.

I also have a whole hell of a lot to unpack.

And I think I’m finally giving myself permission to do both.