Confessions from the Radiation Lounge

Now featuring cherry blossoms, misread calendars, and extra grey hairs (mine).

Meet Vivian.

She sounds like a genteel aunt who drinks Earl Grey and knits lace doilies—but no. Vivian is the massive, humming radiation machine at the BC Cancer Centre in Abbotsford. The staff named her (bless them), and honestly, I think it suits her. She’s precise, cold, a little intimidating, and—let’s be honest—she doesn’t care if you’re comfortable.

Before our daily dates began, I had a pre-radiation appointment where the team measured, scanned, and nudged me into the right position on Vivian’s radiation runway. No exactly a chaise lounge, the middle arches up, the butt drops into a wedge, and your legs get propped up on a triangle pillow. It’s all very high-tech yoga-meets-mild torture.

There is a view of cherry blossoms and blue sky—very peaceful, very poetic. But no TV like at the dentist’s. Not even a ceiling-mounted screen looping endless episodes of “Property Brothers.” So disappointing.

My final treatment was Monday, May 12th. About half way through, I felt nauseous. It was quite strange and I couldn’t figure out what was causing it. Not “skip-a-meal” nauseous, but “huh, that’s weird” nauseous. My husband thought it was because I hadn’t eaten, but I’m not usually a breakfast-before-8 kind of girl. When I told the nurse, she nodded and said, “That’s the radiation.” Apparently, some people get that. Surprise! Another mystery side effect unlocked.

Fortunately, by the time I got home, the fog lifted and I could manage breakfast without glaring at my toast.

I had a hard time with remembering the times of my appointments. I’d entered all the times in my phone and tucked the little yellow card into my purse—very responsible, right? But one day, somehow, my phone decided to change every single one so they all matched. So, there I was one day, putting on my shoes at 7:56 am, thinking I had loads of time, when I checked the card and realized my appointment was at 8:15. Cue panic and a mad dash out the door.

This forgetfulness is becoming a theme. I was early once the first week, but that was because I had the time wrong in the other direction. The fatigue is exacerbating my leftover chemo brain. And let’s not even talk about how hard it is to function on four hours of broken sleep with a bladder that thinks 3:12 a.m. is a great time for a stroll. It is frustrating to be so forgetful, confused, and tired…so tired.

Bless my husband for driving me on some of the really early days. If I’d driven, I might have ended up parked in a Starbucks drive-thru asking for an MRI instead of a mocha.

What do you think of this AI generated colour?

In more cheerful news: my hair is making a comeback! It’s currently in the awkward fuzzy chick phase, with a generous helping of grey. When it hits about an inch, I’ve decided: it’s going pink. Possibly pinky-peachy-blonde. Maybe rose gold if I’m feeling extra. Something cheerful, fun, and a little rebellious. Carla, my stylist, will help me figure it out. But whatever we do, I’m celebrating every millimetre of this regrowth.

Because I’ve earned it. And so has Vivian. Probably.

The Polly Fox - a delightful place with great food and great staff!

Yesterday was my last day of radiation. No bells, no fanfare. Just brunch at The Polly Fox, a gluten-free café in Abbotsford that feels like a Celiac’s version of heaven. Cinnamon buns, crullers, Nanaimo bars—and WAFFLES. I hadn’t had waffles in ages. Naturally, I ordered too much. That’s what take-home boxes—and late-night snacks—are for.

The radiation might be done, but its effects linger for a few more weeks. The healthy cells bounce back eventually, thankfully. My collarbone where lymph nodes are is looking a bit sunburned, and the fatigue? Deeper than chemo. Like I’m made of bricks. So for now, rest is the plan. Naps are my new cardio.

I’m grateful to have reached this point. Now it’s just immunotherapy—infusions every three weeks until fall, thanks to a couple of treatment breaks. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve had. My brain protests every time I try to do the math.

Looking back, I never imagined how much this journey would change me. At first, it was just about survival. It still is, in some ways. Fear sneaks in—what if it returns? But I’m learning to walk the line between being watchful and being consumed.

Joy helps. Knitting, writing, crocheting, quiet mornings at Camp Sunrise—our little trailer-away-from-home. And talking it all through with a counselor, because this year has been… a lot.

New cotton blanket for a new granddaughter arriving any day now…

Through it all, I’m thankful for God’s steady presence. I don’t always understand the mystery of healing or grace, but I sense it—in the silence, in nature, in the stillness where the Divine whispers loudest. I’m learning to sit in that quiet. Not always gracefully, but I’m trying.

No bell to ring, but I know something sacred has shifted. And that feels like more than enough.

There’s still a road ahead, but for now, I’m holding space for healing, for hope, and for all the quiet miracles along the way. God has been in every step, even the weary ones—and I trust He’ll keep walking with me, one gentle grace at a time.

God of healing and wholeness,

Thank You for carrying me through this part of the journey.
Thank You for the doctors, the nurses, the treatments—
for science, and for the moments of grace that science can’t explain.
Thank You for waffles, warm cafés, and small celebrations that remind me life is still sweet.

My body is tired, my skin is worn, and my spirit feels stretched thin.
But I know You are here in the fatigue, in the stillness,
in the deep quiet where Your voice becomes the loudest.
Hold me in this in-between time—
as radiation fades, as rest begins.
Help me to not rush the healing.
Teach me to listen to my body, to honour its needs, and to trust Your timing.
When fear whispers of what might come next,
replace it with peace—not the kind the world gives,
but the kind that only You can offer.

Thank You for joy—
for yarn between my fingers, words flowing from my pen,
and the promise of quiet days at Camp Sunrise.
Thank You for counselors who listen and family & friends who stay.
And thank You, Lord, for being my constant—
even when I’m uncertain, even when I’m weary.
You are the God who meets me in the silence,
who holds all things together,
and who never lets go.

Thank you Jesus, Amen.

As always, keep sending your prayers and warm and healing thoughts and energy. To all my RC friends, light a candle for me.

And keep sending those funny videos - you know how much I love anything with cats…and add babies to that.

grace….

Kathie