Cap And Gown

Bring on the pomp. The circumstances call for it. Time to trade the hospital gown for a graduation gown. Let's switch out the bandanna for a mortarboard. It's graduation time. I'm done with surgery. Done with chemo. Done with radiation. I've attended my last session and passed my final doctor's exam.

I've crossed the stage, graduating from cancer patient to cancer survivor. Of course, that's not exactly how the moment feels. A better description is that I am a survivor of cancer treatment. The cancer itself, that cunning and stealthful enemy, never caused a hint of noticeable trouble. It was quietly invading, flying under radar, undetected by x-ray.

We always ask graduates about their plans. More education? New career? Answer is who knows. I have a writing project lined up, but no real plans are on the table. The radiation technicians advised me to keep busy and guard against depression. Although I'm rarely depressed, I'll heed the warning anyway. The nurse also said that I might experience an increased level of fatigue over the next week or two. After the last treatment, she explained that some radiation patients feel as if they've been hit by a bus. So, I'll watch out for that possibility, as well.

Right now, I'm just enjoying the knowledge that I no longer need to drive to the hospital every day, disrobe, lie under a huge machine for few minutes, get dressed again, and drive home. That routine was getting monotonous. I'm also trying to take in the information that I've reached the end of a 10-month trek. That my all-consuming detour through the land of breast cancer treatment is at its conclusion. For the moment, I'm paused at the main road. A little time, please, before I make the turn.