It has been a long journey since one of my husband Mike’s doctors  gave him the news that he had prostate cancer. After that diagnosis I learned a great deal about the PSA test that led to a whole series of MRIs, biopsies and PET scans. I found out what his Gleason score indicated and accompanied him to many different specialists until we ended sitting in front of a radiation oncologist who announced that Mike would need thirty nine radiation treatments stretched over eight weeks. First, there would be more tests, biopsies and PET scans followed by a surgery designed to create a barrier so that the radiation would only affect the cancerous area. 

It took many weeks from May to much of June before Mike was finally at the outpatient center where the radiation would take place. After mapping the affected area he was finally ready to begin a process that felt almost endless in the beginning. Luckily the side effects that Mike had were somewhat minimal and more irritating than painful. He would have to arrive each day with a full bladder and an empty bowl for the radiation to be effective. It took awhile but we soon learned how to stay on target with that demand. 

We found new friends in the waiting room that was filled with patients and family members. We watched as some of the folks completed the process and as others first began theirs. We came from far flung places and different backgrounds but we found common ground with the challenges that we all shared. It was almost inevitable that we would get to know and like different individuals with all types of cancer. 

There was the real estate mogul who had once lived in Shreveport, Louisiana who often spoke of his daughters who would come to visit him and to shop. There was the Jewish lawyer who always wore his yarmulka who hid the damage done to his nose from the cancer that seemed to have brutally attacked him. They were sweet people who were anxious to return to good health and the routine of their lives before cancer became their daily focus. Everyone was optimistic and worried at one and the same time.

We watched joyful celebrations as one by one the people in the room finished their regimen of radiation and rang the bell signifying the end. We all smiled and clapped with each person who made it to the finish line because we understood how they were feeling. Their joy was our hope. Our hope was their joy. 

The people who worked at the facility were extraordinary. There was the receptionist at the front desk who greeted everyone each morning with a dazzling smile and hearty hello that told us that he really cared about each person who came his way. We began to look forward to seeing him and exchanging him with a fist bump or a laugh.

The woman behind the desk in the waiting room was patient and always scurrying around to be certain that everyone had water, soft drinks, coffee and snacks to tide them over as they nervously waited for their appointments to begin. She was patient even with the crankiest souls always trying to send vibes of concern for each person. 

Mike had two technicians who worked with him. They made him feel safe with their smiles and conversations and jokes. They learned what music he like to hear when he was inside the machine that aimed the radiation on the cancer. They never seemed to get frustrated or even tired as they worked from eight in the morning till five in the afternoon with not much in the way of a break. 

Then there was the doctor who gave a weekly update and explained every step of the way with precision, detail and confidence. His expertise was the panacea that grew ever more within reach with each passing week. 

Mike finally came to the end of the journey. We entered the building with mixed feelings. We were thrilled that his ordeal was over but we knew that we would miss all of those wonderful people. We brought flowers for the technicians and Mike wrote a card for everyone who was part of the program. As Mike went to the back for his last treatment I felt a flood of emotion as I sat with my daughter and son-in-law who had come to celebrate the moment. 

Later when Mike triumphantly rang the bell the whole room was beaming, clapping and shouting congratulations. It was over at least for now. Mike will follow up in three months to make certain that the task of eradicating the cancer is done. For the moment the anxiety is gone and only gratitude remains as we contemplate the miracle of it all ad think of the many who were there with us and many more who are yet to come. As my Grandpa Little always said, “These are the good old days!” Mike had reached the finish line and it felt so fine.