I used to wonder what it would feel like to ring the bell at the end of chemotherapy.
People talk about it as a moment — a single, triumphant act. One pull of a rope, one sound, one ending. But standing there at the end of treatment, I realised it’s not just a moment.
It’s a release.
After seven chemotherapy cycles back to back, finishing wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet emotional in ways I didn’t expect.
Getting to the end
Chemotherapy slowly becomes your normal.
Appointments, blood tests, side effects, recovery days that blur into the next cycle. Life shrinks to manageable units of time. You stop thinking weeks ahead. You focus on the next treatment. Then the next.
By the final cycle, I wasn’t counting down with excitement — I was just determined to finish. My body was tired. My mind was foggy. But I knew I was close.
When they told me, “This is your last one,” it didn’t feel real.
The bell
The bell wasn’t loud.
But it was powerful.
Ringing it wasn’t about celebration in the way I’d imagined. It was about acknowledgment. A physical way of saying:
I showed up.
I endured.
I did the thing I never wanted to have to do.
As I rang it, everything I’d been holding together quietly came rushing in — relief, pride, exhaustion, gratitude, and a strange sadness that surprised me. Because finishing chemo isn’t just an ending. It’s a transition.
What finishing chemo really feels like
There’s relief — enormous relief.
No more infusions. No more countdowns. No more bracing yourself for what’s about to hit your body next.
But there’s also vulnerability. For months, the plan was clear: turn up, be treated, survive. When that stops, you’re suddenly left to process what you’ve been through. The adrenaline drops. The body starts to rest. Emotions you’ve parked to get through treatment finally catch up.
That doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful. It means you’re human.
Pride in quiet strength
What I didn’t expect was the pride.
Not the loud kind — the quiet, steady kind. Pride in getting out of bed on hard days. Pride in sitting through treatments even when every instinct said run. Pride in asking for help when independence slipped away.
Chemotherapy stripped things back. But it also showed me how much strength exists even when you feel broken.
Life after chemo
Ringing the bell doesn’t mean everything is instantly better. Recovery takes time. Energy returns slowly. Confidence rebuilds. The body and mind need patience — and kindness.
But finishing chemo gives you something priceless: space.
Space to heal.
Space to breathe.
Space to imagine life beyond appointments and side effects.
It gives you permission to start looking forward again — gently, carefully, but honestly.
What the bell really marks
The bell doesn’t mark the end of cancer’s impact. It marks the end of this chapter. It marks resilience. Endurance. Hope. It marks the fact that, even on the hardest days, I kept going.
And that sound — that bell — will always remind me of what the human body and spirit can survive.
If you’re still waiting to ring yours
If you’re reading this while still in treatment, know this:
The days are long. The cycles are hard. But the end does come.
And when you ring that bell — however it feels in the moment — it will belong to you. Your journey. Your strength. Your survival.
One day, one treatment, one breath at a time.
And when you get there — ring it with everything you’ve got.
I'd like to thank my fiancee for holding me through every step of this journey, she's been by my side for every appointment, every chemo session, every challenge and every tear.
Now to our future,
Tony
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