Ringing the Bell Is a BIG DAMN DEAL

Let me start by saying this: ringing the bell is a BIG DAMN DEAL in the cancer world.

I did not believe this.
At all.

Twenty-one years ago, I didn’t get to ring a bell. I was in the hospital, chemo just… stopped happening one day, and there was no grand finale. No ding-ding, no applause, no “Congratulations, you survived.” Just Okay, good luck out there. So when I heard about bell-ringing later, I filed it neatly under Cheesy Sentimental Woo Woo Designed to Make People Feel Better.

And listen, I’m not anti–woo woo. I just don’t like tempting the cancer goddesses. Those bitches have excellent hearing and questionable senses of humor.

So when I finished chemo this time and they offered me the bell, I said no. Not because I didn’t want joy—but because I wasn’t about to celebrate prematurely. I wanted to sneak quietly into remission, make no sudden movements, and wait until cancer was fully distracted by someone else.

But then… this week happened.

I was offered the bell again.
And I rang the HELL out of it.

I mean rang it. With enthusiasm. With purpose. With the kind of vigor usually reserved for emergency fire alarms and last-call announcements. And OH. MY. GOSH. The relief.

Turns out that dumb, symbolic, woo-woo bell is magic.
Plop plop, fizz fizz—who knew emotional antacids were audible?

The moment it rang, something shifted. Like my brain finally accepted the memo that this might actually be over. Not “over for now,” not “let’s not jinx it,” but really really over. The kind of over where you’re allowed to dream again. Where you can scheme, plan, and casually assume you’ll still be alive for future events.

I swear I dropped ten pounds of worry in that moment. And I’m pretty sure Luke did too, just standing there watching me ring like a lunatic.

So here we are.
Done with chemo.
Done holding our breath.
About to get busy living and planning for the future again.

Turns out, ringing the bell isn’t cheesy at all.

It’s a BIG DAMN DEAL.