The ringing of the hospital bell marked my daughter’s last chemotherapy session. We had just finished saying our goodbyes and were leaving when her doctor came after us, saying, “Wait! There’s something you need to know. I can’t keep it secret any longer.”
Two years previously, our world was turned upside down by Martha’s leukemia diagnosis at age eight.
Hospital rooms, chemotherapy, blood tests, and continued hope soon made up the pattern of our lives.
Martha herself continually surprised me. Despite all the challenges, she always found reasons to smile. Even when illness kept her in bed or losing her hair brought her to tears, she’d dry her face, grip my hand, and say, “We’ll beat this, Mom. You’ll see.”
I kept brave for her, yet more than once I wept alone in the bathroom at night.
Finally, the longed-for announcement came.
Her treatment was over.
That afternoon, nurses, doctors, patients, and families lined the hall as Martha gripped the bell’s rope and let its chime echo throughout the floor. The sound brought on applause, tears, and my own flood of emotion as we found hope again.
We gathered our things, hugged the nurses dear to us, and started to exit.
Close to the doorway, my name rang out. I turned and watched as Martha’s doctor hurried over, a look on his face that was new to me.
He looked at me, paused, and then murmured softly,
“Wait! There’s something you need to know. I can’t keep it secret any longer.” ⬇️