I was undergoing my fourth round of radiation therapy when I found myself seated across from Rob, my driver for the day. He held a well-worn paperback copy of The Stories of John Cheever, clearly a comfort during this challenging time.
After my initial assessment at the medical center, Rob waited in the basement-level radiation oncology department at Maine Med while I changed into the standard gown. The cool air was uncomfortable on my bare arms, but the psychological reality of pain had shifted—I could feel it because I was still present, still fighting.
I captured a photo of myself smiling in the dressing room, part of a weekly ritual documenting my treatment journey. I shared these images with my husband Dan and dear friend Rachel, a visual testament that I was enduring this experience.
Two weeks earlier, Rachel had orchestrated an ambitious solution: a organized driver rotation system. After my preliminary CT scan, overwhelming fear gripped me as I sat alone in my car. Cancer isolates in profound ways—you face those mysterious machines and procedures entirely alone. That evening, I called Rachel from the parking lot, confessing my terror about managing the treatments independently. Without hesitation, she replied, “I’ll figure this out.”
Within days, she had assembled the logistics. Recruiting four couples among her closest friends, Rachel created a detailed schedule to transport me to each session. Though her work schedule prevented her from driving personally, she coordinated everything through text messages that updated me daily: “Tomorrow, your driver is Merry. She’ll arrive at 9:15 a.m.”
By my fourth treatment, my skin was already irritated. Rob and I conversed amiably about literature during our drive, discussing Cheever’s work and his discovery of the book at a local swap shop. Following my appointment, he drove me home feeling notably lighter.
Medical professionals often assure patients they can drive themselves to radiation—portraying it as a simple 20-minute journey. While technically feasible, the emotional weight of those trips extends far beyond mere transportation. It was the consistent presence of loving friends that sustained me through five weeks of treatment.
Each driver brought unique gestures of care. Nora accompanied me into the treatment room, advocating on my behalf. Leah prepared breakfast at my home—a comforting Dutch baby with fresh raspberries—on her designated days. Emma provided emotional support, even sharing tears with me when we both connected with another parent undergoing treatment. Merry arrived bearing bouquets of garden flowers. Through these ongoing friendships—marked by conversation and shared history—I could contextualize cancer as merely one chapter within a larger narrative of my life.
On my final day in mid-July, Dan organized treats for the Maine Med radiation team. The entire department celebrated my completion with applause as I rang the ceremonial cowbell. That evening, our older son awaited at home with a Lazy Daisy cake he’d baked himself, adorned with candles.
Nearly a year has passed since those treatments, and the memories remain vivid: envision the breast swelling to watermelon proportions; witnessing nipple bleeding and peeling skin; hearing the technician’s loudspeaker reminders to hold my breath and remain motionless.
Yet the actual pain has faded from memory. What persists is the sensation of Jess’s leg pressed against mine on the waiting room sofa, and that profound relief experienced when finding Emma, Rob, or Dan awaiting outside the treatment area. Most significantly, I retain an overwhelming sense of worthiness—a recognition of being genuinely valued and cared for.
Throughout those five weeks of conversations about literature, parenting teenagers, and perfecting Dutch baby recipes, I discovered how love manifests in diverse forms: through flowers, baked goods, meticulously planned schedules. Sometimes, it simply requires a friend holding a well-read paperback, ready to discuss whatever lies ahead on the journey home.