By Friday, I wrapped up my third week of radiation. Two more to go. So far, no major side effects—which, given everything, feels like a quiet victory.
People keep asking what radiation is like. The truth? It’s not that exciting. Every morning, I make my way to the east side of MD Anderson and head down into the basement. Down there is a maze of tunnels that make IKEA look organized. I’ve gotten lost more times than I’d like to admit. The only difference is that IKEA rewards you with Swedish meatballs at the end, and MD Anderson doesn’t.
The treatment itself is short—fifteen minutes total. Eight minutes of radiation, seven minutes of setup. I have three tattoos: one on each hip and one a few inches below my belly button. They help the team line up the machine precisely each time. So there I am, lying on a cold metal table, pants half-down, while a giant machine rotates around me, zapping me with invisible beams of radiation right at my tramp stamp tattoos. If you’re picturing an alien abduction scene, you’re not far off.
At least they let me choose the music. I usually go with Zach Bryan. By 7:15 a.m., I’m done for the day—free to rest, think, or just be bored.
I’ve been lucky. My radiation has been easy so far, and I don’t take that lightly. I don’t know why I’ve been spared the worst of it, but I try to use that grace to pay attention to others who are having a harder time. Sometimes people are open to conversation; sometimes they just want to sit in silence. Either way, I get it.
But Thursday was different. I met a woman and her 5-year-old daughter, Poppy. Poppy is fighting kidney cancer. She’d lost her hair and looked exhausted. Her mom mentioned to a nurse that Poppy had gotten her nails painted before coming in.
If you’ve followed this blog, you know I usually have my toenails painted too. It started as a joke, but it’s become a kind of quiet rebellion—a small, colorful reminder that there’s still room for joy, even in hard things.
So I went over, introduced myself, asked about her toenails, and then kicked off my shoes to show her mine—light blue, Frozen style. Hers were sparkly pink. She looked at my toes for a few seconds, then burst into laughter, hopping out of her wheelchair for a closer look.
It was a small, simple moment, but it lit up the room. For a few seconds, she wasn’t a kid in treatment—she was just a kid laughing at some guy’s painted toes.
The next morning, I ran into them again in the waiting room. Poppy grinned and pointed at her toes, then at mine. I pointed back and smiled. That’s when her mom told me that the day before—when she’d laughed—was the first time she’d heard Poppy laugh since losing her hair.
That stopped me.
It was the first time I truly felt like I was paying forward some of the kindness so many people have shown me—through calls, walks, and quiet support (if you are reading this, you are one of those people).
Thursday ended up being the best day of treatment I’ve had.
I probably won’t see Poppy again—her next treatment isn’t until after I’m finished and back in Austin—but tomorrow, I’m getting my toenails painted sparkly pink anyway. Just in case I get lucky enough to see her one more time.