In a lot of chemo labs in North America and in other parts of the world, people ring a bell once they have finished their treatment. This was something I wrote as I approached my last treatment the end of September.
There is one in almost every chemotherapy lab. It both beckons and taunts us. It makes itself heard at times, interrupting the thoughts of those who sit and wait for the drip of the intravenous to stop. None of us can turn our heads fast enough to see who has rung the bell. They seem to hit it and become invisible. It’s as if they think that if they stay too long to hear it ring, then all will be lost. So they leave. Quickly.
The Bell.
Sometimes it is hung on a wall - sometimes it simply sits on a counter. But it is there. A reminder that this too, shall pass. A reminder that there is an end - whatever that end might be.
I’m nearing the end of my treatment. This cancer thing has been a bit of an errant jaunt in my life to say the least. It started with my diagnosis in January. Pancreatic cancer. Stage three. Consultations, tests, surgery. I’ve been poked and prodded more times than I care to mention. Hours spent sitting in chemo labs. And so I’ve had a lot of time to contemplate The Bell. I’ve watched as some eagerly awaited the day when they could ring it out loud with merriment. I’ve watched as some have rushed by it with nary a glance in its direction. And now I find myself with the task of deciding what to do - do I acknowledge its presence? Do I clang it loudly as if to declare victory?
I have an engaged and creative mind. I have been a student of literature longer than I care to remember. I revel in the nuances of language. I am fascinated by the written word. And therein lies the problem.
Let’s start with the idioms. First, there’s “saved by the bell”. Sounds pleasant enough. But if you look at the origins of the phrase it comes from that brutal yet also beautiful sport of boxing. If you’re “saved by the bell” it means that you’ve been pummeled so much that your only way out of the fight is the ringing of the bell. If you’re ‘saved by the bell’ then you’ve most likely had “your bell rung.” Hardly uplifting. Then of course, there’s “setting off alarm bells” - a dire warning of trouble and the need for action. After far too many injections of poisonous drugs, being cooked from the inside out by radioactive waves and taking pellets that carry the stern warning - DO NOT ALLOW NON CANCEROUS PERSONS TOUCH THIS MEDICATION - HANDLE ONLY WITH GLOVES - DISCARD GLOVES USING BIOHAZARD PROTOCOL AFTER USE - I’m not sure there’s any more action I need to take. I mean, geez Louise - or should I say “Hell’s Bells?”
But wait! What about all the positive associations attached to this hollow instrument? Like saying “you’re as sound as a bell” to someone. Well, ever hear of the Liberty Bell? It’s an iconic symbol of American independence. But even that damn thing cracked. And for the British contingent - yes, your Big Ben cracked as well. The first one couldn’t be repaired so they had to build a new one.
Literature offers its own images of The Bell. John Donne’s passage from 1624 Meditation 17 solemnly refers to the funeral bell - and Hemingway used Donne’s line from that very text for arguably one of his best books, For Whom the Bell Tolls - a novel that is rife with cynicism, loss of innocence and questions concerning the value of human life. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Bells” with its repetitive use of the word “bell” mimicking the unstable mind of the poet. Speaking of unstable, Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar also doesn’t exactly conjure feelings of pleasure and delight.
And so, The Bell. Don’t get me wrong. I smile whenever I hear it ring. I understand the glee and feeling of accomplishment. It’s a milestone. I wish them nothing but good health. But I have a particularly devilish form of this blasted cell mutation. The reality is that less than 20% of us make it to five years. So for me it’s a bit different.
All I can think of is the famous line said by Zuzu Bailey in the 1946 Capra classic: It’s a Wonderful Life: “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.” With those words Clarence disappeared - gone out of George Bailey’s life. But here’s the thing. I don’t want to be gone. I ain’t no angel - never have been, never tried to be. And I certainly don’t want my wings.
