“Dear Tumor, the eviction notice was taped to your door weeks ago. You’re squatting now. But I’ve got 9 more blasts of cosmic justice coming for you.”I’ve got nine radiation sessions left. Single digits. Like a countdown to… what exactly? Not the end. Not a cure. Just the end of one chapter where a giant machine points invisible death rays at my skull and everyone pretends that’s totally normal.
By now, I know the drill. The table. The mask. The whirring sound like a microwave making popcorn in hell. Twenty-one zaps down, and somehow I still have enough brain cells left to write this post. Or at least I think I do—if I start repeating myself or talking about raccoons, assume that was the frontal lobe short-circuiting.
People say radiation is cumulative. That’s true. Not just the fatigue or the skin stuff or the weird taste in my mouth that screams “chewed battery,” but emotionally too. Each session is like a tick mark on the wall. Survival math.
And now? Nine zaps to go.
It should feel like progress. And it does—mostly. But there’s something else too. A weird grief? A fear of the routine ending? Radiation sucks, but it’s also been something. A rhythm. A purpose. An enemy you can name and schedule around. When it’s done, what fills that space?
Nine zaps. Then I ring a bell I never asked to ring. Then I keep going.
Because that’s what this is. Not the end. Just the next unknown.
Let’s go, Zap 22. I’m ready.
Thank you for stopping by!
~Bruce
Tumor Has It 
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