The radiation sessions began in the first week of January, 2025.

The doctors at Ramaiah Institute of Oncology initiated her on an adjuvant radiation plan, thirty sessions over six weeks. This is called IMRT, a sophisticated therapy that targets the tumour precisely while minimising damage to healthy tissue. 

She would leave early in the morning, her small frame wrapped in a shawl, carrying a worn file of medical papers from months of hospital visits. I accompanied her almost daily. We waited in a sterile, quiet lounge filled with a faint metallic smell typical of radiation centres. She never complained, sitting patiently with her hands folded. 

Each session took only minutes, but the fatigue would follow her home like a shadow. Sometimes she was too weak to stand; her throat burned, swallowing painful again. The skin around her scar darkened, fragile and tender. Yet she always said, “It’s fine. It’s better than surgery.”

The doctors closely monitored her, checking thyroid hormone levels, calcium, and vital signs. She took her medications consistently, following the same routine since her first surgery. By February, she completed all thirty sessions, totalling 60 Grey.  When the last session ended on February 20th, the radiation oncologist smiled and said, “She tolerated the treatment well,” words we had waited for so long. 

They scheduled follow-up visits in March at Ramaiah and ESI hospital. For the first time in years, we left a hospital without another referral slip.

That evening, she sat quietly by the window, light softly illuminating her face. She said little, but when asked how she felt, she replied, “I’m tired, but I’m still here. That’s enough for now.”2025. The doctors at Ramaiah Institute of Oncology started her on an adjuvant radiation plan, thirty sessions in total, spread over six weeks. It was called IMRT, an advanced therapy designed to focus the radiation beams precisely on the tumour area while sparing as much healthy tissue as possible.

She used to leave home early in the morning, her small frame wrapped in a shawl, carrying a file full of medical papers that had started to look worn around the edges from months of travel between hospitals. I went with her almost every day. We’d sit in the waiting hall, sterile, quiet, full of that faint metallic smell that lingers in radiation centres. She never complained. She just sat there, patient, calm, her hands folded in her lap.

Each session lasted only a few minutes, but the fatigue would follow her home like a shadow. Some days she’d be too weak to stand. Her throat burned. Swallowing became painful again. The area around her scar darkened, the skin fragile and tender. Yet she always said the same thing: “It’s fine. It’s better than surgery.”

The doctors monitored her closely, checking her thyroid hormone levels, calcium, and vital signs. She took her medications religiously, the same rhythm she had followed since her first surgery. By February, she completed all thirty fractions,m 60 Grey in total. When the final session ended on February 20th, 2025, the radiation oncologist smiled and said the words we had waited so long to hear: “She tolerated the treatment well.”

They told us to return in March for follow-up at both Ramaiah and the ESI hospital. For the first time in years, we walked out of a hospital without another referral slip in hand.

That night, she sat quietly in her chair by the window, the light falling softly on her face. She didn’t say much. But when I asked her how she felt, she said something I’ll never forget:  “I’m tired, but I’m still here. That’s enough for now.”