Stage Nine: The Quiet Aftermath

The radiation sessions began in the first week of January, 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 tumor 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 centers. 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, her calcium, her vitals. She took her medications religiously, the same rhythm she had followed since her first surgery. By February, she completed all thirty fractions—60 Gray 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, both at Ramaiah and at 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.”