In many English-speaking countries, it’s a tradition to ring a bell after completing cancer treatment. The bell hangs somewhere in the hospital’s oncology department. They call it the “End of Treatment Bell” or the “Victory Bell.” Of course, I’ve seen tons of videos of people ringing these bells, because my social media algorithms apparently think I absolutely need to see them. Family, friends and hospital staff stand around. All kinds of emotions.

When I first started going to the oncology department, I kept looking around for that bell out of the corner of my eye. Maybe they keep it somewhere special, somewhere ordinary patients aren’t allowed to go, I thought. A bell like no other. I assumed it was just some universal “cancer tradition.” I guess chemo must have damaged a few of my brain cells too. It didn’t take me long to realise that we don’t ring bells in the Czech Republic. We used to jingle our keys. But that was in November 1989.

This morning, I came across a video from abroad discussing what to do about ringing the bell when it comes to patients with stage IV cancer. Because for many of us, treatment doesn’t end with the last chemotherapy session or round of radiation. Can we ring the bell even if we’re moving on to maintenance therapy, hormone therapy, or whatever other treatment you want to add to the list. And what about patients living with terminal cancer? Cancer that can no longer be cured and is in its final stage?

A little side note. Very few people can imagine how I felt when my doctor told me I had stage IV cancer. Because I knew there was no stage V. When I texted someone close to me right afterwards, all he could manage was “Fuck.” Then we read that there was another stage, the terminal stage. “And that’s a big difference,” I pointed out.

Anyway, back to the bell.

Within a short time, more than fifty comments had appeared under the video. Everyone seemed to agree that people should ring the bell whenever they feel the time is right. Whether it’s the end of all treatment, the end of one phase, or simply getting through that horrible nausea that lasted for weeks… I joined the discussion. I’d definitely ring that bell if I had one to ring.

I also liked seeing people from other countries, such as Portugal and Croatia, where they don’t have this tradition either, sharing how they celebrate their own milestones. There are plenty of selfish people in this world, but I also often see people who somehow don’t know how to be kind to themselves. It’s not about the bell. It’s about something much bigger.

Watching videos from the United States, for example, I’ve noticed more than just the bell-ringing, which often turns into a little group celebration. Some patients have family or friends accompanying them to chemotherapy and other hospital appointments. Some dress up as if they’re going to a fashion show, some make videos, others show up in their comfiest clothes, watch movies, chat, play games… They wear matching bracelets, have matching T-shirts printed, bring flowers, send encouraging messages in the morning before treatment, or wait outside the hospital holding signs with words of support.

I was born back when Czechoslovakia still existed. To people of my generation and those before us, that “American way” often seemed, and to some still seems, a bit too much. Too over the top, too much fuss, a bit ridiculous… My mum has a special word for it, but I can’t write that here.

For most of my treatment, I felt like a burden. I still do, to be honest. My family had to take care of me and help with my son as well (although they say they were happy to :-)). I didn’t want to drag them to the hospital on top of everything else. And I couldn’t expect my friends to take time off work just to sit by my bed.

I did have visitors during my hospital stays, though, and I was very grateful for them. But I went to chemotherapy alone. At first, my dad would pick me up towards the end and drive me home because we had no idea how I would handle it. Gradually, I figured out how things worked, and after my last two sessions, I took the tram home by myself.

I met people who would get into their cars after chemo and drive straight to work for their shifts, so my half-hour journey home was nothing in comparison. I just walked slowly. Normally, I can get from the hospital to my place in less than fifteen minutes.

Looking back at those chemotherapy sessions in the hospital, they weren’t that bad. Most of the time, I worked on my laptop, taught Chinese, read a book, watched TV series, and eventually fell asleep towards the end.

But there were moments when I really wished someone was there to cheer me up. Someone to hold my hand, pull a blanket over me. Someone to go through it with me.

So if you have someone in your life you care about, and that person is going through chemotherapy, tests, or any of the other things that come with cancer, or is about to go through them… if you have the time, go with them. Make it time you spend together.

Unless that person is a complete loner who didn’t want to see you for most of the year even when they were healthy, or unless they sleep through the entire infusion, I think they’ll appreciate it.

Maybe they won’t say it out loud.

But for some people, it means a lot.