From Lululemon to Calvin Klein: Lessons From a Fire Alarm and Radiation Therapy
I fumbled to orient myself, caught in the haze of half-sleep. My eyes told me it was a gloomy September morning, and my ears confirmed it with the sound of a torrential downpour. But I couldn’t be sure—not until I found my glasses. I ran my hand across the side table, blindly searching, when I heard Kai, my husky, howling in solidarity with the fire alarm. My brain finally connected the dots: it was almost 7 AM, the lights were out, and the fire alarm was blazing. That meant I needed to act.
As I sat up, disoriented, a sharper reality set in. I felt the port under my right collarbone, a stark reminder that I was still a patient. I had a radiation therapy appointment in just over an hour. Ugh. This new morning routine—hospital visits, early alarms, and chaos—didn’t mix well with my night owl personality. But a chaotic morning was nothing new for me. During my treatment in the summer of 2023, I had learned to cling to small comforts.
My nightly routine was sacred: a hot shower, my Lululemon Hotty Hot shorts (because, really, who has time for separate underwear?), and the softest, most worn-out T-shirts I’d stolen from my husband’s wardrobe. Those rituals were my way of creating normalcy in an otherwise upside-down time.
But there was no time for comfort now. The present moment demanded my attention. I bolted to the bathroom, grabbed my toothbrush and toothpaste, and yanked on the loosest pants I could find. As for underwear? I reached into the drawer and reluctantly pulled out a pair from Old Navy, stretched so thin they should’ve been retired years ago. Perfect. Surely, we’d be back inside in ten minutes, and no one would be the wiser. Surely, this was just a false alarm.
Except it wasn’t. Ten minutes turned into twenty, and the rain turned from mildly inconvenient to biblical. Less than an hour before my appointment, it became clear we weren’t getting back inside. My husband, sister, Kai, and I jumped into the car, soaking wet, and headed toward the I-90. We had to fix the day from here, one soggy step at a time.
For once, I arrived early to my appointment. After a quick stop in the restroom to brush my teeth (thankfully, I’d had the foresight to grab my brush), my favorite nurse called me to the radiation room. She wasn’t alone. A new person in dark blue scrubs stood nearby, looking slightly nervous.
“I’m a student in training,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay in the room to observe.”
I waved her off with a smile. “Sure. Before this therapy, I was a shy girl. Now I flash my butt in front of strangers like it’s my day job. Make yourself comfortable.”
As I lay on the table, fluorescent lights humming above me, a horrifying truth hit me: I was wearing those underwear. The ones so stretched out they were basically a suggestion at this point. They clung to my hips with the determination of a toddler forced to eat broccoli.
Feeling the need to acknowledge my wardrobe failure, I quipped, “Sorry about my withered underwear.”
The nurse smiled politely. “Oh, it’s fine.”
I grinned. “You mean whatever’s left of it?”
As we all chuckled, I made a mental vow: never again. Never again would I allow Old Navy’s clearance rack to betray me in my hour of need. It was time for an upgrade. Black Friday and Prime Day were no longer about electronics—they were sacred underwear holidays. Calvin Klein, here I come.
Cancer has taught me many things—patience, resilience, and how to find humor in the absurd. But one lesson stands out: good underwear is not a luxury. It’s a necessity. Because you never know when life will throw a fire alarm your way—or when your butt will end up center stage.
So here’s my advice: toss the worn-out pairs. Splurge on the good stuff. And if you’re ever caught in a 7 a.m. fire alarm in the pouring rain, at least your underwear won’t let you down. Literally.
