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Overcoming Fear After Conquering Cancer
It always begins the same way: the prick of a needle, the scent of latex gloves, and the sight of my crimson blood flowing into plastic tubes. Those samples will be sent off for analysis, and my results will be stored in a digital vault, awaiting my oncologist’s review to determine if cancer has sneaked back into my life.
Every six months, this ritual unfolds. Each time, I feel like a boat adrift on the ocean, waves crashing against me with no land in sight.
It’s a bit embarrassing to confess just how challenging these checkups are for me. On one hand, I feel like I’ve made significant strides in the two years since my diagnosis. I’ve become stronger, braver, and more in tune with the present moment. My hair is even making a comeback (I used a hair dryer just the other day!). Yet, paradoxically, I often feel more fragile than ever, acutely aware that we all dangle by a thread, just one phone call away from our lives being turned upside down.
As the days leading up to my appointments tick away, my optimistic thoughts often take a backseat to fear. I try to wrestle with it, yet the what-ifs loom large. I know intimately what it feels like to endure cancer. I can still recall the sting of chemotherapy coursing through my veins, and I hear my children asking, “Why can’t Mommy come too?”
It wasn’t long ago, and those memories replay in my mind like a haunting highlight reel of everything that could go wrong. Sometimes, it leaves me breathless. What if my cancer has returned? It’s a relentless cycle of anxiety that drains my sparkle.
Worry is the worst. Fear is the worst. It’s a ridiculous waste of time to fret about something that may never occur. I get it. It makes complete sense. Worrying is counterproductive. It only robs us of the joy that’s available in the moment. I understand this and often remind others of it.
But as I sit in the waiting room, my husband’s hand in mine, surrounded by the palpable suffering of others, I can’t shake off my worries. My knee bounces nervously as I wonder why the doctor is taking so long. Are they reviewing my results? Is it bad enough that they need to brace themselves before seeing me?
I know it sounds crazy, and I dislike even typing it, but it’s real.
Let me clarify: this isn’t a constant feeling. Most of the time, I’m 90% free from such paralyzing thoughts. But when anxiety strikes, I feel small.
My oncologist and the nurse practitioner suggest I may be experiencing a touch of PTSD. They recommend seeking counseling to develop strategies for managing the stress of these six-month checkups. I do plan to call for an appointment, but the irony isn’t lost on me: I have to return to the very place that makes my stomach churn.
“Your blood work is perfect. You can breathe,” the nurse practitioner reassures me, holding my hand as she hands me the counselor’s flyer. I breathe, letting the relief settle deep within. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. I close my eyes and silently pray for the women in the next room, down the hall, or in another hospital entirely—those receiving the news we all dread: “It looks like your cancer is back.” I pray for them and for everyone facing the fears that come with cancer.
But for now, I’m okay. And I’m happy.
In a quirky twist, I can’t help but draw a parallel between my cancer journey and our kitchen remodel. Sometimes life throws curveballs that leave you feeling utterly dismantled, like being reduced to the bare bones of a project. But like any renovation, when you’re willing to start from scratch, you can create something beautiful. Eventually, you find yourself staring at your partner preparing a turkey for Thanksgiving, filled with gratitude and appreciation. Life, even in its chaos, has a way of bringing us back to a place of joy.