Dec. 5, 2016
Image by Levi / iStock
It begins with a sharp needle prick, the unmistakable scent of latex gloves, and the sight of my crimson blood flowing into sterile tubes. These samples will be sent off for analysis, and the results will soon find their way into my medical file. My oncologist will examine the report to determine if cancer has made a return.
Every six months, this ritual unfolds. Each time, I feel akin to a sailboat adrift in an endless sea—waves crashing against me, with no glimpse of shore in sight.
It’s somewhat embarrassing to confess how challenging these checkups are for me. On one hand, I recognize how much I’ve grown since my diagnosis two years ago. I feel stronger, braver, and more attuned to the present moment—my hair is even growing back, and I used a hair dryer recently! Yet, on the other hand, I am acutely aware of my fragility, realizing how thin the thread is that holds our lives together, just one phone call away from chaos.
In the weeks leading up to my appointments, fear begins to overshadow my positivity. I try to battle it, but the “what-ifs” loom large. I can still recall the torment of chemotherapy, the tears that fell as my children asked, “Why can’t Mommy come too?”
Those memories replay in my mind, overwhelming me. The anxiety tightens its grip: What if my cancer returns? What if it comes back? It’s an unending loop that drains my joy.
Anxiety is a formidable foe. Fear, too, is a thief of time. I know it’s irrational to dwell on something that may never happen. I remind myself constantly, “Worrying is futile.” Yet, as I sit in the waiting room, my husband’s hand in mine, surrounded by others who share similar struggles, my worries creep in. My knee begins to bounce nervously, and I wonder why the doctor is taking so long. Are they reviewing my results? Is it serious enough that they need a moment to compose themselves before speaking to me?
It sounds absurd, and I hesitate to write it down, but it’s my reality.
Let me be clear; this isn’t how I feel all the time. Most days, I’m free from these suffocating thoughts. However, when anxiety strikes, I feel small and vulnerable.
My oncologist and the nurse practitioner suggested I might be experiencing a form of PTSD. They recommended seeking counseling for strategies to manage the stress that accompanies my six-month check-ins. I plan to make that appointment, even though it means returning to the very place that nauseates me.
“Your blood work is perfect. You can relax now,” the nurse practitioner says, holding my hand and offering me a flyer for the counselor. I take a deep breath, letting the relief wash over me. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. I close my eyes and send a silent prayer for all those waiting—those who may not receive good news today.
For now, I’m okay. And I’m happy.
Oddly enough, I find it’s not too far-fetched to compare my journey with cancer to a kitchen remodel. Life can be unpredictable, throwing challenges our way, and sometimes we find ourselves in complete disarray.
But when we endure the upheaval, we often emerge stronger. Just as a kitchen can go from chaos—eating cereal from paper bowls and drinking coffee from dusty mugs—to a place of warmth and family gatherings, so can we find ourselves grateful for the ordinary moments. The sun rises, winter gives way to spring, and I find joy in my husband carving a turkey for Thanksgiving. I feel thankful, blessed, and at peace.
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In summary, while battling cancer can ignite fear and anxiety, it also teaches resilience and appreciation for life’s simple joys. Embracing both the struggles and triumphs allows us to move beyond fear and find gratitude in our everyday experiences.