So you know there’s this thing called “scanxiety” for cancer survivors. We have routine scans to catch any recurrence early. It is amazing that we have technology to do so. I have to say though, scanxiety is just an intensifying of the general anxiety a cancer survivor lives with, or at least that I do.

When your life is interrupted by cancer, you never really return to how you were before cancer. For someone who had medical anxiety before cancer, that’s quite a thing to say. At an early age, my brain heard about tragedies of people connected to me by one degree or six, and I filed it for options of what my story would be. My brain can create some wild stories as evidenced by my nightly vivid and bizarre dreams. I love being creative and imaginative. The downfall though is letting my mind entertain too much creative license.

I overanalyze every conversation had, every text sent, every potential cosmic sign. If the experience is open-ended, we are off to the races. Heck, even if there has been a definitive answer, that pesky little bugger likes to try to add an epilogue. Mix that with actually having pretty good intuition, things can be exciting or incredibly confusing. Is it my anxious creative brain? Or is it a deep knowing?

When I started asking questions about my symptoms, it wasn’t just Dr. Google that tipped me off. I knew what it could be, and I tried to soothe myself and say it was just my brain going catastrophic. But I knew. I had a deep knowing. When my doctor said post-colonoscopy that he removed something a bit concerning but assured me “if it’s anything, it’s early,” I knew. After surgery, the relief that everyone else seemed to have that the worst of it was behind us didn’t fool me. I knew.

Now, I don’t know. Or at least I hope I don’t know. Scans this time around have shaken me. The first three post-chemo had me nervous, but I also had some confidence that everything was clear. I don’t feel that confidence now. I don’t know if it’s weariness from the world and “what’s one more thing,” or if it’s resignation, or if it’s a mind trick that I haven’t felt physically nervous so then if I’m not nervous enough then that means I’m going to get blindsided. Or maybe it’s the deep knowing.

You know what didn’t help my little creative brain that’s always looking for signs or making deals with God or the universe? One of the words on a daily puzzle last week being “recurrence.” I’ve had so much fun convincing myself that is not a sign!

You know what else doesn’t help? And this is ridiculous. Even though things in the world are terrible, things for my family are good. We don’t feel like we are getting pelted from every direction at the moment. With Colette specifically, I feel hopeful that she is going to get to such a better place by the end of this program. She is starting to figure out school. She is getting good feedback in theatre. She is figuring out how to connect with friends even though she’s at home while they are on campus learning and socializing. Guess what my brain does. It says, “hah! You think she’s well on her way, don’t you? Well your cancer is coming back, so she has no chance now. Your health is going to hold her back again. In school. In relationships. In her own health.” Rude.

So yeah, there’s a general anxiety between scans of just knowing things can change at any moment. Like you know there are trains on the tracks somewhere but they’re not in sight, so you play on the tracks with vigilance. The anxiety around scans time is more like you are on the tracks, and you see the train coming, but you can’t do anything to get out of the way. You just have to close your eyes and hope the train stops.

Here I am writing this at 4:30am the morning after my CT scans, because I am face to face with the train. Is it going to stop?