It feels like it wasn’t all that long ago that I had my five-year 3-D mammogram…and here I am with my six-year scan.
I’m writing this prior to the scan and will follow up with the results at the end of this post, but I find it useful to write while I am still experiencing the little uncertainties that come with scans. Like a Schroedinger’s-esque situation, I am both a cancer survivor and a cancer patient right now, since no matter how small a chance that another tumor will be found in my breast, survivor and patient are my only two possible modes of existence.
For this short period of time, I’m both survivor and patient.
For my own sake, I try to release all expectations at this time. I don’t want to relax and tell myself that I’m sure that the scan will be clear, because the drop down from that back into “cancer patient” state would be too fast and steep, so I breath deeply and anticipate nothing. But that’s hard to maintain.
At the same time, just a few weeks after seeing my oncologist who skillfully performed a clinical breast exam and found nothing, it’s very unlikely that a mammogram would bring up anything life-changing for me at this time. In fact, if anything were found, it would be a tumor in its nascent stages that would be much easier to treat than the one I had in 2017. Or so I tell myself.
To be frank, it’s not locating another tumor in the breast that constitutes the scariest scary outcome. No, it’s the not finding a tumor in some other part of the body — perhaps a lone sleeper cell that evaded chemotherapy’s effects and circulated through my body before grabbing onto a vital organ and silently beginning to grow.
That’s the real bad news…but it would not be the news I’d get today.
This brings me back to that situation that all cancer survivors face: accepting that there are no guarantees.
The waiting is the hardest part.
For the next hours before my mammogram I will focus on work, think of nothing to do with cancer and take deep conscious breaths. As I sit in the waiting room I will gently distract myself, submit to the squishing of the scan and hang in the stillness of the present moment until I get my response…and hopefully go on for another year. Maybe.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, I’m back now with the outcome that I was both hoping for and (to be honest) expected: All clear for one more year!
And even though I always play it cool before and during the scan, the difference in my state is really noticible after I get the thumbs-up sign. Those minutes of sitting and waiting for my results [note: as a cancer survivor, I get my answer on the spot, which I really appreciate] are a little uncomfortable — I float, trying to focus on my breathing. But to this day, even when I’m “not expecting bad news”, I cannot shake that tickle of unease.
And that’s just another part of being comfortable with being uncomfortable. Still working on it…
Last week I had a 3-D mammogram. This scan marks a bit over five years since the diagnostic test that indicated I had a solid tumor on the outside of my left breast.
Heading into this appointment, I wasn’t particularly worried. Yes, I admit to having little heartbeat skips over “lumps” in my breast that aren’t really lumps: if you recall, I had felt something before my last oncologist visit; my doctor reassured me it was nothing.
I will never again hear the word “lump” and NOT think of cancer.
And because last August I’d had a chest MRI, a more sensitive scan than even a 3-D mammogram, it was HIGHLY unlikely that there was anything to be found in this mammogram.
But still, after the pictures were taken and the mammography technician left the room to consult with the radiologist, I got that all-too-familiar uneasy feeling.
WHY? I knew that the radiologist wouldn’t find anything. The technician practically said that out loud, since she was aware of my recent MRI.
But still.
I sat alone in the mammography room, breathing, looking at the clock on the wall and simply hovering. My attention was like a butterfly looking for a place to alight. I wasn’t holding my breath…but mentally, I had put the rest of my life on hold when the tech stepped out the door.
It took all of four minutes and the mammographer returned and gave me two thumbs up.
For four minutes, I had no plans for anything outside of the room I was in.
I breathed a sigh even though I had expected the good news. And while I wasn’t “freaking out” waiting for the response, it became apparent to me that I might always feel uneasy during that period of uncertainty.
I didn’t want that. I wanted to be completely unaffected, as if I had never had a bad experience and my heart was calm.
But hovering it was, because there are no guarantees. And as the gears of my life started turning once again, I remembered that there was no going back. All the negatives that have happened have happened and I can’t change that.
Eventually, years from now, my emotions may soften, but in the meantime, I’m just going to have to be okay with hovering for a few minutes.
About five years ago around this time of the year, I had an uneasy feeling.
So, let me back up. The previous August 2016 I had felt a small lump in my left breast. It wasn’t all that different from another lump that I had gone to see my Nurse Practitioner about in late June 2016, and she had put my fears to rest.
Still, she noted that I hadn’t had a mammogram since 2013, so she wrote me an order for one so that I could keep on track with my screenings.
But I dragged my feet on the mammogram. And when the August lump appeared, I decided to wait until it disappeared–you know, like they always did–before setting up the appointment. Because going into a screening knowing that I had a lump seemed terrifying.
You can’t hide from your fears, but that didn’t stop me from trying.
It didn’t disappear. I kept feeling it, pressing it to see how squishy it was, did it move about, was it getting bigger. And all the time, wondering how long it would last. It was hanging around longer than I expected.
But I still waited because I was afraid. I didn’t want to go to the mammogram and have the technician look concerned. Maybe she’d call the doctor in and the doctor would look concerned. Maybe they’d suggest more tests.
I *knew* it was nothing because it had to be nothing, but I didn’t want to risk having the medical professionals think it was something because that would be terrifying to me when I really knew that it was nothing. I didn’t want to experience that fear needlessly. I was afraid of being afraid.
So I waited until around this time of the year in 2017, when, after talking with my mom, we both agreed that getting the lump checked out would relieve my building anxiety. I imagined a pleasant conversation with the Nurse Practitioner as she would say, “Don’t worry, it’s nothing.”
Except that’s not what my NP said. Her expression went from friendly-smiley to concern, and she told me that I needed to get that mammogram done as soon as possible. All that fear that I’d tried to avoid by not getting the screening suddenly hit me at once. As the NP left the examination room, she admonished me to not put the mammogram off.
The order that I got read, “Mammography and Diagnostic Screening”. The left breast on the picture on the sheet was circled. I think. To be honest, I don’t remember much more than that. To an outsider, I was just going to have a suspicious lump checked out. But inside me, there was a tornado of anxiety whipping around unchecked.
I know I know I know…but at that time, the fear of what might be overpowered common sense. So I waited.
I had waited six months simply to avoid fear. I was so afraid of the fear that I was willing to risk my life–even though I hadn’t see it that way. The overwhelming need to not experience fear trumped everything else because it was so horrible that I couldn’t seen past it. Nothing else mattered.
Believe it or not, I didn’t realize that I had been suffering from severe anxiety for a number of years. It was always bubbling right by the surface, occasionally boiling over, but never sufficiently dealt with. It had built up throughout my life through an unfortunate series of events and I had become worse and worse at shaking it, but the two years prior to my diagnosis brought some of the longest bouts of chronic anxiety and feelings of worthlessness.
And all that fear that I had, that reason for not getting the lump checked out, that fear that almost cost me my life? Cancer was what forced me to face it. The most feared disease that I could have imagined ironically put me on the path to finally dealing with one of the most crippling issues of my adult life.
No, I’m not going to say that I’m thankful for cancer. Because that would be ridiculous. But I can now step back and see the worth of fearful experiences and understand that sometimes it’s the horrible things that push you into the most meaningful personal growth.
This time of the year is stressful for me because it’s the anniversary of my breast cancer diagnosis. That means it’s time for the scans that determine whether I can continue to consider myself “cancer-free”. Scanxiety, anyone?
This week is going to be a doozie, since I have my diagnostic mammogram on Tuesday followed by a cardiologist appointment on Thursday, the latter of which has become, ironically, the major stressor as I try to determine whether I’m suffering from “cardiac anxiety” or an actual arrhythmia (one of the possible side effects of aromatase inhibitors). To top it off, I get my first COVID immunization Friday, which brings its own stressors since I’m a bit “side effects-shy” these days.
Given all this, it’s a good time to talk about what apps I use the most to help calm my anxious mind. I’ve written about quite of few of them in my “Mindfulness Apps I Love” series, but here are the one I keep coming back to (all have generous free offerings; both Calm and Insight Timer have had major upgrades since I originally posted about them):
The app I started my meditation practice with. I use it at least once a day, every day.
Calm This was the first mindfulness app I downloaded and it’s the one I’ve used every.single.day since March 13, 2017. I find the voice behind the app, that of Tamara Leavitt, very soothing. Since I started with it, Calm has added a number of elements featuring voices of celebrities, music, movement, classes, sleep stories, background sounds and other features that I haven’t even used.
What I use most: The curated “Daily Calm” meditations are my do-to first thing in the morning or if I wake up in the middle of the night with troubling thoughts swirling in my head — Tamara’s voice gives me something to focus on and shoos out the scary negative self-talk.
Why I like it: Because all the material is created specifically for the app, I always know what I’m going to get. It’s predictably high quality using a consistent format, and for me, it works. Also, once the meditation is done, the background sound continues and provides a soundtrack for drifting back to sleep or continuing meditation on my own, if that’s what I need. Finally, since this one was my first app and I ended up investing in a lifetime membership, I get access to everything it has to offer. If you’re not ready for such a loyal commitment to this app, you might not have quite as much to choose from.
By far the largest selection of meditations, classes, music and more that I’ve ever seen anywhere. You’ll need time to look through the offerings, but relax, there’s a search function. 🙂
Insight Timer This app offers a large collection of many meditations, music, classes and whatnot by a huge array of teachers. You need to search around because you don’t always know what you’re going to get, but if it’s out there, it’s in this app. I’ve played around with meditations that I might not otherwise just because they were available to try out. And now new, there are live events that include meditations, concerts, even yoga classes that you can join to help maintain a sense of community–so important at a time when so many in-person venues are closed.
What I use the most: I’ve settled on a handful of teachers with voices and styles that I prefer. Often, I use this app at the end of the day, when I’m trying to clear my head and settle into sleep, but it’s also great for any time when I want some guidance for settling down and am looking for variety.
Why I like it: OMG, the selection! Not only is there just about every type of meditation available (secular, sacred, shamanic and so much more–and now the app allows you to filter out the ones that make you, shall we say, “uncomfortable”), but there is a vast array of languages in which to listen. I speak a specific European language from a small Baltic nation, and yep, Insight Timer has a meditation in it. This is really worth looking into and most of everything is available for free–but donations in support of the app and teachers are very welcome.
Unwind has lulled me back to sleep after nighttime wakings with too much swirling in my head. It’s prevented me from throwing myself headlong into anxiety, as I’m reminded that breathwork is a tool to put the breaks on runaway fear.
Unwind This is an app that I recently reviewed here, and as I’ve gotten more into breathwork and vagus nerve relaxation, it has become invaluable to me. The combination of ambiances that you can select from paired with a gentle guiding voices that cues breath inhales, exhales and holds has made this perfect when I don’t want a guided meditation but I do want something to focus on.
What I use the most: Lately I’ve been opting for the “box breathing” pattern (inhale, hold, exhale, hold). It is perfect for calming my mind without straining my breath. I pair that with the “River Under Bridge” background ambiance that is a nice combo of gentle bird sounds with soothing running water.
Why I like it: Unwind has gotten me out of some anxious moments, specifically too-early wakings brought on by a racing heart. Instead of throwing in the towel and deciding that I’m just going to have to start my day at 4:27am, I’ve been able to lull myself back to sleep; again, the spoken breath cues provide guidance but are unobtrusive enough to allow drowsiness to set it. Additionally, Unwind is ideal for those times of my day that I need to eke out some head space and take a break from work pressure. Even a few minutes is enough to get my breath under control.
MyNoise helps me put distance between myself and my fears. It generates the mental space that enables me to step back and observe what’s going on without being pulled into it. And of course, the wide selection of sounds will mask just about anything.
MyNoise I posted about this app in late January. It’s the most recent one that I added, but it is amazing! MyNoise consists of sound generators that you can manipulate to your liking, to create unique and changing background sounds for literally just about any mood or need that you can imagine! In addition to the app, there is a website (mynoise.net) that provides similar generators. Both the app and the site offer so much, but when I’m working on my computer, I’ll usually listen through the website since my eyes do better with the large screen.
What I use the most: I tend to prefer nature sounds with running water or else drones and more meditative music. My daughter, who is also a MyNoise afficionado uses the sound of medieval scribes to create an atmosphere conducive to doing college work remotely.
Why I like it: S P A C E. MyNoise creates space by masking unwanted ambient noises (busy street, noisy neighbors, etc.) and thereby provides breathing room and headspace. I have used this for mental breaks throughout the day, or for times when I feeled overwhelmed and need help staying present. There are no discernable loops in the sounds and because each sound generator is made up of different elements that can be manipulated by sliders, you literally can create a totally custom sound environment. It has to be experienced to be believed and it’s well worth experimenting with.
So, these are the four apps that I’ll be working with a lot this week as I make my way through scans, tests and immunizations. Each app has their own little something to contribute to maintaining my peace and I appreciate the portability of having such effective soothers in my hand, on my phone.
Of course, maybe not funny at the time. File this under, even the best laid plans can be undone.
I had been preparing mentally for my mammogram over the past weeks, and everything was going smoothly. I had a nice mammographer, not overly chatty, very matter of fact. There were video screens on the walls of the mammography room projecting peaceful nature scenes for me to watch as I got squooshed, as if ocean waves would make me forget that my breasts were being clamped in a mechanical vice.
Then, finally, I was done and back in the intimate waiting room. There were only two of us women there (along with my husband, who, since my breast cancer diagnosis, no longer lets me get scans alone). The other woman’s mammographer came out and told her that everything looked good and she was free to go; they’d see her in a year. She happily left.
Several minutes later, my mammographer came out and said something along the lines of, “The doctor is looking at your scans. I’ll bring you to the consultation room so that we don’t have to talk out here.”
Had I not just heard the exchange between the other woman and her technician, I would have been fine. But since I’d heard it, my heart started to pound. My husband and I were led to a cozy little room…with an array of informational pamphlets about biopsies and breast surgeries on a side table, and you can imagine where my mind went.
Forget mindfulness, forget non-attachment, forget letting go of expectations. Forget three years of daily meditation. I was terrified. I tried slowing down my breathing, but it only made me feel like I was being starved of oxygen.
I unloaded all my fears on my husband, who up to that time, was not experiencing the same level of concern.
“I don’t feel good about this. Why did they bring us into this room?”
“They always bring us into a separate room.” He was right, we always went to a consultation room for the results. But the other woman hadn’t.
“Why are all those pamphlets there?” I motioned to the biopsy pamphlets on the table.
“They’re always there.”
“Why did they tell the other woman out in the hall?”
“Maybe because you’re having a 3-D mammogram so there’s more to look at, or maybe because you’re a cancer survivor, and they probably bring all the former cancer patients in…”
Yup, I was having flashbacks.
Yes, he was giving me solid, rational explanations, but I would have none of it. I was in the middle of a “fight or flight” moment and struggling to regain composure, but it was too much.
I simply could not let go of intense feelings. They were too much like what I’d experienced three years earlier, at a time when I so desperately feared bad news. And then got it. It’s difficult to articulate what that feels like to someone who hasn’t experienced it, but if you’ve been there, you know exactly what I mean.
Throughout all of this, however, there was a small, reasonable piece of my brain that was collecting data. I had noted the time when the other woman had received her news (1:20pm), so I would have a better idea of how long this was taking. I sensed the tightening in my muscles and attempted, with difficulty, to release them. I’d been frozen into a block of ice and was trying to chip my way out with a butter knife.
Then at 1:27pm, the radiologist knocked and came in.
In that first fraction of a second that I saw her face, my brain ran a scan of it, and it told me…nothing. I’m betting that doctors are honing their “stone-face” look, so as not to give a clue one way or the other. My radiologist said hi and stretched out her hand, I shook it, and she told me everything looked good.
Just like that.
The rational part of my brain exhaled, but it took hours for my body to shake off the hype. By the evening, I felt like I’d gotten a year’s-long extension on a tenuous lease. So, I thought, I have another twelve months do something useful with my life. Go!
A week later, when I told my oncologist about this mammogram episode, he explained that as a cancer survivor, I get diagnostic mammograms from now on, and those always involve a consultation with the radiologist afterwards.
I had a mammogram last Thursday to ascertain whether or not I was still in remission from breast cancer.
For the record, I still am, although it’s easy to say that like it’s no big deal. Not only is it a huge deal, but getting through last week was more difficult that I anticipated.
One of the basic tenets of mindfulness that I practice, with varying degrees of success, is non-attachment. This is particularly useful when dealing with cancer because the disease involves so many scary things, and as a result, so much wishing that things were different. Of course, the more you agonize over the fact that you’re going through something you desperately don’t want to be going through, the more suffering you experience.
I can personally attest to this.
It would be great if letting go of expectations would be as simple as releasing a paper lantern, but it’s not that easy.
To counter this, I do my best to release expectations of specific outcomes. When it come to scans, every cancer patient wants to hear that tumors are shrinking and every cancer survivor wants to be told that the tumor hasn’t returned. It’s REALLY, REALLY, REALLY hard not to cling to those wants, but the harder you cling, the more painful the separation if things don’t turn out the way you hope, and even if they ultimately do, there’s fear that they might not.
So for the past several weeks, I’ve been practicing letting go. It’s funny that “letting go” is so easy to type out, but so incredibly difficult to accomplish. I’m not good at it when it comes to the things I desperately fear.
To counter my clinginess, I’ve adopted a concept I call, “so far, so good”. That means that up to this point, I’ve been able to handle everything that’s happened to me. This doesn’t mean that it’s been easy or pleasant — in fact, at times it’s been horrible — but somehow I’ve made it through to this point. And tomorrow? I cannot predict what will happen then, but right now I’m still here.
This way, I can feel positive without the burden of hopeful expectations — and the fearful possibility that those expectations will be dashed to smithereens. Of course, all of this sounds great because I’m speaking theoretically. But as we know, that ain’t real life, as I’ll illustrate in my next post…
Around this time of the year, I get uneasy. It’s February, which means it’s time for my mammogram and the determination of whether I’m still in remission from breast cancer. It’s also the month when, in 2017, my life was slammed in a different direction and the best I could do was try to hang on.
February 8, 2017: Doctor’s appointment. After feeling a lump in my breast for six months (SIX MONTHS!!!), I finally met with my general practitioner to have her tell me it was nothing. Except that’s not what she said. Instead, she gave me a referral for a diagnostic mammogram and warned me not to put it off.
My own mammogram is on February 27, 2020. I don’t think I’m going to get bad news, but I just want it over.
February 23, 2017: My mammogram and diagnostic ultrasound. I had not expected that waiting two weeks for a screening would be so horrible, but my anxiety worsened with every day. I also had not expected the radiologist to come in and tell me that I had cancer. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to do that without biopsy results, but he knew what he was looking at. One in eight women is diagnosed with breast cancer at some point in her life, so he’d seen his share. Things spiraled downhill after that.
February 28, 2017: Biopsy. This procedure was anticlimactic in the sense that I knew I had cancer (see above). What I didn’t yet know was how aggressive it was. The procedure itself wasn’t bad but the mammography technicians were unable to get a clear picture of the titanium markers that the radiologist who biopsied me had inserted as surgical guides, so they took over eleven mammogram images on that left breast. The physical squeezing was miserable, but I was being squeezed mentally too. I think they eventually got the image they wanted…or maybe they didn’t. It was all a blur. I didn’t want to remember.
But now it’s three years later and I remember everything too clearly. Every February, I lose my footing on the Earth and hover for a few weeks in limbo, starting from when I make my mammogram appointment.
I’ll have an uneasy feeling until I get the “all clear” from the radiologist, or “I’m so sorry, but…”. On one end of the continuum, there’s glorious relief, on the other, mind-numbing anxiety, and I’m standing here in the middle. Most of my life now is lived in this middle ground and it’s a struggle to release expectations and attachments to how I want things to be. I’m not great at it, but I have the rest of my life to learn to deal. I hope that’s enough time.
Today is my 3-D mammogram, the one that will either confirm that I’m in breast cancer remission or that I’m going to have another rotten year (or more). Two years ago, around this time, I was completely racked with anxiety in preparation for the diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound that would detect my cancer.
I feel placid. Granted, I do self-exams on an almost-weekly basis (it’s a survivor thing) and was checked out by my oncologist early last month, so I know there’s nothing palpable there, although the 3-D mammogram could pick something smaller up. But I’ve also matured in my ability to let go of thoughts that drag my mind away to wild extremes, and instead accept what is happening in the moment.
I admit that I’m holding off on travel and hair expenses until after my mammogram, because if my cancer comes back, the money spent on them would be better put towards treatment. Neither a cross-country flight nor an edgy new haircut would be in the cards for me.
If I could have one superpower, it would be to remain calm in every situation.
Another reason for waiting on making plans? It’s because the agony associated with desperately clinging to the desire to be cancer-free and then having those hopes dashed is excruciating. So for the moment, hanging around in limbo with less emotion invested in an outcome provides more comfort.
I started meditating in an effort to free myself of expectations. Today I am able to make space within myself to hold the possibility of both remission and recurrence, and then to think about neither.
So I sit in a comfy robe as I wait for the radiologist’s assessment, feeling the warmth of the cup of tea in my hand. I am here now, focused on the present instead of potential outcomes. And this is the most peaceful place to be.
Shortly after I wrote the above, the radiologist came in to confirm the good news. Another year, another clean bill of health.
Last year when I got the “all-clear” I was still finishing up treatments. And the news felt like a huge release.
This year, I felt much calmer. Not gonna lie — somewhere inside, try as I might to release all expectations, I still expected to be okay. But I was able to not focus on the outcome of the mammogram and instead go with the flow of the day. This is a first for me, so my ability to maintain that level of calm may be more significant than being cancer-free.
Oh, who am I kidding? Being cancer-free kicks ass!
Several nights ago I woke at 3am, my brain abuzz with images of what had taken place that day. In an effort to divert my attention and fall back to sleep I focused on my breath, but I was so groggy that I couldn’t concentrate effectively.
So instead I imagined a beautiful sunny field with chirping birds and various animals coming by to snuggle with me. It was the epitome of placidity and contentment. A darling fawn nuzzled me. Then a purring lion tenderly rubbed up against me. And attacked me.
Seriously??? This is my self-created fantasy and I can’t manage to keep it positive???
But perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m a few days out from a 3-D mammogram that I’ve managed not to think about because I’ve had such a busy week at work. It will be the first mammogram since completing all my cancer treatments, so it’s kind of a big deal. Somewhere in the back of my mind fears and what-ifs are simmering. It’s scanxiety rearing its ugly head.
People tell me that everything is going to be okay. But how can they say that? This is cancer. There is never a guarantee that everything will be okay. For others to say that to someone who’s been through the full spate of treatments sounds like a brush off. Even when everything is “okay”, it may still not be okay! And sometimes it’s worse.
Sure, Mr. Expectations, you look so cute and peaceful, but if I get too close, you’ll take my head off.
I wrote a letter to myself the evening before my original diagnostic mammogram way back in early 2017, trying to calm myself down because I was an anxious mess. And in that letter I told myself that I’d be able to go back and re-read it after the mammogram and chuckle about how worried I’d been and how everything actually worked out. I tried to reason myself into calm, noting how unlikely it was that I had cancer. That tenuous serenity was blown the next morning by the radiologist who read my scan.
I remember that crushing feeling — it’s what colors my experience right now. I want to believe that everything will be okay, and yet the spectre of possibilities hovers over me ready to potentially ruin my day (and life!). I don’t think that the cancer is back, but I’ve put off making summer travel plan. Just in case.
Gah, is this what the rest of my life will be like? Being fearful of making plans? That’s not a good use of the time I have left on this planet.
Mindfulness as espoused by Jon Kabat-Zinn (drawing heavily on the Buddhist wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh) speaks of non-attachment. Having expectations and being attached to their outcome causes suffering. I can attest to that.
Trying to reason through to an “answer” only increases agony. So I will take deep breaths and stop thinking.
Yes, “scanxiety” is a thing. And I’m already regretting writing about it because it’s bringing home the fact that in a week and a half I have a mammogram coming up. It’ll be the first one since completely finishing my treatment almost a year ago.
You can google the definition of scanxiety, but any cancer survivor can offer their version. Mine is the unease that increases as I get closer to THE scan, the one that will pronounce me cancer-free for another year. Mercifully, I will have an unusually busy week at work which will keep my mind equally busy, and the rest I will have to power through with mindfulness and focus.
The unsettling thing about this is that for a short while, it’s a Schroedinger’s cat kind of situation. Around scan time, I am simultaneously a cancer patient and a cancer survivor. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. It’s altogether unsatisfying.
This mammogram opens the door to the potential of letting cancer back into my life. And I am so.done.with.it. that having to consider what would happen if I had to go through treatment again evokes feelings of hopelessness and frustration. I don’t want to re-experience the steep let down that came with my initial diagnosis, after trying to reason myself into optimism.
Sometimes I play games with myself. Things like, “If I make it to the intersection before the light turns yellow, I don’t have cancer.” This is ridiculous, of course, but I can guarantee you that if I DON’T make it before the light turns, I’m going to be yelling, “Two out of three!”
Scanxiety differs from most life stressors, like a horrible job situation. I’ve had tough jobs with miserable bosses before. I also had the option of quitting. But I can’t say, “Screw this, I’m going to a different universe with better benefits.” I’m here and stuck living out some potentially nasty stuff, and possibly not making it through. That is simply reality and I have to be comfortable with it.
It’s all in how you look at it…
I struggle with the uncertainty that arrives hand-in-hand with scanxiety. Mindfulness teaches us to release expectations, and that is exactly what I’m trying to do. For me, the next week and a half will be a proving ground for how far I’ve come in my mindfulness practice. Perhaps looking at it as a challenge will put a neutral spin on the process of waiting.
No expectations means no anxiety, no let-downs, no shattered hopes and no “dying a thousand deaths” before I’ve even made it to the radiology department. I am not good at this, but I am light-years ahead of where I was two years ago, and I’m going to have to be content in that for the time being.
Frantic Shanti 