It always begins the same way: the prick of a needle, the scent of latex gloves, and the sight of my blood flowing into plastic tubes. This will be sent for analysis, and my results will be tucked away in a file, awaiting the verdict from my oncologist on whether cancer has made an unwelcome return.
Every six months, this ritual unfolds. Each time, I feel like a sailboat stranded in a windless sea, surrounded by waves, with no land in sight.
Admitting how challenging these check-ups are feels a bit embarrassing. On one hand, I’ve come a long way in the two years since my diagnosis. I feel stronger, braver, and more present. My hair is even making a comeback—I used a hair dryer just the other day! Yet, I also feel more delicate than ever, acutely aware of how precarious life can be, just one phone call away from everything changing.
In the weeks leading up to my appointments, my optimism often takes a backseat to fear. I wrestle with anxiety, but the “what-ifs” loom large. I know firsthand the harrowing reality of chemotherapy. I can still feel the tears streaming down my face as my kids innocently ask, “Why can’t Mommy come too?”
It feels like a bad highlight reel, playing in my mind, with the refrain echoing: What if my cancer is back? What if my cancer is back? What if my cancer is back? It’s an exhausting loop that snuffs out my joy.
Anxiety is a relentless beast. Fear can be paralyzing. I know worrying is a waste of time—focusing on something that may never happen robs us of enjoying the present. I preach this to others, yet when I’m seated in the waiting room with my partner holding my hand, surrounded by others who are suffering, the worry creeps back in. My knee jitters, and I question why the doctor is taking so long. Are they deliberating over my results? Is it bad news that requires a moment to gather themselves before calling me in?
It feels absurd to admit, but it’s true. And it’s real.
To clarify, this isn’t my constant state. I’m generally about 90% free from these crippling thoughts. But when the anxiety strikes, it diminishes me.
My oncologist and the nurse practitioner suspect I might be dealing with a bit of PTSD. They suggested I see a counselor to help manage the stress tied to my biannual check-ups, and I intend to make that call. The irony? I have to return to the very place that makes my stomach twist.
“Your blood work is perfect. You can breathe,” the nurse practitioner reassures me, holding my hand while handing me the counselor’s flyer.
I take a moment to breathe deeply and let it sink in. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. I shut my eyes and silently pray for those in the next room or down the hall—those who might be hearing the words we all dread: “It looks like your cancer is back.” I pray for them and for everyone—men, women, and children—who are waiting and worrying because of cancer.
For now, though, I’m okay. I’m happy.
And in a strange way, I draw a parallel between my battle with cancer and our kitchen remodel. Life can throw us some wild curveballs. At first, you might feel like this:
[Insert Image: Kitchen Before]
Then it seems like this:
[Insert Image: Kitchen in Chaos]
But if you’re willing to be completely dismantled and start anew (yes, cereal from paper bowls and coffee from dusty mugs for weeks), you eventually find yourself here:
[Insert Image: Kitchen After]
You realize that even when everything feels upside down, time still moves forward. Winter melts into spring, and before you know it, you’re watching your partner prepare Thanksgiving dinner, feeling grateful, blessed, and—most importantly—okay.