It always begins the same way: the prick of a needle, the scent of latex gloves, the crimson blood flowing from my arm into sterile tubes. These samples will be sent off for analysis, and my results will be stored in a digital file. My oncologist will review the report and decide if cancer has returned.
This routine occurs every six months, and each time, I feel like a sailboat adrift without wind, surrounded by waves yet unable to see land.
It’s somewhat embarrassing to confess how challenging these check-ups are for me. On one hand, I recognize how far I’ve come since my diagnosis two years ago. I feel stronger, braver, and more present, and my hair is even growing back—I even used a hair dryer recently! But on the other hand, I feel more vulnerable than ever, acutely aware that life can change in an instant, with just one phone call flipping my world upside down.
In the weeks leading up to my appointments, all my positive thoughts seem to fade into the background, giving way to fear. I try to combat it, but the what-ifs loom large. I now know the harsh reality of having cancer. I remember the agony of chemotherapy and the tears I shed while my children asked, “Why can’t Mommy come too?”
Those memories replay in my mind like a broken record, and at times, I find it hard to breathe. What if my cancer has returned? What if my cancer has returned? An endless cycle of anxiety that dims my spirit.
Fear is paralyzing.
I know it’s irrational to worry about something that might never occur. I understand the futility of it—how it steals away the joy of the present moment. I remind others of this wisdom often. Yet, as I sit in the waiting room, my husband clasping my hand, surrounded by others facing their own battles, worry creeps in. My knee begins to bounce nervously as I ponder why the doctor is taking so long. Are they poring over my results? Is it something serious that requires them to compose themselves before speaking to me?
It feels absurd to admit this, but it’s my reality.
To clarify, these feelings don’t consume me all the time—I’m mostly free from such overwhelming thoughts. However, when anxiety strikes, I feel small.
My oncologist and the nurse practitioner suggest it might be a form of PTSD. They recommend I see a counselor for strategies to manage the stress that accompanies my six-month check-ups. I intend to reach out for help, 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 relax,” the nurse practitioner reassures me, holding my hand while she hands me a flyer for the counselor.
I exhale deeply, letting relief wash over me. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer for others—women in the next room, down the hall, or even at another hospital who are receiving the news we all dread: “It seems your cancer has returned.” I pray for them and for everyone impacted by this disease.
But for now, I’m okay. And I’m grateful.
It may seem like a stretch, but I can’t help but draw a parallel between battling cancer and the chaos of a kitchen remodel. Life can throw unexpected challenges your way, leaving you feeling completely dismantled. Yet, just as a home can transform through renovation, you can emerge stronger and more appreciative of life’s simple pleasures.
Even when it seems like normalcy is a distant memory—eating cereal from paper bowls and making do with dusty mugs—the sun rises, seasons change, and you find yourself cherishing moments with loved ones, like watching your partner prepare a Thanksgiving turkey. You realize how blessed you are, and that’s enough.
For those navigating similar experiences, you might find solace in other topics we’ve explored, like this one on preparing for family growth. Also, if you’re interested in fertility resources, this guide offers valuable insights. Additionally, this resource on intrauterine insemination could be helpful for those considering their options for growing their families.