"I need a check up from the neck up." -The inimitable Batty Koda
A few years ago, I gave the maid of honor speech at my friend’s wedding. I was so nervous, but I didn’t realize just how nervous I was until it was over. I ran down from the stage, sat back at the table with Joe and my friends, took a swig of my drink, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. I could actually feel the adrenaline draining away and my body relaxing, leaving me feeling like my limbs were made of rubber.
That was nothing compared to how I felt last week at the doctor.
When I had my first CT scan after treatment, I got so nervous that a few days beforehand I reached Stress Nirvana, a stage of unenlightenment where you’re so stressed that you no longer feel it. Something similar happened this time, but it didn’t feel like Stress Nirvana. It felt calmer than that. I was still worried (how could you not be?) but it didn’t seem to get in the way as much as it had before. Like I’d finally gotten to the point where I knew that worrying wasn’t going to do anything about it. Whatever was going to happen was already happening.
That lasted up to a point and that point was right before my appointment with the doctor. I’d already had my scans and blood work done, and Joe and I’d even had time for a short walk, but I could feel my anxiety rising from the moment the nurse called my name. It didn’t help that we were put in the same room as last time, when we got what we now refer to as The Bad News. (Joe, under his breath as we walked in: “Noooo this is the bad room.”)
It felt like a bad omen, which didn’t help my anxiety. Or my blood pressure, which was 140/100 when they took it. While we waited for the doctor, I paced, I rambled, and then sat down and told Joe I needed to do some deep breathing. Luckily, I avoided completely hyperventilating and we didn’t have to wait long before Dr. R (my favorite!) soon joined us.
Dr. R asked how we were doing and immediately pulled up my most recent scans, along with my scans from the last time I saw her, so we could compare. She began to explain her findings as she scrolled through the pictures, and even though everything mostly looked like a series of dark and light blobs, even we could see what she saw: which was that the spots on my lung and tongue had both shrunk. I think Joe and I made her repeat it a few times. We’re not used to hearing good news in that room, so I’m not sure we believed it at first.
“Wait,” I thought. “Shouldn’t I be crying and upset? What’s happening?”
My therapist, when I first started seeing her and I told her how much anxiety I felt whenever it was time for a scan or a check up, gave me an exercise to use in situations where my worries started to spiral. When this happens, I imagine the best case scenario and the worst case scenario, knowing that the reality will likely be somewhere in the middle. Then I try to imagine what that might look like. It was working really well, until I got The Bad News. I’d used this exercise a lot before that appointment, but it turned out that the worst case scenario I’d come up with beforehand couldn’t even touch the reality. I was worried that there were now worst case scenarios out there that I couldn’t even imagine, and it scared the shit out of me.
This time? It turned out that I hadn’t imagined the best case scenario accurately either. Before the appointment, my best case scenario was that the cancer had stabilized. After talking with the doctors, my understanding was just that stabilization was the goal. So when we were told that the tumors had actually shrunk, it felt unreal.
It’s probably not that surprising to hear that The Bad News pretty much obliterated any hope I’d built up after treatment ended. I actually didn’t realize how bad I’d been feeling until I got some good news. I knew I hadn’t been doing well, but that day with Dr. R felt a little like I was coming back to myself. Like I was finally emerging from the depression fog that had drifted over me when we’d gotten The Bad News.
I’ve never really identified with the language surrounding cancer patients. Warrior. Survivor. The constant and toxic positivity (sometimes things are just bad, and it’s OK to acknowledge that). People telling me to fight. This has never felt like war to me. A closer reality is that cancer is an invading force, and I have nowhere to run. Or it’s like being stuck in a tornado, out in the open, and all I can do is hold onto something sturdy and try to ride it out.
I’m still riding out that tornado, but now I feel like my shelter is a bit sturdier. The wind has died down a little. And though I can’t really fight a cancer tornado (unfortunately, to my knowledge, it’s impossible to punch a tornado in the face), getting the news last week made me feel a bit like cancer was knocking on the door, but instead of answering, I just looked through the peephole and went about my business.
I’m not a fighter. I’m not an aggressive person and I don’t enjoy conflict. I don’t feel like this is the fight of my life. It’s just something that happened to me. To us. And while it might help some people to think of this as a fight, a war to be won, that doesn’t work for me. I prefer a gentler approach. For me? I’ve listened to what cancer has to offer and I’d like to politely decline. No thanks, cancer. Now please go away, I already have enough of what you’re selling.
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