Scanxiety is exactly the word I’ve needed. Thank you, Xeni. These articles help so, so much.

I waited two long weeks while wondering if I should be researching the surgery or waiting and trying to get on with my life.  Just got the results today: surgery is not called for.  Yeah!

But it looks like I will have ultrasounds for the rest of my life.  Makes me Scanxious.

I despise PET scans,  you know where the medical tech puts on a lead radiation suit, pulls a syringe out of a big lead cylinder, says “man, this stuff is hot”  then injects it in us and says  “sit in this chair for an hour, try not to pee”   an hour later, you lay in a CaT scan like tube, for about an hour, as they measure the radiation dissipating out of your blood.    you know,  to make sure you are not still sick.

ANYHOW,  I like to make the best of it.

first?   by asking what happened to the cat.  I liked the cat scan,  where they pour milk all over you and a cat licks it off?    MUCH more fun than just a generic pet,  I mean,  what if you got a ferret on a bad day???  who knows?

second?  I close my eyes a lot, and remind myself,  I am doing this so I can be here for a few more years.

Third!   I go pee.    screw them,  I cannot hold water for an HOUR,  what are they thinking.

All my best for continued recover, good health, solid humor,   and please, continue your wonderful and amazing adventure of a life.  

:D

It’s that hanging-at-the-top-of-a-rollercoaster sick anticipation thing, not knowing if the track is there at all.  

Thanks to the aggressive radiation treatment, I not only have to be tested periodically for the recurrence of cancer, but also to make sure that they didn’t nuke my thyroid.  (I hate it when that happens.)

There is so much opportunity for anxiety here:  I could worry about one test result or another; I could worry that my constant pain presages something new, rather than the diminishing consequences of previous surgeries; I can fret about the months between appointments before I even get to be tested.

The only thing I have found that works for me is:  Do everything you can–that is, learn, discuss, decide, act.  As for everything else, put it out of your mind. You’ve done what you are able to do, the rest is up to the river.

Best wishes and hang in there…

As for your statment:

It’s more like PTSD.

I think it is important to keep track of your mental health here. It may not just be like PTSD, it could actually be PTSD. PTSD can occur due to the repeated stresses from a life threatening illness. Since you are seeing a cancer shrink, that may be something you want to discuss. If it is PTSD, you will want to get it treated as early as possible. I did a quick search, and PTSD is fairly common for people who are afflicted with cancer.

This is a brave, meaningful and true essay. Thank you.

So, over time, things do smooth out to a new normal and you realize what is important to worry about and what isn’t even a blip on your radar.  

Hang in there. You are doing GREAT so far, and, personally, I’ve been inspired reading every single post you’ve put up, so thank you.

And like others here have said, it does get better.

I was getting quarterly blood draws after 8 months of chemo for leukemia, and every time I got a new draw, milady and I would be anxiously awaiting the results, and if the white count was a teensy bit high or the reds low we’d stress until I talked to my oncologist. (who is just an incredible person. I was very lucky.)

But… that was 8 years ago, and the blood draws are now annual, I’ve learned the blood counts do vary a little bit and it’s been a long time since we’ve freaked over one… but we both are still aware of them.

The biggest difference now is that both of us are a little more aware that every day is a gift, to be appreciated and celebrated. The concept of “killing some time” is a little more foreign than it once was.

Best wishes.

It does get better, though even after the end of the tests, it just turns into generalized health anxiety. After cancer, you can never again have “just a mole”, or “just dry skin” or “just a lump/bruise/bump” or “just a tommy-ache”. Everything is a potential symptom… 

The scanxiety never gets better. However you do learn to accept the lack of control over your lifespan.

The survivor’s burden is that they are forever aware of mortality,  unlike “normal” people who can be thankfully and blissfully in denial. 

My only consolation is that I survived what I feared most and I know I’m strong enough to do it again if I had to. I don’t want to, but I know that I could cope, because I did cope. 

Unfortunately doctors sometimes say things like that. Some “marker” or result changed slightly, but too insignificant to make any medical claims or justifying some action.

Of course, they should explain things like this better, because it is kind of obvious how people will react to “a slight increase in tumor markers”.
Some doctors understand this, some a bit less than desirable. You should always ask a doctor for explanation if you feel puzzled or anxious about the results of a test.

“Luckily” I got this experience of interpreting test results in my still ongoing treatment of keratoconus and secundary glaucoma. Good luck with your treatment!