Scripture of the day:
Ask and it
will be give to you; seek and ye shall find.
Matthew 7:7
I have recently there is a name for what I feel when I go to yet another check-up. I am always anxious when I got to my oncologist, breast surgeon or my OB-GYN. I'm always afraid they will find something else.
Well it has a name...Scanxiety. The following is taken from a couple of websites that explains it and I wanted to share. The first is the definition. It looks to be considered adult slang and I'm sure was coined by someone that goes through it.
Definitions
scanxiety
the tension which builds
particularly amongst those who have or have had cancer as they move towards
their regular check up scan, hyperscanxiety being the period as they await
results!
Usage: Usage: His scanxiety,
though suppressed, grew as he awaited his next scan in the certain knowledge
that hyperscanxiety would cut in as soon as the scan was over as he awaited the
results!
scanxiety
(Noun) the
feeling of terror and dread that one experiences as they await the results of a
scan, once again faced with the possible return of cancer
Usage: The scanxiety she felt as
she awaited the results of her PET/CT scan was akin to putting her head on a
chopping block.
scanxiety rate
(Adult / Slang)
(Noun) (informal,
among patients) the tension and fear that is felt leading up to the time one
learns the results of a scan
The following I found in my searches and I want to make sure that I give credit where credit is due. I am not the writer of the next article. This was written by Stephanie Gilman and published on her blog.
It then was picked up by the Huffington Post
It is an article worth reading and made me feel a little better. I am not alone.
Stephanie Gilmore
Back in November, before starting my chemo for breast
cancer, I had some scans to get a better idea of what was going on in other
parts of my body. The hope being, of course, that nothing was going on. Just
regular healthy human stuff.
Everything appeared to be okay, except a few small spots lit
up on my lungs. Many strange things can take place in the average human body,
but when you have cancer, everything gets extra attention and is slightly more
suspicious. We weren't sure what these "nodules" were and it is not
such a simple task to simply remove them, when you're dealing with an area like
the lungs. So the plan was to leave them, do chemo, wait a few months until the
chemo had left my body, and do a re-scan to see if there had been any change in
size or quantity.
I was not happy that these spots showed up. But I quickly
fell into my chemo/cancer routine and was so overwhelmed with everything and
feeling so terrible, that my lungs moved to the back of my mind (not
literally... obviously that is impossible. I think.). Then chemo came and went,
radiation began, and I saw that my dreaded follow-up scan appeared in my
hospital schedule.
There is something cancer patients refer to as scanxiety,
which, I'm sure you can guess, is having anxiety about upcoming scans and
results. Over the past several weeks, I have been suffering from a major case
of scanxiety. I have gone through all the scenarios in my head. I have imagined
getting the results, hearing my cancer has spread, hearing I have 1-2 years
left to live if I'm lucky. I've imagined being thrown back into chemo and never
feeling good again for the remainder of whatever time I have left. I thought
about how I would tell everyone, and how I would be destroying the happiness of
so many loved ones in my life.
Because of this scanxiety, I've felt like my life has been
on hold, mentally. I have tried to stop myself from getting excited about any
future plans on the horizon. I have been unwilling to let anyone plan any kind
of party or celebration for me, as I feared that soon enough, I would be
mourning and not celebrating. I have tried to take an interest in everything
going on around me and everyone's daily lives and problems, when inside, I have
constantly been panicked that I am getting closer and closer to the date when
I'm going to be told my life, as I know it, is over.
Thursday, at long last, the day arrived and I had my dreaded
CT scan, in the early hours of the morning. Afterwards, I wondered if this
would be the last "good" day I'd have. The last day of my former
cancer life. I thought maybe I should do something special, in case it was. But
I didn't. I just carried on with my normal life and normal day. I got
groceries. I watched some TV. I went to bed. I said a prayer to whoever might
be listening. Please don't let me die. Not just yet. Thanks.
Today after completing my Herceptin infusion and radiation
treatment, I went home. A couple hours later, I received a phone call from my
oncologist, who knew I was anxious about my CT scan.
"The areas on your lungs look exactly the same as the
first scan. Nothing has changed. If they were cancer, I believe the chemo would
have made them disappear. They are exactly the same. Most likely something that
has been there since your childhood."
So there you have it. No cancer in my lungs. At least not
right now. I am not going to die. At least not today.
After I hung up the phone, I started dancing and jumping
around. Then I fell into my chair and burst into tears, everything that I had
been trying to bury deep down inside suddenly pouring out of me.
It is hard to describe how I'm feeling right now. You really
can't understand until you've walked the walk of cancer and scans and all that
jazz. Living life every day, thinking you're about to be told your illness has
become incurable... that is some pretty crazy stuff for a young woman to have
to think about. For anyone, I suppose. I feel like the heaviest weight
imagineable has been lifted off my shoulders. I feel as though I could just
float away, in a sea of relief.
For the first time since I was diagnosed, I am choosing to
believe that my life could be good again. That I could have years ahead of me.
I don't believe this is a definite. I'm not at that point yet, and don't know
if I ever will be. But I believe it is a possiblity, and that is enough for me
right now. The possibility of life. How exciting.
In one month, I will be on a beach in Jamaica with my
husband. We booked the trip last year, and then had to cancel after my
diagnosis, a couple months before we were scheduled to go. We re-booked it as a
post-radiation/post-chemo trip, in hopes that I would be okay at that point.
That we could celebrate and take a much-needed and
much-deserved break from the daily realities we have been facing for almost a
year. And now it looks as though it is actually going to happen this time. In
one month, I will be okay, and I will be alive. I am going to go to Jamaica and
I am going to swim in the Carribean sea and I am going to be grateful for every
single second that I am there.
I truly believe that no one on Earth is happier than I am
right now at this moment. No one.
And all it took was a bit of cancer. Fancy that.
This post originally appeared on Stephanie's blog at
www.passmeanothercupcake.com
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