It’s Scan Season
August is upon us. It's my scan season again, and the forecast is all "should" be well. This week alone, I have done my best to comfort two people who were due for their routine scans. When someone says it's scan day in the cancer community, you drop what you are doing and send them all the love, prayers, and healthy vibes you can summon. You cross all your remaining fingers and toes and hope for the best.
I fully believe that scanxiety is unavoidable no matter how brave you are or how long it's been since you had a recurrence. I've made peace with the fact that it's my dark passenger, and I let myself feel afraid without confusing it for weakness. No matter how many times I've been through this, and how many clean scan reports I've received, I WILL try to analyze the imaging tech's facial expressions when they say, "you're all set. I got what I need!" And then I will sit silently in the waiting room, with nothing but my thoughts, manifesting a happy ending to the day with some kind of hand-crafted cocktail adorned with a flower and a cheese-filled meal meant for celebrating, not calorie counting. So many scan days ended this way, but not all of them. That is the reality of being a cancer survivor. We don't have the luxury of forgetting. It's never how you expect it to be. I was in my favorite room at the medical center when I got the worst news ever. It was room number thirteen, my lucky number—the irony.
My new oncologist works at a brand new hospital. The waiting room has big windows that let in plenty of cheerful sunlight. From the lighting to the furniture, it's clear that the space was designed to help patients feel relaxed and comfortable - Two things we will never be on scan day. I don't look at the room numbers anymore because I would rather not have a panic attack in a public space, so I just go with the flow as much as humanly possible and attempt to stroll into whatever room they lead me to casually. Sometimes the nurse will make small talk with me, and I will try to say (thanks, but no thanks with my eyes) The doctor always takes what feels like a century to come into the room (why do they call you in there if he's not ready??) Thankfully, He always gets straight to the point when he walks in.
If all is in fact, well, I will continue my traditional "Go Gators" chant as I walk past his bright blue Tesla in the parking lot on my way out and breathe a sigh of relief. Please send me all the love, prayers, and healthy vibes you can summon. Then cross all your remaining fingers and toes and hope for the best.
