Processing

I got out of my oncology appointment a few minutes ago. After reviewing my latest CT scan, the doctor says I’m good for another six months. While this should be a huge sigh of relief, I find myself in emotional turmoil, fighting back tears. Of course I’m thankful that there are no new masses to be concerned with. Yet the fact that I continue to be in the cycle of scan–wait–pray–consult–repeat is wearing on me. Part of me almost wants there to be a finding, simply to eliminate the pressure that builds during the months in between.

There is also an emotional toll that has to be paid each time I go into the cancer center. Everyone who isn’t an employee in that space has either gotten a diagnosis or is accompanying a loved one who has. The telltale orange-and-white striped wristbands indicate a fellow cancer journeyer. We look like a group of VIPs who somehow gained access to a Whataburger festival. No such luck.

By no means am I attempting to speak on behalf of other cancer survivors. In fact, for all I know, my thought process could be completely contrary to others walking through similar stages. Perhaps it’s because I had a less “serious” cancer that I struggle so much. I’ve never had to do chemo or radiation. Surgery is no walk in the park, but compared to others, I’ve had it pretty easy.

When I’m told, “Most recurrences happen within the first two years, so you are looking good,” this should bring relief. Instead, I find myself wondering about the small pool of people who defy the statistical odds and have a recurrence after that time.

Yes, I struggle with skewing pessimistic. Yes, I’m a person of faith who believes in a God who can heal. The cognitive dissonance in my brain is working overtime.

Even if this short post is simply a space for me to process, I suppose that is sufficient. If it happens to help someone else feel a little less alone and crazy in their own journey, even better.

Now, who do I need to talk to about organizing a Whataburger festival?