Chronic scanxiety - an intense form of cyclical anxiety experienced by people with a life-limiting illness whose disease is monitored through regularly scheduled medical imaging.
ONE MONTH BEFORE SCAN
I become more irritable and on-edge than usual (which is already a fair amount). My insomnia starts to resist the various combination of chemicals and activities I use to control it. My appetite, already precarious, begins to dwindle further.
TWO WEEKS BEFORE SCAN
I spend most nights scribbling furiously in my journal, or endlessly re-writing angst-filled blog posts that sit in the "drafts" folder. Sometimes, I can't put the words down. When I need to get them out, I pace my kitchen in the middle of the night, monologuing half-coherently to the universe. Despite running on a few hours of sleep, I wake up easily and can't fall back asleep. I scour the internet for hours, researching my various aches and symptoms "AND lung cancer progression". Shockingly, this does not help me sleep any better.
WEEK OF SCAN
At peak scanxiety, I am constantly dehydrated from random bouts of ugly crying. Whatever doesn't make me sad, makes me angry. I get mean. I struggle to communicate with others. It takes nearly all my cognitive energy to relate, let alone respond in the most superficial way. The simplest decisions become simultaneously insurmountable and pointless. My world has shrunk to one question only: is my treatment still working?
THE DAY OF THE SCAN
It's a familiar process and I'm good at it. I know the best route to the hospitals, where to park, how to pay. No, I don't have any symptoms of COVID. Yes, I know where I'm going. I have my hospital outfit on (elastic waist pants and a tank top, with my ID and phone in the pocket of my hoodie) so that I don't have to change into a gown and the techs have easy access for the IV. It's partially to make life easier for them, and partially because being told "good job!" by the staff at the imaging department is one of my few sources of external validation.
I'm nearly always in a good mood during the procedure. The first time, I even did some fancy eye shadow! Then I left the room and began to sob uncontrollably. Now I know to add an extra 30 minutes to my parking pass for crying time.
1 WEEK AFTER THE SCAN
The radiologist looks at the scan within 24 hours. For reasons that are backwards and patient-traumatizing, I cannot get a copy of their report for two weeks. My personal, life-altering medical information sits on a server unread until someone at the Cancer Agency gets assigned my file and has the time to call me. Sometimes, I get an appointment time in advance. Sometimes, it's someone I've spoken with before. Either way, it's usually within the week. I distract myself with television and drugs.
SCAN RESULTS - SO FAR
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| Arts and crafts help keep me busy! |
2 WEEKS AFTER THE SCAN
I download a copy of the report from the patient portal. I read through, researching the unfamiliar terms as I go. Subpleural fibrosis. Ground glass opacity. Mediastinal clips. Apical fibrotic change. Parametrial varices.
I compare to previous reports, and note the differences. More research - can these be explained by the scans being done on different machines? Different positioning? How well the contrast circulated through my veins? Different radiologists using different terms to refer to the same thing? Different radiologists having different views on what is worth reporting on?
At this point, I usually have my monthly check-in/prescription renewal appointment with the Cancer Agency. I'm supposed to talk about my treatment-related symptoms. But I sneak in questions about my scan, too. I ask them until they placate me back into the land of a somewhat functioning person. The tightness in my chest unwinds and I am filled with gratitude for the beauty of life. I reach out to loved ones, laugh sincerely, eat heartily, cry daintily.
The cycle begins anew.
