Clock Watcher

My follow-up scans are next week.

My follow-up scans are next week and I’m nervous.

My follow-up scans are next week and I’m scared that they’ll show something.

My follow-up scans are next week and I’m scared that the cancer is back, and I ‘ve been feeling so good, and now I’ll have to go through chemo and surgery again.

My follow-up scans are next week and I’m scared that they won’t show anything, but that it will still be there, and they’ll miss it, and the cancer will metastasize, and then it will be too late.

I can feel every hour tick closer until I’m on a table again, arm up over my head, craning my neck to try and read the ultrasound (re: ask the technician, what’s that? over and over again).

My type of cancer has a high rate of recurrence within the first three years after treatment. The thought of recurrence takes my breath away. I think that’s because I know it’s possible. Cancer completely rips away that sense of invincibility that most of us seem to be born with. It can happen to me. I am no more special than the next person. That’s what I think now.

The construct of time feels different to me now. It feels like sand running through my fingertips. Sometimes I look around and can’t figure out why everyone else doesn’t feel the same sense of urgency.

During the hardest days of chemo, I began making plans for post-treatment life: glamping with my husband; renting a beach house with my family; hiking the Grand Canyon. My best friend and I floated the idea of taking a group trip to Ireland with our closest friends in two years, when most of us will turn 40. A few weeks ago, the group changed the date to 2026. Five years from now. I immediately felt a sense of panic. “I’ll be dead by then!” I laughed. It could happen.

I don’t mean to say that I walk in fear every day. In fact, whenever I do have those heart-stopping thoughts about recurrence, one of the mantras I repeat to myself is, I will not live in fear. I will not live in fear. I will not live in fear. At the same time, I suppose you could say that I’ve become the doomsday prepper of my own life, only instead of cans of soup, I’m stocking up on experiences. I don’t know another way to deal with this.

I will walk in there next Thursday. I will lay on the table. I will be scared. I will make awkward jokes. And I will watch the clock, again.