What I Do to Help With Scanxiety

With clear scans after cancer, Jacquline looked forward to spring — her favorite season.

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I am approaching the fifth anniversary of my surprising diagnosis of soft tissue sarcoma in 2020. Here is a journal entry I wrote on Feb. 15, 2022, to highlight my experience at the time.

Anyone familiar with a CT scan — or any of those other pictures of your insides — understands the significance of those words. When awaiting results that can either accelerate or pause your life and plans, that “hold your breath,” takes on a new meaning. Hold off on buying those vacation tickets. Hold off on making a five-year plan. Hold off on planning graduations, weddings and everything in the future. Hold. Your. Breath.
When I’m in the throes of scanxiety… or any anxiety, I think of one of two things that keep me from full-blown panic. With my PET scan in November, I was so worried that I had to ask the tech for some water. One hour. One small tube. Radioactive dye. No ma'am/No sir. It was scary… but he was kind. "Here's some water. You can do this," he said. Kindness — pure kindness. These small gestures matter.
But, back to coping. My first thing: years ago, I realized that most plane accidents occur in the first five minutes (or 300 seconds) of takeoff. That’s five minutes, or counting down from 100, three times. I do it on most flights while thinking “How the hell are we in the air right now?” Or “That plane just took a sharp left,” or “Actually, let me close the window.”

My second technique during scans is to sing the lyrics to the world’s best song, “One Love” by Bob Marley. It’s universal, we’re all connected and the song’s lyrics offer so much hope. Focus on the now, “One Love.” This will be over soon. “One heart.” You’re alive right now. “Let’s get together and feel alright.” Scans, endless pokes and IVs don’t “feel all right.” Nothing about this really does, but the lilting lyrics always calm me down just a little bit.
Hold your breath. One Love. Hold your breath. One Heart. Hold your breath (machine whirring) “Give thanks and praise to the Lord and we will feel alright.” Exhale.
The good news about living your life three months at a time is that everything is urgent but looking at the beginning of the fourth year of this journey, I really do feel “alright.” Tired. Yup. Fatigued. Indeed. New hairstyle (going platinum gray — storm, perhaps). But feeling “alright.” I have a breath to breathe… and that’s enough.
For now, my scans are clear ("Give thanks and praise to the Lord"...whew). Some scarring in my lungs and dealing with some side effects from my maintenance chemo (I can’t remember anything…unfortunate for someone once nicknamed the “human computer…” although this was when computers were much slower).
My favorite season spring is upon us, and I’m so glad that for the first time since 2019, I can enjoy and appreciate this season. I also get to celebrate another birthday. I did not, at my diagnosis, think I would get this far. But these days, I feel… all right (“irie” for those who know).

This story was written and submitted by Jacqueline Greer. The article reflects the views of Greer and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

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