I’ve got my ‘every six months’ checkup going on to see if the cancer they killed in me a few years back is still dead. I had it twice – between two of the checkups it came back – so I don’t – shall we say, ‘count my chickens before they hatch’.
As a result, these checkups are generally preceded by two weeks of anxiety that builds and builds and builds until I get the results back.
I mentioned to a fellow at work that it was happening, and he said, “So, you must be used to it by now.”
I thought about that for a moment, and then realized that it’s not something you “get” used to…
I tried to find a way to explain it – and finally told him this:
“It’s like every six months, someone holds a gun to your head, and they slowly squeeze the trigger. You can hear the springs in the gun compressing, you feel the muzzle shake a little as their muscles quiver, and you tense up, anticipating the explosion. Adrenaline pours through your body. You try to keep from shaking, from crying, because the gun exploded twice before, and you don’t want to go through that again.
This time, there’s a loud “click” of the hammer slamming down on an empty chamber. Just that sound explodes in your ears. Every muscle in your body jolts tight as the sound echoes – then rings away.
No bullet this time.
Good.
But it takes awhile to recover.
And no… you don’t ever get used to it.
28 comments
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February 8, 2011 at 11:41 am
Craig Stockton
Tom, great analogy!
I haven’t had a recurrence of my bladder cancer, but I can sympathies with your description. The anticipation of the results can build anxiety, and though, as believers, we know to take those anxieties to Him and enter into his peace, it can be a struggle. The relief always brings me to a place of gratitude, and then I ask myself, “why wan’t I grateful before the results?”
Thanks for sharing your thoughts, Tom. God Bless!
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March 7, 2013 at 10:16 pm
J. Parker
Sounds like our mind frame when every 6 months we go to have my husband’s PSA’s measured. We’ve already been through an operation and then radiation 2 years later. We try to keep it at a distance, but last time the doctor appeared shaken to see it’s coming up again a little. It got our neighbor this year. No one should ever expect you to get used to this.
Best wishes.
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March 8, 2013 at 8:12 am
tomroush
The thing that gets me on this is that it’s not just the person who’s actually going through the battle, but the person going through it with them who experiences it. I’ve been mulling over a story about the difference between what it’s like to be inside a burning building, trying to get out, versus being stuck outside the burning building, trying to help someone inside, but only being able to call out encouragement to them. Which is harder? I’ll have to do a lot of pondering on that one. I want to get the story out there, but also want to write it in such a way that someone who hasn’t gone through this will understand how hard it is on both sides, and how important that person’s support system is, as it is the support system someone has that can often be the deciding factor in how they do. Thank you for reading – and for commenting. I hope and pray the best for you and your husband. Write back when you can – let me know how you’re doing. Don’t forget to take care of yourself in all of this.
Tom
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March 8, 2013 at 10:09 am
elle
That example alone brings it on home. I’m a cancer patient and have been caregiver for both parents…and some friends. I “get” it, but it’s very hard to explain. For instance, as a patient, I sometimes, many times, feel very alone, even though surrounded by family and friends willing to “help” me. Here’s the rub: you’re alone getting the tests, you’re alone getting scans…you’re alone getting the treatment….you know they’re out in the waiting room (or sometimes sitting right near you) and they’ll be there with a hug or kind word or reassurance, but it’s lonely. It’s lonely for them, too..wondering what’s going on, what to say, what not to say….
I’m no writer, but I’m a reader..so here’s a little shove for you to get your thoughts together and get them down. I hope you do.
elle
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March 8, 2013 at 8:33 pm
tomroush
Hey Elle,
You’re right… When it’s you going through it, it is challenging in the best of times. Just your comment brings me to a story that I need to write – about how someone helped me – in that way that goes so far beyond asking the question, “Let me know what I can do to help.” – you’re reminding me that there are people out there still going through the scarier parts of this, and I keep remembering that the healing part of this – however it happens, is not just physical. I remember coming back to work after going through it – and finding it SO hard to care about the work I was doing. Someone in the company (fairly high up, in HR) agreed with me, and said, “We’re not running around with coolers full of kidneys here…” – and it’s… going back to work afterwards, it’s like you look the same, you talk the same, and yet, you’re most certainly not the same. It’s like you’re a soldier, coming back home from “the war” – and people ask you how you’re doing, and what you’ve seen, and you realize that you yourself can hardly fathom the things you’ve been through, much less explain in ways that people can understand, and others simply can’t comprehend it. You were sick. Now you’re better. And there is a blessing to that… Really. You were sick. Now you’re better. Doesn’t mean you won’t get sick again. Doesn’t mean life will go on like it did before all this happened. But you’ve had a lesson (as have I) in how preciously short life is, and maybe not how to make each day count, but that lesson to make each day count is being hammered home. We’re not guaranteed tomorrow. Heck, we’re not guaranteed our next breath. Gosh, just writing this has me remembering so many more stories to write. Here… I give you official permission to pester me to do that. K? Write me back in a couple of weeks to see how I’m doing with the stories, and the lessons I learned through it all (and am still learning). The thing is, so often, I don’t understand why all this is happening, so I spend time writing about it, and in doing so, explaining it to myself (and sometimes others). I can be honest and say I don’t understand it all, and like it or not, don’t have all the answers. It’s been a series of lessons that are almost peeled back like an onion… Layer by layer, you get closer to the center, sometimes you find lessons, sometimes you find laughter, and often, as with any onion, you find yourself wiping away tears.
Thank you for writing – you’ve made me do a lot of thinking. Take care of yourself, don’t forget to do that. Do something for you. Something simple, just do something to enjoy the day. Let me know that you did it. (I’m learning that from a friend of mine who told me once to go have fun one weekend, and to take pictures to show her. A story came out of it. So I’ll pass along that lesson. Do something. Take pictures. Make memories. And remember to live. Really.
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March 8, 2013 at 7:27 am
feistybluegecko
Absolutely! So true and so well described.I wish you many empty chambers to come, and wish it could be less stressful. I am looking down the barrel at the moment – next round of checks in 2 weeks. Thank you for reassuring me that I am not alone. Best wishes.
Philippa (aka Feisty Blue Gecko)
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March 8, 2013 at 8:02 am
tomroush
Many empty chambers to come. I like that. Thank you very much.
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March 8, 2013 at 2:31 pm
bethgainer
You hit it spot-on. The gun analogy is perfect. I’ve “survived” breast cancer and have had many guns pointed to my head. One can never get used to it. Ever. Excellent post.
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March 8, 2013 at 8:40 pm
tomroush
Thank you for writing, Beth. I very much appreciate it. The analogy seemed so… so appropriate. I hope you’re well, or as well as you can be, now. Tomorrow – Do something fun. Take a look at what I told Elle – and do the same… Go out and make tomorrow count. Do something fun. It doesn’t have to be big, or expensive, or extravagant. Just do something for you. Write back and let me know how you’re doing, k? Take care…
Tom
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March 10, 2013 at 1:56 pm
Jim
This is the first time I have read any comments from other cancer survivors. Those of us who have an incurable form of lymphoma, realize it is not a case of will it return, but one of – which time will it be fatal. I am so thankful for the time I have had. It has returned once and like all of you I am anxious each time I have to go for scans. I agree with the feelings of being alone and knowing others care, but I am the one facing the message. This time could bring the end, and I would like to go on. Hopefully the support team in my life will live a long and happy time, and I wish I could be with them. I like many of you hope they find a cure soon, not only for me, but for all of us.
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March 10, 2013 at 2:20 pm
tomroush
I hope so too, Jim… I hope so too…
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March 10, 2013 at 10:09 pm
BlondeAmbition
Tom, this analogy is so spot on it gave me chills. It is so simple, yet it speaks volumes and resonates with *any* person who has received a cancer diagnosis.
I am weeks away from marking my 4th year “NED” from breast cancer (I don’t think I will ever be comfortable with the term ‘survivor’ as I feel it challenges fate and I don’t like the implications for those who lost their lives to this horrible disease). That said, I’m facing my upcoming six month check ups with mixed emotions. Gratitude that I’m (finally) feeling some distance from that dark day that I heard “you have cancer” and learning to co-exist more peacefully with the accompanying uncertainty, but also sorrow for several friends that have had recurrences and others that have passed away.
Thank you for articulating this phenomenon so vividly. I look forward to reading your future posts.
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March 11, 2013 at 12:50 pm
tomroush
Thanks for writing. It gave me chills, too, as I was writing. I tried to find some thing, some way, to describe the terror that you go through when this happens… It wasn’t fun to write, but I’m glad the message gets across.
Do us a favor. Write me back when you get your news, one way or the other. You can just re-comment on this story here, or reply to this comment. If you don’t want me to share it – please let me know. I will respect your privacy on that – but at least we can support each other on the journey.
Take care,
Tom
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March 11, 2013 at 11:22 pm
BlondeAmbition
Thanks, Tom. I absolutely will. This piece was RT’d quite a bit on Twitter today and shared on the #BCSM chat tonight. Wishing you all the best on your upcoming tests as well. I’m glad I found your blog. : )
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March 12, 2013 at 1:45 pm
tomroush
Yeah, I’m kind of stunned at how much it was bounced around this weekend. Xeni from boingboing had tweeted that she was going through this – I got that tweet from a friend, recognized what she was talking about, and sent her the story… And the blog exploded (so to speak). It reminded me how many people are still going through this – how many people put on masks every day and put on the smile that tries to cover up how we’re really feeling (I wrote about that one here – about a place where I could take off that mask. Take care, be bold, have courage. (and write back) 🙂
Tom
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August 28, 2013 at 4:07 am
Point and click | sunrainlilies
[…] Point and click. A really wonderful description of “scanxiety” during the wait before a followup scan. […]
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November 8, 2013 at 3:41 pm
Shenanigans Test and What’s Next
[…] from cancer cells, and the PCR is to create a new baseline post-chemo. It will be another Point and Click moment, but until then — I’m going to rejoice this […]
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December 12, 2013 at 10:23 am
This is what it feels like, every 6 months - Waiting for cancer tests / Cure Diva
[…] I read this on Tom Rouches blog https://tomroush.net/2010/02/03/point-and-click/ […]
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March 4, 2014 at 5:37 am
The Presents of Presence
I understand all too well how you feel. Today I’m going back for a retest b/c my tumor markers are out of normal range. Oh yes, anxiety has me by the scruff of the neck today even though I”m trying desperately to stay positive. Glad you are well.
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May 28, 2014 at 9:16 am
tomroush
how are things going?
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May 28, 2014 at 9:31 am
The Presents of Presence
I am well, thanks for asking. 🙂 It seems it was a lab error which caused the numbers to be so elevated above normal range. A good lesson to myself and a great reminder to continue to enjoy the presents of presence in my life. How about you?
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May 28, 2014 at 7:22 pm
tomroush
Lab errors can be good or bad… glad it was good in this case.
Me? Trying to live each day one at a time. Learn the lessons, and teach others.
🙂
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May 29, 2014 at 3:27 pm
The Presents of Presence
Hey that’s what I’m trying to do too! 🙂 Great minds think alike!
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September 8, 2014 at 10:17 am
Point. Shoot. Click
[…] borrowing the heading from my friend, Tom, famous blog post since he illustrated how I felt in the last few days down to a T. Yes, my result just got […]
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July 5, 2015 at 7:51 pm
Hubba77
Quite poignant, my friend. It’s a bit easier to count my blessings…
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July 5, 2015 at 9:34 pm
tomroush
Thanks very much. I have to tell you, it does give you a new perspective on which things are the important ones. Take care, and do… Do count those blessings. Especially the little ones.
Tom
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February 23, 2016 at 4:52 pm
Scanxiety – Peestrong
[…] read this on Tom Roush’s blog the other day. No clue who Tom is but his description is dead […]
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February 23, 2016 at 8:30 pm
tomroush
It’s a journey… and I hope you never have to experience the explosion… Ever.
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