Will My Cancer Come Back?
One thing people don’t talk about when you get diagnosed with cancer is the anxiety-ridden aftermath.
While I may be cancer free, I don’t feel safe. I am terrified it will come back in some way, shape or form. What if I’m too late to catch it?
Every time I feel a swollen lymph node or new symptom, my first response is to prepare for a cancer diagnosis.
“Okay Abbey, if these tests come back positive, prepare for the phone call. You won’t be caught off guard again if a doctor says you have cancer,” I’d think to myself. I prepare for the worst so the blow won’t cause me to go into shock; I can’t go into shock ever again.
“You know, getting thyroid cancer at 22/23 is pretty rare,” my doctor said to me.
Almost every time I see my doctor she says what I have is rare, confusing, unexplainable or sometimes all three. Luckily, she does listen and try her hardest to get to the bottom of it.
I will say, being a regular at your primary to the point where your doctors look out for your messages daily at my age is crazy.
“Anytime I see your name in the messages, I immediately open it,” my nurse practitioner said with a smile and a laugh. “You always keep things interesting, and I have to really think when you come in.”
Over these past few months, I’ve gone to multiple doctors at least once or twice a week. While what I’m dealing with right now isn’t cancer, I’m terrified the cancer will just return with no symptoms. How could I not be?
My primary care team is the same way. We’ve learned to look at the rarer options first rather than a normal diagnosis. If there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that nothing about my health is normal.
I don’t think I’ve had a good week health wise since August. Once the first swollen lymph node popped up, everything crumbled.
Week after week, a new problem formed. Whether it’s mysterious ulcers in the back of my throat, burning face rashes, uncontrollable internal tremors, severe health anxiety, another swollen lymph node, dilated eyes or muscle spasms, it never goes away.
“I’m so hypervigilant of everything happening in my body,” I told my doctor. “I’m so scared I’ll miss something thinking it’s a normal symptom of all of my disabilities.”
She nods with a hint of sadness in her eyes. “There’s not much we can do about that. I’m not surprised, most disabled people who’ve also had cancer deal with this anxiety daily,” she said.
Unlike a normal person, I can’t dismiss my scary, outlandish health concerns. My doctors can’t even say it’s just anxiety and that I’m healthy. I never will be healthy.
It’s been hard to come to accept this new revelation, and this situation has been a main topic in many of my therapy sessions.
I have at least one thought about cancer returning every single day, and there’s nothing I can do to remove that fear. So instead, here I am at 23 always preparing for bad news.
I’ve come to terms with my body, but at the same time, I’m scared. I don’t want to die. But I never know what’s going to happen. How will my body deteriorate next?
When I first got the news that I was cancer free, a weight lifted. The terror didn’t show up until I had my next cancer scare in August.
I remember feeling the bump on my neck as I was getting ready for my first day at my new job. My eyes grew wide and tears began to stream.
I frantically called my mom, praying she could get in touch with my endocrinologist while I was in my first training session.
One of my friends called me that night. “How are you doing? I wanted to check in,” he said.
Immediately, a lump grew in my throat and I choked up. I couldn’t respond clearly; every word I muttered cracked.
“I’m really scared this time,” I said.
From that point on, the anxiety has always been there. I hope nothing comes of it, but I can never be too optimistic.
The thought of this fear gripping onto me for decades is heartbreaking. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.
Being a cancer survivor at a very young age comes with its own type of trauma.
“You’re going to live a happy, long life,” my old ENT said to me as we planned for my thyroidectomy. “This isn’t a death wish.”
“But what if this is only the beginning? I don’t trust this is just the end,” I thought as I nodded, smiling at the doctor.
He left the room without a care in the world, but that’s okay, I had enough worry for the both of us.
That same uneasiness builds inside of me every single day. Will it ever dissipate? Only time will tell.
Sincerely, Abbey