Scanxiety is a Real Thing

Usually, when I’m having trouble sleeping at night, I watch one of my favorite movies in hopes that I doze off while watching it and fall asleep. In this case, I decided to watch “Into the Wild,” where at the end (spoiler alert), he realizes that true happiness is only real when it’s shared with others. Unfortunately, that movie ended an hour and a half ago, and I didn't doze off at all. I am wide awake, and it’s way past midnight now.

But I shouldn’t be surprised. This always seems to happen to me the night before a CT scan. I find myself wide awake, just thinking and thinking and thinking. I lose my concentration. My mood is subdued. I feel nothing strongly right now. All I can do is wait. Scanxiety is a real thing.

The emotional weight of cancer screening days

I dread scan days, but I know they are necessary. No matter how infrequently or how often I get scanned, they always seem to still scare me. It’s like someone mixes a little bit of fear with a little bit of worry, sprinkled with uncertainty and stress, and says, "Here, drink this and call me in the morning."

I mean, what if I get my scan results back and it turns out that I have cancer again? What if they look at me with disappointment and say, "I’m so sorry but, your cancer has returned."? Then my entire world will, in fact, change again. That’s one possibility.

The uncertainty of waiting for a clean scan

The other possibility is that my results will come back with no detection of cancer cells in my body—which would be so nice. "Congratulations, Mark, you have been granted 6 more months of life until we scan you again and give you another sleepless night."

There is always uncertainty about the results until you get the actual results. The only way to determine if the cancer has returned or not is to get scanned. So, in a few more hours—or minutes at this point—I will be lying down flat on the big, cold machine ready for them to scan my body yet again.

What happens during a CT scan procedure

The procedure itself irks me. The waiting in line to check in, the small talk with the nurses, the request for my arm to inject the contrast, the lyying on the cold machine, and then the warm sensation your body feels inside once the contrast starts working. And the noise—you can’t forget about the sound that the machine makes as it moves rapidly while taking images of my body. After this unforgettable process, and after a few days of waiting, then and only then will I know if I have had a relapse or not.

Coping with scanxiety and the racing mind

Scanxiety is real.

Maybe one day I won’t have to scan so often. Maybe one day the scans will stop entirely. Maybe one day I’ll train myself to actually get some sleep before a scan day. Maybe one day I won’t think about it at all. Maybe one day this will all be behind me.

But as for now, I am here with my eyes open and my mind racing as I lie in bed. The sun is slowly rising as I continue looking for distractions to help pass the time. Once I get scanned, that’s it—I’ll go on with my life for a few days until the results arrive. The results will determine which direction I will proceed in. Then I’ll be on my way.

Finding hope while playing the waiting game

The hardest part for me are the moments leading up to the scan because my mind just drifts, hopes, and wonders as I play the waiting game. Waiting sucks when your life is on the line. No one tells you about this thing called scanxiety. Oh, it’s real, alright. It’s real because it’s happening right now to me at this very moment. I really hope my scan goes well and that the cancer doesn’t return. That would be so nice.