There’s always some anxiety before follow-up tests and scans. The “what if” lingers, quiet but persistent. They actually call this “scanxiety.” Last year at this time, I was completing my annual health checkups, which included the usual visits to primary care, dermatology, and neurology specialists. My primary care provider referred me to a lymphoma specialist, who recommended one last PET scan to confirm that, after six years, my lymphoma was entirely gone. And it was, yay! However, an area in my left breast suddenly lit up, which was not a good sign. Further imaging led to biopsies and a diagnosis that changed everything. It ruined Christmas and canceled our sailing plans. Instead of heading to the Bahamas, I found myself back in chemo, not the tropical escape I had dreamed of.
Six months after finishing chemo and radiation for triple-negative breast cancer, I had my first follow-up appointment, which included a cancer antigen blood test, mammogram, and breast MRI.
Walking back into the medical building this year felt heavier than I expected. The sights, the smells, even the sounds of the waiting room all came rushing back. I told myself it was just a checkup, just routine, but my body remembered.
And then the results came in, one by one: normal.
Cancer antigen test – normal.
Mammogram – normal.
MRI – normal.
My oncologist said my surgical outcomes were “very good,” and the mammogram tech complimented my lumpectomy scar, calling it “fantastic,” as if it were a neat little sewing project instead of a reminder of survival. I laughed, and then I exhaled, a real exhale, one that reached all the way down.
It wasn’t just the cancer follow-ups. I also had my annual brain and spine MRI, along with a check-in with my neurologist as part of my MS care. No new lesions found. MS remains stable, with five years of stability, which is an exceptional achievement. My neurologist is pleased with my progress and notes that the diet, physical, and cognitive exercises I’ve been doing are making a real difference. Now, my annual MRI is every two years, a small but meaningful reward for all the effort I’ve invested.
For the first time in a long time, I felt normal. Not the old normal, carefree and untouched, but the new one, stitched together from scans, medications, scars, and lessons learned the hard way. Normal comes with gratitude for small things: a scar that heals beautifully, a body that mostly cooperates, a heart that hasn’t skipped a beat in panic (at least not too often).
There’s still a whisper of fear because follow-ups are never the end, but there’s also a real, tangible relief I can carry for now. Relief that allows me to think about sailing trips again instead of chemo drips. Relief that reminds me how fragile and precious life is, and how lucky I am to still be in it.
Normal doesn’t mean perfect. It doesn’t erase last year’s chaos or the nights spent awake worrying about “what if.” I get to repeat this follow-up every six months for the next three years because my cancer is particularly aggressive and the first three years after treatment are the most likely for recurrence. But it does mean life goes on. And for me, that’s more than enough.
So today, I’ll savor it. The tests are behind me. The results are good. MS is stable. Cancer is in remission. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll let myself dream about the Bahamas again, without chemo in sight, without fear lurking in the corners. Just the wind, the water, and the quiet, beautiful word: normal. Bahamas, here I come!
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