There’s a word that floats around cancer circles — scanxiety.
It sounds almost silly at first, like something you’d read on a bumper sticker. But when you live it, you know it’s anything but silly.
The Night Before
Scanxiety is the knot in my stomach the night before a scan. It’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every symptom, every ache, every breath, wondering what’s growing inside me without my permission.
The Hospital
It’s the drive to the hospital, where the world outside is doing normal things — people stopping for coffee, rushing to work, laughing at a podcast — while I’m rehearsing how I’ll handle bad news, trying to breathe like a person who isn’t on fire inside.
It’s the machine itself: the cold table, the IV prick, the way the nurse says, “just hold still.” I want to scream that my whole life has been on hold since this started.
The Waiting
But the worst part? It isn’t the scan. It’s the waiting.
🕒 “Scanxiety isn’t the scan itself — it’s the waiting for what comes next.”
Results trickle in, sometimes at odd hours. A notification dings on my phone, and suddenly I’m holding my breath, fingers trembling as I open the patient portal. Words I barely understand — “lesion,” “progression,” “stable” — become the jury on my future.
And then, even if something looks terrifying, I still have to wait for a doctor to explain it. To confirm or deny whether my entire life is about to change again.
The Truth About Scanxiety
Scanxiety is a second illness. It eats at your peace, your sleep, your ability to just be. And the cruelest part is, it never really ends. There’s always another scan on the calendar, another countdown, another round of waiting.
But here’s what I remind myself: these scans, as much as they terrify me, are also what keep me here. They are the reason I can keep fighting. They give my doctors the chance to see what my body isn’t telling me out loud. They’re the uncomfortable bridge between the life I’m scared of losing and the one I’m still fighting to live.
If You’re Waiting Too
So if you’ve ever sat in that waiting room, heart racing, mind spiraling — I see you. You’re not dramatic. You’re not weak. You’re carrying a weight only people in this world truly understand.
And if you’re reading this while waiting for your own results: you’re not alone in the in-between. I’m right here with you, holding my breath too.
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