“Plus, you got through once, you can do it again, dearie,” she said, putting her hand on my knee.
I wasn’t so sure. Plus, I didn’t want to do “it” again.
It turned out the scan was clear, which was a great relief, but it would be just one of many things over the years that would bring back the same terrifying feelings from that day a decade ago when I walked through the doors of a local cancer centre and my life changed forever. Like Kate said, fearful uncertainty is always going to be a part of my “cancery existence.”
But sometimes it can feel like it’s too much to take.
As I have navigated through this uncertainty myself and with others, it’s become clear that while we generally don’t think twice about validating the need to support survivors of the kinds of tragedies we define most readily as trauma — terrorism, war, abuse, for example — the existence of medical trauma is often overlooked as a risk to emotional wellness and the sense of safety, or minimized, both within healthcare systems and social circles. Certainly, it can seem bananas (we know!) listening to the ruminations of someone terrified out of their mind that the mole on their toe is a deadly type of skin cancer, possibly even after they have been told it isn’t. Or dealing with the grumpy anxiety that comes with waiting for followups and rechecks. But surely, as veterans of a scary diagnosis, we get a let, or at the very least, acknowledgment.
