Courage Doesn’t Always Roar

Scan Day. Waiting room 2.

My second set of scans since D-Day (diagnosis day).

I did all the “right” things leading up to it.

I cleared my calendar to give myself some breathing room.

I talked to a friend.

I talked to God.

I listened to worship music on the drive to my appointment, reminding myself of all the things everyone always reminds me of:

I am never alone.

God’s got this.

It will be fine.

And after all that, when I got to the doctor’s office, I broke down. Full blown panic attack.

I’ve heard it said that scanxiety - or the anxiety that comes with cancer-detecting scans - is not about what might happen; it’s about what did happen. For a survivor, it’s not so much about worrying; it’s about remembering.

Memories that hadn’t surfaced in a long time triggered the flood gates and in an instant I was drowning.

I cried before. I cried during. I cried after.

And guess what? I don’t feel bad about it.

The old me would have told myself I should have somehow tried harder to act like it was no big deal.

I guess that’s one thing cancer gives you: a release valve on the pressure to perform.

I’m done with the toxic positivity that says I’m only successful if I make it through with no reaction. Or act like I’m “over it” when I’m not. This is not something you get over. It’s something you live with, as it changes over time.

Grief doesn’t come with directions. There is no map to get to the other side. No itinerary of how you will feel and when. And while scanxiety is very much about remembering, fear of what might be lurking in those scans is very real, too.

Sometimes having courage means showing up with whatever we have, even if it’s falling apart.

And how does courage (or the lack of it) fit with faith? Does God become deaf to my prayers or blind to my plight because I’m too upset to speak?

Quite the opposite actually.

My weakness is the stage where his power shines all the more brilliantly (2 Corinthians 12:9).

In other words, when I fall down in my grief, His kindness steps up to take my hand.

He’s holding me, my scans, and every thread of my faith unraveled.

The nurse I worked with when I was first diagnosed happened to walk by, recognized me beneath my mask, and sat with me for a moment.

A familiar face in the crowd.

Another nurse watching this unfold quietly ordered the results be given same day.

Very present help.

Which means I only had to wait about 10 minutes to hear those two words I never dreamed would come to mean so much:

All clear.