Scan Anxiety

January 28, 2026

Since my last post, much of my medical world has been surprisingly quiet. In this season, quiet feels like a gift. My weeks have settled into a steady rhythm. I receive a few liters of fluid through my PICC line each week, a gentle reminder that healing is still very much an active process. My care team has given me a simple prescription: rest, drink, eat. No heroics. No pushing. Just allowing my body the time and space to do what it knows how to do.

Last week brought a different kind of medicine. My dad came up on Wednesday, and Ethan joined him the following day. Together, they tackled what can only be described as the full Grand New York Tour. The 9/11 Memorial. Ellis Island. A cruise around Miss Liberty. The observation deck at the Empire State Building. The next day was spent wandering the halls of the Natural History Museum. By the end of it all, I am fairly certain my dad was running on fumes, but he carried on with that quiet determination dads seem to summon without complaint. Having him here meant more than I can easily explain. Having my family woven into my healing feels grounding, stabilizing, and necessary.

Ethan headed home by train just before the snow hit the city. Maria crossed paths with him at Moynihan Station, and the two of them shared a few moments together before his train pulled away. Dad ended up snowed in until Tuesday. His plans were delayed, but his patience never wavered. The trip home took longer than expected, but he made it back safely, which was all that mattered.

The snow softened New York for a few days. The city grew quiet. Streets emptied. Sounds dulled. It felt as though the city itself took a deep breath. That pause did not last long. The noise returned quickly, along with one lane of traffic in most places, honking horns, raised voices, and the familiar rhythm of controlled chaos. New York does not stay quiet for long, but I appreciated the stillness while it lasted.

What has not quieted is scan anxiety. There is no clean language for it, no tidy metaphor that fully captures the way it settles into my body. It arrives before every scan, uninvited and persistent, tightening my chest and filling the space between thoughts. I understand what these scans are meant to be. They are checkpoints. They are data. They are tools that help measure progress and guide decisions. They are not verdicts. Knowing that does little to soften their impact.

In the hours leading up to a scan, my mind runs ahead of me. It rehearses conversations that have not happened yet and imagines outcomes I cannot control. Every ache feels louder. Every unfamiliar sensation becomes suspect. My body and imagination seem to conspire against my better judgment. I remind myself that fear is not intuition and that anxiety is not prophecy, but those truths feel fragile when you are lying still inside a machine that demands silence and patience.

I live with this unease for a day or two at a time, carrying it quietly until I can sit across from my oncologist and hear the words that bring clarity. Until then, I exist in a narrow in between space. Healing is happening, yet I am unsure how it will be measured this time. Hope and anxiety coexist here, neither canceling the other out, both insisting on being acknowledged.

I have 17 vials of blood today, six for my normal labs, 11 for the study. I didn't pass out. Yeah for team Cooper.

I just received my infusion of the radioactive particle that will be used to trace any evidence of cancer, in me, when the PET scan hits me in about 30 minutes. I also finished my yummy contrast drink. It isn't really yummy but I try to fool myself into thinking it is, so I can get it to go down easier. A straw is key to drinking this vile concoction.

Tomorrow is a big day. It may give us a date or at least a direction for returning home and beginning the slow process of rebuilding something that resembles normal life. I know that normal will never look exactly like it used to. It cannot. I will need to eat better. I will need to sleep more and rest intentionally. I will need to drink less. Healing is no longer passive. It is an investment, and I want to make it wisely.

My thoughts keep drifting south toward Northern Virginia. I miss the simplicity of it. The parks tucked into neighborhoods. The trails that lead to unexpected waterfalls. The quiet company of birds and rustling leaves. I truly believe a night in a tent would do something essential for my soul. Cold air, thin walls, and morning light filtering through the trees feel restorative in ways I cannot fully explain. Fresh air reminds me who I am. It fills me with a happiness that feels clean and uncomplicated.

For now, I wait. I rest. I consume food and liquids. I trust the process, even when anxiety and hope occupy the same space, neither willing to leave.