The Effects of Scanxiety on ‘Normal’ Life

Being a cancer survivor adds stress to even the most common of experiences; any slight change in habits, health or routine can cause stress otherwise out of proportion to the stressor. When an unusual level of stress is added, that reaction is often magnified.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away — okay, in February 1987, in a gym at a local YMCA — I attended a taekwondo class at the urging of someone I knew. Much to my surprise, I decided I liked it and have trained in taekwondo ever since.

When I was diagnosed with follicular lymphoma (a form of blood cancer considered very treatable, but chronic and incurable) in July 2020, and then began treatment, one of the bits of normality, such as “normal,” during that point of the pandemic, was the taekwondo class I attended regularly. The instructor is a friend of mine, and at the urging of several students, he began holding the class via Zoom, as meeting in person at the gym wasn’t possible. This allowed me to attend, despite the added issues caused by both the COVID shut-downs and the immunosuppression that kept me away from so many other activities; while most people continue to work while being treated for follicular lymphoma, my oncologist was concerned about the then-unknown risks of COVID and placed me on medical leave, so I had very little contact with other people, directly or otherwise.

Once things began to reopen, but before there was a widely available vaccine, the gym reopened, and the instructor required people to wear masks for my benefit, something I greatly appreciated — even though working out with a mask on is hard. Once everyone had been vaccinated for at least a month, the in-class mask mandate was lifted, but by then, it was summer, and the doors to the gym were open. Given that the gym is in a converted mechanics’ bay and has a very large garage door, there was plenty of ventilation. By the time the weather cooled off so much that the doors had to be closed, the greatest risk had passed — and even then, anyone who thought they had been exposed stayed home.

Fast forward to today, and my friend and I are testing for our four-degree black belts in January. This is the highest rank that is actually tested for in our style — higher ranks are awarded rather than being tested for — so there’s a great deal of stress surrounding this. It’s a very physically demanding test, and I’m 20 years older than my friend, who is in his mid-30s. We both train regularly but have added additional training for specific requirements of the test itself that don’t always occur in class. Given that the extra training causes fatigue, and fatigue is one of the symptoms that led to my initial diagnosis, this is yet another stressor.

Added to this is my annual CT scan and subsequent check-up with my oncologist. The sequence goes like this: Jan. 8, CT scan; Jan. 15, oncology appointment; Jan. 25, testing. Objectively, I have no reason to believe that my cancer has returned; subjectively, I’m terrified that it has, that I’ll be told that at this appointment, and the stress will tank my performance at testing. On the one hand, having the testing to think about distracts me from scanxiety — the worry that the scan will show active cancer — but on the other hand, scanxiety is distracting me from testing. Sometimes these two come together to spiral almost uncontrollably — an additional stressor in itself.

No matter what happens, I will deal with it appropriately. But the not-knowing is hard to deal with in the meantime.

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