It’s that time of my life which coincides with a stinkin’ CT scan. As much as I have been emptying the storage locker of my unconscious mind of all the false beliefs I hold in there, apparently I have been replacing those thoughts with another type of fear.
I know I’m not clairvoyant but I subconsciously allow myself to believe I am.
I don’t fear doctors—especially my Primary Torturer. I know exactly what she is going to say because I don’t always comply with her instructions. Last week, prior to my annual tune up, I was as nervous as I was when I was a young girl and taught myself— just don’t think about it because it is a miniscule moment in the scope of life. That repetitive thought has always served me well before a doctor’s appointment—until last week.
CT scans without contrast dye are no biggie. They take only a few moments and I’m out of there. Prior to the one I had yesterday, my fear snuck up on me and stirred up a swirl of anxiety. The panic attack kind. The kind that makes my body feel as if a couple of elephants used me as their kick ball.
I’m guessing that all of this is due to a diagnostic report I was recently searching for, worried that a procedure I had 10 years ago may have caused cancer. I didn’t have the procedure that is causing trouble for some women, but I did come across the pathology report from my cancer surgery four years ago.
Along with all the medical language that the surgeon thoroughly explained to me and assuring me that my prognosis was great, I wrote 67% at 5 years on my copy of the report. Most likely I just had to have numbers from the doctor. I told myself, knowledge is power.
Yes that’s over half of the survivors at the 5-year mark, but I keep thinking of the poor souls included in the 33% who face a recurrence.
I strive to ignore that figure, to believe I’m cured, that I’m one of the lucky ones and I don’t even come close to that figure.
Consciously, I do this.
I know my anxiety is understandable. I can’t imagine a person who survived cancer not being anxious before the results are revealed with each scan. I don’t expect that I will have zero anxiety. I just don’t want the kind that makes me ill and puts a dent in the progress I’ve made to overcome all the regular anxiety issues.
Subconsciously I have that little Hagatha whispering in my ear, convincing me I’m a fool. She’s in my mind dredging up a ton of past regrets and I’m tired of fighting her nastiness.
You are strong.
I tell myself that continually. I hear it continually. I doubt it continually.
You’ll be fine.
I tell myself that continually but, will I be fine?
I did that when it was believed my nodule was a benign annoyance. Positive thinking doesn’t cure all. After all, we didn’t win the mega-lottery either.
The best statement I tell myself comes from Dr. Chill— “Right now, at this very moment, I know I’m fine. I’m healthy unless some new evidence manifests. I will deal with that IF it comes”.
My negative, fear driven thoughts are louder than Dr. Chill’s words. My own affirmations are weak against the fear.
The words spoken by others of my courage, the it will all be fines, the don’t worries—go right through my mind.
I have knowledge, and it’s not helping.