Fear

My body tenses with anxiety. A sharp pinch in my right breast sparks immediate panic. What is that? I wait, analyzing its intensity, and once the feeling subsides, I am left with an agonizing thought. What if my cancer has returned?

This is the aftermath of cancer.

A cough that lingers long after the symptoms of a cold have vanished stirs my mind with worry. I drift back to my post-op appointment, where my surgeon, Dr. Hu, informed me after my lumpectomy, “I was unable to remove some of the mass because it was too close to your lung, but there are no cancer cells left inside the tissue.” Although I was elated that the cancer cells were gone, I was still left with this “thing” inside me. So now, after another round of coughing, I become silent, listening intently to the quality of my exhale. I inhale deeply to judge how much air I can hold in my lungs. What if that “thing” has grown and spread into lung cancer?

This is the aftermath of cancer.

A muscle strain causes internal conflict. I want to massage the area with my fingers to remedy the pain, but I am simultaneously scared that my fingers might feel something significant below the surface. Something that is hard, defined in shape, and abnormal. After all, it’s how I discovered my cancer the first time around. Even though the incident and “finding” occurred over six years ago, it feels as if I will find another golf ball-sized lump somewhere within my body today. So, I proceed cautiously, pressing softly into the muscle and applying a little pressure while expecting the worst. What if there’s a new tumor growing?

These what-ifs are the aftermath of cancer.

Cancer changed me in many ways—some for the better and others for the worse. One of the things I unfortunately lost and may never get back is my CONFIDENCE. I lost the confidence in my body to protect me from life-threatening illnesses. My confidence has vanished, leaving the ghost of confidence behind as a haunting reminder of what I once had and took for granted.

Pre-cancer, I truly believed I was safe. One grandmother lived into her eighties, while my other grandma reached one hundred years old before passing. I thought living a full life was in my genes as if I was entitled to grow old. I can still remember how I viewed my health pre-cancer: a pinch was a pinch, a cough was just a cough, and a strained muscle was nothing more than what it was.

Repeatedly, I hear the words “time heals,” especially when someone is trying to comfort me in the aftermath. No one really knows if that statement is factual. It certainly is a way to say something meaningful when at a loss for words or a semi-persuasive phrase to provide someone with hope. We can only hope that our memory of a painful situation will diminish over time. That one day we might actually forget how the pain felt altogether. But healing doesn’t necessarily work like that. It’s on its own timeline. We can do our best to overcome it, stifle our thoughts, take deep breaths through the hurt, and shift our focus to something productive and positive, but it’s only temporary. Somehow, when we least expect it, the torment comes rushing back, pounding its strength upon us, leaving behind the same feeling we had previously… that feeling of being terrified.

Cancer doesn’t follow rules and neither does healing.

As someone who loves to dissect words to discover their meanings, I looked up the definition of fear since I undoubtedly have many. Fear is considered an unpleasant emotion that appears when you believe something, or someone, might be dangerous or jeopardize your life. Fear holds power over us. It controls us. It makes us feel insecure and uneasy. It impacts our immune systems. And yet, we must ask ourselves, “If fear is so bad to hold onto, then why don’t we just let it go?”

It’s an excellent question and yet a complicated one. In all honesty, I have turned fear into a companion. In my post-cancer complex way of thinking, I somehow believe that holding onto fear will protect and prepare me for the time when I am faced with a recurrence. I won’t be absolutely crushed by the reality of cancer for the second time if I allow fear to reside in the place where confidence once stood.

It’s a theory—maybe not good or healthy—but still a theory. And yet, I know the impact that fear has on the body. The stress of it causes damage. It can even break down my respiratory, cardiovascular, digestive, and nervous systems. It weakens my body even more, allowing for more opportunities for the disease to reappear. Knowing what I should do and what I actually do is a vicious cycle of guilt; even though it is detrimental, I continue to invite fear to stay.

Why is it easier to quit a job or break up with a partner than to quit or break up with fear?

Although I am incredibly grateful to be on the other side of cancer, it is hard to grasp the idea that my cancer is gone forever. And, of course, I am diligent about getting annual mammograms, doing monthly self-checks, and even having my primary physician perform breast exams when I see her. Every day for the past five years, I’ve swallowed a Tamoxifen pill to help keep me safe from cancer’s return. And even with all these things in place to protect me, I still choose to partner up with fear. Why?

Maybe someday, I can tell another survivor that “time heals” and truly believe it. Maybe my life course will provide proof. And if I am lucky, the confidence in my body’s ability to overcome life-threatening and life-altering diseases will return, and I will have faith in wellness again. I can only wish that my pre-cancer perception of resilience will reunite with my post-cancer one.

If it never does, I must find peace in fear. I will continue to discover ways to diminish its chokehold. Maybe I’ll give kickboxing a try to release some of that fear-intense energy or meditate more often so I can have freedom from the anxiety. Not knowing my future is scary.

But what I also learned from having cancer is that it is important to keep moving forward, even if only baby steps are possible. To get through the tough stuff, you must go through it and process it. And it’s important to always find truth through self-reflection—even if the truth is difficult to accept. There is no doubt that a cancer diagnosis is heavy, but along with the negative ways the disease impacted me, I am proud of who I have become from having it. I am wiser now. I understand that sometimes we can do our best to influence destiny, but destiny is not ours to control. To be in the flow of life is living.

So, with fear as my companion—with or without the confidence I once had—I will continue to find my way. I will trudge on. After all, life, with all its intricacies, is too beautiful to say goodbye to. And no matter what, I will always fight for life.