I have a scan scheduled for next month.
I’ve known about it for three months. It’s marked on my calendar. Annual follow-up. Routine surveillance. Just a check to make sure everything’s still clear.
And I’m already nervous. Already playing out scenarios in my head. Already wondering if this is the year they find something.
I’ve been cancer-free for 14 years. Fourteen years of clean scans. Fourteen years of “no evidence of disease.” Fourteen years of my oncologist smiling and saying “see you next year.”
But every single scan, I’m convinced this is the one. This is when they’ll find it. This is when the cancer comes back.
The medical term is “scanxiety.” Scan anxiety. The fear that builds before every imaging appointment. The terror that this time, the news won’t be good.
It doesn’t get easier. Not after one year. Not after five years. Not after fourteen years.
The scans still make me nervous. They always will.
The Week Before
The week before a scan, my brain goes into overdrive.
Every minor symptom becomes evidence. Tired today? Must be cancer. Stomach feels weird? Definitely cancer. Random ache in my back? Cancer spreading to my spine.
I know it’s irrational. I know my body just does weird things sometimes. I’ve lived with this rearranged digestive system for 14 years. I know what normal feels like.
But the brain doesn’t care about logic when a scan is approaching. It finds threats. It catastrophizes. It prepares for the worst.
I lose sleep. I obsess over symptoms. I google things I shouldn’t google. I imagine conversations with my oncologist where he tells me bad news.
It’s exhausting. And it happens before every single scan.
The Night Before
The night before a scan, I don’t sleep well. Maybe two or three hours. Broken sleep. Waking up multiple times.
My brain runs scenarios. What if they find a spot on my liver? What if the cancer came back in my pancreas? What if it metastasized somewhere new?
I think about treatment options. Would I do chemo again? Surgery? Clinical trials? How much time would I have?
I think about my life. Things I haven’t done yet. People I’d need to tell. How I’d handle the news.
None of this is helpful. None of this changes anything. But my brain does it anyway.
The night before a scan is always the longest night of the year.
The Morning Of
Scan day. I wake up early. Drive to the imaging center. Check in. Sit in the waiting room.
I’m always early. Can’t help it. I want to get it over with.
The waiting room is full of other cancer patients. Some newly diagnosed. Some like me, here for surveillance. Some obviously sick. Some looking healthy.
We don’t talk. We all sit there with our magazines and phones, pretending we’re not terrified.
The technician calls my name. I follow them back to the CT scanner. Change into a gown. Get an IV for contrast.
They tell me to lie still. Hold my breath when they say. The machine whirs. Twenty minutes later, it’s done.
“You can get dressed,” they say. “Your doctor will have the results in a few days.”
A few days. That’s the worst part. The waiting.
The Waiting Period
The scan is done. The images are captured. But I don’t know what they show yet.
Somewhere, a radiologist is looking at my scans. Writing a report. Noting anything unusual.
Then my oncologist will review it. Compare it to previous scans. Decide if anything needs follow-up.
This process takes three to five days. Sometimes a week if they’re busy.
Those are the worst days. The limbo days. The days between scan and results.
I try to distract myself. Work. Exercise. Watch TV. Anything to avoid thinking about it.
But I can’t focus. Everything feels hollow. Like I’m going through the motions while waiting for a verdict.
Guilty or innocent. Cancer or no cancer. Life or death.
It sounds dramatic. But that’s how it feels. Every single time.
The Portal Check
Most hospitals have online portals now. Where lab results and imaging reports get posted.
My hospital posts scan results within 48 hours usually. Before my doctor calls.
So I check obsessively. Log in every few hours. Refresh. Check for new results.
It’s addictive. Compulsive. I know it’s not healthy. But I can’t stop.
Every time I check and see nothing, I feel disappointed and relieved simultaneously. Disappointed because I still don’t know. Relieved because no news might be good news.
Then I check again two hours later. And again. And again.
The Phone Call
Eventually, my oncologist’s office calls. Or they send a message through the portal.
“Your scan results are in. Dr. Fisher would like to discuss them with you. Can you come in next week?”
That message is terrifying. “Would like to discuss” could mean anything. Could be routine. Could be bad news.
I always assume the worst. If it was good news, they’d just say so, right? “Everything looks clear, see you next year.”
But they want me to come in. That means they found something. That means I need to prepare for bad news.
Or maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe they always schedule follow-ups. Maybe I’m catastrophizing again.
I schedule the appointment. Then I wait some more.
The Results Appointment
I sit in the exam room waiting for my oncologist. Heart pounding. Hands sweating. Trying to read his expression when he walks in.
He sits down. Pulls up my scans on the computer. Points to various images.
“Everything looks good,” he says. “No new masses. No suspicious areas. All clear.”
The relief is physical. My shoulders drop. My chest loosens. I can breathe again.
“See you next year,” he says. Shakes my hand. Leaves the room.
That’s it. Fourteen years. Fourteen times hearing “all clear.” And every single time feels like a reprieve. Like dodging a bullet one more time.
Why It Doesn’t Get Easier
People think scan anxiety gets better over time. The longer you’re cancer-free, the less worried you should be, right?
Wrong.
Every year cancer-free is another year I have something to lose. Another year of life I don’t want to give up. Another year of stability I’m terrified of losing.
The first scan after treatment, I was numb. Detached. If it came back, okay, I’d deal with it.
Fourteen years later, I have a life. A routine. Plans. Hopes. Things I want to do.
The stakes are higher now. There’s more to lose. So the anxiety is worse, not better.
The Survivor’s Guilt
There’s another layer to scanxiety. Survivor’s guilt.
I know people who had the same cancer as me. Same surgery. Same treatment. Their cancer came back. They didn’t make it.
Why did I survive when they didn’t? What makes me special? When will my luck run out?
Every clean scan feels like borrowed time. Like I’m getting away with something I shouldn’t be getting away with.
Other people’s cancer came back at year three. Or year five. Or year seven.
I’m at year fourteen. Still clear. But every year, I wonder if this is the year my luck ends.
The Statistics Don’t Help
People try to reassure me with statistics. “You’re 14 years out. Your recurrence risk is very low now. Relax.”
But statistics are population averages. They don’t tell you about your individual case.
Yeah, most recurrences happen in the first five years. But some happen at ten years. Or fifteen years. Or twenty years.
I know the statistics. I’m a statistical outlier just for surviving this long. That doesn’t make me immune to recurrence.
So the statistics don’t comfort me. They just remind me that cancer is unpredictable. Even for long-term survivors.
What Helps (Sometimes)
I’ve tried different strategies for managing scanxiety over the years. Some help. A little.
Distraction – Keep busy the week before scans. Work. Exercise. Projects. Anything to occupy my mind.
Talking about it – Tell someone I’m anxious. Just naming the fear out loud helps slightly.
Limiting symptom-checking – Try not to obsess over every minor body sensation. Mostly unsuccessful at this.
Avoiding Google – Do not google “pancreatic cancer recurrence symptoms.” Ever. This never helps.
Reminding myself of past results – Fourteen clean scans in a row. That’s a good track record. Probably means this one will be clean too.
None of these eliminate the anxiety. But they make it slightly more manageable.
The Scans I’ll Face Forever
I’ll be getting scans for the rest of my life. Every year. Maybe every two years eventually if I make it to twenty years cancer-free.
But I’ll never stop. Surveillance is permanent for pancreatic cancer survivors.
Which means scanxiety is permanent too.
Fourteen years down. Hopefully decades more to go. Each one preceded by a week of terror and followed by a day of relief.
This is my life now. This is what long-term cancer survival looks like.
It’s not worry-free. It’s not “back to normal.” It’s constant low-level fear punctuated by annual spikes of terror.
What Other Survivors Say
I’ve talked to dozens of other long-term cancer survivors about scanxiety. Everyone experiences it.
Some people are better at managing it than I am. They meditate. They practice mindfulness. They’ve somehow made peace with uncertainty.
Some people are worse. They spiral into full panic attacks before every scan. Can’t function for weeks.
Most people are like me. Anxious but functional. Scared but coping. Counting down the days until the next “all clear.”
None of us are free of it. The anxiety is just part of being a cancer survivor.
The Scan I Can’t Avoid
Next month’s scan is coming whether I want it or not. Can’t cancel it. Can’t postpone it. Have to go through with it.
I’ll spend the next few weeks worrying. I’ll lose sleep the night before. I’ll obsess over symptoms. I’ll check the portal compulsively.
Then I’ll get the results. Hopefully good. Probably good. Fourteen years of clean scans suggests this one will be clean too.
But I won’t know for sure until I hear it from my oncologist.
And even after I hear “all clear,” the relief will only last a few months. Then I’ll start thinking about next year’s scan. And the anxiety will start building again.
This is the cycle. This is life after cancer.
The scans still make me nervous. They always will.
What This Means for You
If you’re newly post-Whipple and facing your first surveillance scans, let me tell you something important.
The anxiety is normal. It doesn’t mean you’re weak or irrational. It means you’re human. You survived something terrible and you’re scared it might come back.
Everyone feels this way. The people who say they don’t are lying or in denial.
The anxiety might get more manageable over time. You’ll develop coping strategies. You’ll learn to function through it.
But it probably won’t go away completely. I’m 14 years out and I still lose sleep before scans.
That’s okay. That’s part of survival. The price you pay for living is being terrified you might stop living.
Accept the anxiety. Don’t fight it. Just acknowledge it and push through.
Get your scans. Wait for results. Hear “all clear.” Breathe. Repeat next year.
This is what we do. This is how we survive. One scan at a time. One year at a time.
The Next Scan
My scan is scheduled for four weeks from today. I’m already thinking about it.
Already mentally preparing. Already feeling the anxiety building.
But I’ll go. I’ll get the scan. I’ll wait for results. I’ll probably hear “all clear” again.
And then I’ll have eleven months before the next one. Eleven months of relative peace before the anxiety cycle starts again.
Fourteen years of this. Many more years to come.
The scans still make me nervous. They always will.
But I keep showing up. Because that’s what survivors do.
We face the fear. We get the scans. We wait for results. We keep living.
One terrifying annual appointment at a time.
When you’re ready to manage the mental side of recovery, the Complete Whipple Survival Guide has strategies for scanxiety, mental health resources, and community support connections. $49 PDF.
Ready to track your recovery? I’ve logged 15,000+ meals in spreadsheets for 14 years. WhippleTracker makes it automatic—track Creon, meals, and symptoms in seconds. See patterns that optimize your recovery. Try WhippleTracker (Free Beta) →