Neither Calm Nor Cool

I had a good scare over the past few weeks, when an on-again, off-again pain in my hip took on a life of its own, raising the specter—in my own mind, anyway—of another trip down cancer lane.

My hip has been tender, as if it had been bruised, but I couldn't remember a mishap or collision or anything else that would have caused the pain. It's not swollen, or black and blue—just sore when I lie on it or turn the wrong way. And the pain isn't consistent—sometimes I feel it, and sometimes I don't.

I am normally quite serene in the face of symptoms—I get them checked out, and if there's something to deal with, I deal with it.

But this time I was a wreck. I worried that the pain was a sign of metastasis—that the cancer had not only returned but spread to my bones. And once I had that thought, I couldn't shake it.

I called my doctor's office on a Monday morning and was advised to have a bone scan—a first for me, although it's a test that cancer patients commonly have. I expected to be told to come in for an examination, but the nurse explained that since I'd had the pain for a couple of weeks, the bone scan was the appropriate next step. Somehow, that only inflamed my anxiety—it seemed to validate my fear that this was a high-stakes situation.

Things got worse when I wasn't able to schedule the test right away. Phone tag with the scheduling department and pre-certification with my insurance company took a couple of days. Then I had to wait almost a week for the first available appointment. All the while, my mind leapt to unsavory conclusions, simultaneously wearing me down and out.

I avoided talking to friends and family. I avoided blogging. I didn't want to say or write anything until I knew what was going on.

Every evening during that long week of waiting, Zach and I watched hours of television to keep my mind from wandering back to the abyss and diving right in.

Rather than return to work after the test, I decided to take the whole day off. Somehow I knew I'd be too distracted—or distraught—to function at the office.

I craved the certainty the test results would bring—a clear exit from the limbo I'd been laboring in. Liberation finally came late the following afternoon, with word that there was no sign of cancer in any of my bones.

I surrendered the breath I'd been holding tight and inhaled the sweet fragrance of relief.