I sit in the dentist’s chair for my routine checkup, feeling a rising tide of anxiety. My breath quickens, my heart races, and an unsettling sensation settles in my stomach. All I can think about is escaping to the comfort of my car.
The situation intensifies when the dentist, with a furrowed brow, pronounces, “You have a cavity. We’ll address it in a few weeks.” He smiles and moves on to the next appointment, leaving me to grapple with my emotions.
This is the aftermath of medical trauma. It can turn even the most mundane experiences into sources of overwhelming fear. I’ve faced two significant health challenges, each compounding the other. The first was a lengthy battle with severe symptoms—weight loss, chronic fatigue, and depression—leading to a diagnosis of type 1 diabetes at a dangerously low point in my health.
Twelve years later, I discovered a lump in my right breast. After a mammogram and ultrasound, I was told to return in six months. Trusting my instincts, I sought a second opinion that ultimately revealed my breast cancer diagnosis.
Each health crisis brought its own set of challenges. As a type 1 diabetic, I’m tethered to an insulin pump and a continuous glucose monitor, constantly counting carbohydrates to maintain my blood sugar. At 35, with four children, I underwent a bi-lateral mastectomy.
Though I’m declared “cancer-free,” the path to recovery is ongoing. There’s no cure for type 1 diabetes, and I rely on insulin, a costly necessity. My life now revolves around numerous follow-up appointments to ensure my cancer remains at bay.
I recognize my good fortune: I have excellent doctors, a supportive husband with great medical insurance, and I am grateful for my life post-cancer. Yet, the gratitude doesn’t erase the pain. I lost a part of my body before I even turned forty and remain dependent on medical devices to manage my condition. I constantly operate in a state of maintenance.
The fear of cancer recurrence lingers. I’ve developed a post-cancer care plan encompassing a primarily vegan diet, regular exercise, sufficient sleep, and stress management strategies. But the statistics haunt me.
During follow-up appointments, I sometimes enter a mental haze as a defense mechanism against the trauma. Stripped down to a medical gown, I endure the examination of my implants, fearing any sign of trouble.
On top of the daily struggle to stay healthy and manage anxiety, I grapple with survivor’s guilt. Why did I survive when others haven’t? How did I escape with just surgery, avoiding chemotherapy and radiation? When I hear about another woman facing a cancer diagnosis, like my friend’s sister, it weighs heavily on my heart.
And then there’s anger. Why must women deal with cancer? Why did I have to face two significant health challenges in just twelve years?
To the outside world, I appear to have it all together. I’m a devoted mom, wife, sister, and friend. I’ve been married for nearly sixteen years, and we have a beautiful home and a supportive community. My reconstructive surgery was performed by a skilled plastic surgeon, leaving only faint scars.
Yet beneath this facade lies a maelstrom of emotions. Medical trauma is an insidious thief, stealing peace of mind and exploiting every doubt and tear.
Family and friends see me as a breast cancer survivor, a warrior, someone who thrives despite autoimmune disease. They commend my strength, but the truth is that I feel fragile, confused, and drained.
Just when I think I’m making progress, a trigger can send me spiraling. Recently, while running errands, I spotted a car adorned with a pink ribbon sticker proclaiming “survivor.” And even if I’m not personally affected, I’m reminded that cancer is ever-present.
October, with its barrage of pink ribbons, is particularly challenging. Some days, I appreciate the awareness, but more often than not, I feel overwhelmed by post-traumatic stress.
Having experienced medical trauma means never truly escaping it. Ringing the bell in a treatment facility or celebrating a promising medical report feels rewarding, yet those moments are fleeting. After being so close to mortality, I understand the fragility of life. Every breath is a treasure, and while fear can be deceptive, its emotional toll is valid.
What I’ve encountered is my reality, and it’s not my responsibility to bury it or pretend I’m fine. Instead, I must acknowledge my past, accept my present, and remember that grief is a cyclical process rather than a linear journey with a clear end.
For those navigating similar paths, I recommend checking out this informative post on home insemination kits and for more insights on managing anxiety during pregnancy, this resource provides helpful information. Also, if you’re curious about what to expect during IUI treatments, this guide is an excellent resource.
In summary, surviving cancer is not just about physical recovery; it involves navigating a complex emotional landscape that can be exhausting and fraught with anxiety.