CT Scan Anxiety

There are moments in this journey that feel impossibly heavy.

Today was one of them.

Today was my CT scan.

I’ve learned more about colorectal cancer in the last week than I ever wanted to know. A friend who works in oncology gently prepared me for what today’s scan was looking for. She explained that it would look to see if the cancer had spread to places like my liver or lungs. She also reminded me not to panic if they found small nodules in my lungs because they’re incredibly common and are often nothing more than scars from old infections.

Then she said something simple.

“It’s normal to worry.”

I don’t think she realized how much I needed to hear that.

Because I’ve been living in this strange tug of war between desperately wanting answers and being terrified of what those answers might be. Part of me wanted today to come so I could stop imagining every possible scenario. Another part of me wished I could somehow slow time before the unknown became known.

People kept warning me about the contrast drink. They told me how awful it tasted. They told me to brace myself.

But perspective has a funny way of changing things.

When you’re facing cancer, the contrast isn’t the hard part.

The hard part is what the scan is searching for.

The hard part is lying on that table, knowing the images being taken could change the course of your life more than it has already changed with the diagnosis. The hard part is walking out and realizing there is nothing left to do but wait.

I’d drink ten bottles of contrast if it meant getting one step closer to a plan. One step closer to treatment. One step closer to watching Brooks grow up. One step closer to growing old with Brian. One step closer to the future I’ve always imagined for our family.

Last night, I lingered a little longer holding Brooks. I studied every little detail of him. His tiny hands. His soft cheeks. The way he melts into me without a care in the world. I wanted to freeze time, to memorize every part of this season, even as my heart ached.

I also found myself thinking about Brian and the people I love most. Cancer has a way of stripping away everything that doesn’t matter. Every argument. Every frustration. Every grudge. They suddenly seem so small. None of them were ever worth giving up a single moment with the people I love.

So today, I drank the contrast. I lay still in the scanner. I walked back out into the sunshine.

Now I wait.

One breath.

One prayer.

One step closer to whatever comes next.