For millions of people living with cancer, life can feel like it’s in the balance on the day we get our scan results. Is the treatment working? And what if it isn’t?

It is the morning of the day I get the results of my three-monthly scan to check how my cancer is responding to immunotherapy.

I was scanned three weeks ago. But I must wait to hear the results from my oncologist. I have learned to cope with the wait by putting aside all speculation. (‘What if’ is a phrase I will not entertain). I do this through a well tried and tested process of compartmentalisation. In my mind, I place the folded piece of paper bearing my results in an old-style metal cashbox, close the lid, then turn the key. I then mentally place the cashbox and its contents out of sight on the highest shelf of a bookcase. Out of sight. Out of mind. I will live the next three weeks unencumbered by troubled thoughts about the contents of that cashbox.

But today, I mentally take the cashbox down from the highest shelf. The lid is still closed. The key is still in place. It is not yet time to open it.

I am held by the most fragile thread between two notional states – the state of cancer in remission and the state of cancer spreading. I am familiar with the former state; it is my tolerable status quo. And I’m terrified at the prospect of the latter.

I shower and dress myself with extra care, taking more time on a process I would normally conduct with unthinking automation. I am conscious that time has slowed down, so I give myself permission to savour every moment. I notice the soothing warmth of the water against my skin and take a little longer to enjoy it before grabbing the shampoo and shower gel. I sniff at the shampoo, trying to name the origin of the scent. Almonds? Roses? Honeysuckle? I work up a lather with more enthusiasm, noticing the effects of the softness on my skin. And I allow for more thorough rinsing. There is no need to rush. I have all the time in the world.

Irritation

I am accompanied to the appointment by a close family member. I attend most outpatient appointments alone. But results day needs reinforcements: the distraction of small talk; a ready hand to steady me; an extra pair of ears to bear witness. We’re ushered to a smaller waiting room, signalling that there will be only minutes to wait now. My fight/flight response is kicking in. My mouth is dry, my breathing has quickened, I am feeling light-headed. ‘Just jump on the scales, we need to weigh you!’ I contain my irritation at the nurse’s request. I want to scream: ‘just bloody tell me!’  My dignity intervenes and I wonder at its power to maintain a surface of calm and civility despite the inner turmoil.

As the door to the oncologist’s office is opened, I notice two chairs set out and start to panic over which I should choose, an incongruous moment of social awkwardness.

Immunotherapy

“It’s good news.” The oncologist gets straight to the point. This is the only phrase I need – and that I hear. He embellishes the phrase with a little more detail, explaining that the immunotherapy is working as planned. But I don’t hear him. After 10 minutes, he tells me that another scan will be arranged in three months. I leave his office, mentally scrunching up the paper with the results and putting aside the cashbox.

Until the next time.