I’m fine, I’m not fine. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m fine, I’m not fine. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m fine, I’m not fine. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m scared. I’m not scared. I’m fine, I’m not fine.

These thoughts flipped-flopped through my mind on my way to work today. It wasn’t just another day – it hardly ever is. But today was time for my 18-month check-up post-cancer treatment.

When I step back and look at my breast cancer experience logically, I’m over it. Just like whatever. Life goes on right. I’m incredibly grateful for the amazing support I had – good medical aid and the best network of family and friends. But I never want to go through that again. I’ve even said, perhaps arrogantly, that if I’m unfortunate enough to be diagnosed with cancer again, that’s it. No more chemo for me. Certain smells, like vanilla or tea and McDonald’s, still trigger awful memories of nausea. It’s purely psychosomatic, but just the scent can make me feel physically ill.

With my routine check-up looming, I tried to steel myself. “I won’t give a rat’s hoo-har,” I told myself. Most of this cancer business is out of my control anyway. I live a fairly healthy lifestyle (moderately so, at least – it’s subjective, right?). I exercise some. I eat healthy some. I drink alcohol occasionally – certainly not as much as I used to. I don’t smoke, though yes, I’m a workaholic. But there are worse addictions, no?

I was so confident that I told Tony not to worry, I’d go by myself today. But as the appointment drew closer, was that anxiety I noted started creeping in…?

I started my day, as usual, presenting my Monday morning communications class. It went well – the students were engaged, and we all enjoyed it. One of them even offered me a space muffin, which I politely declined. I know, eyebrow-raising stuff. But to me, it’s a testament to the trust I’ve built with them.

As I drove to the hospital’s radiology practice, I was still cool and was still collected. But slowly, I started feeling slightly unhinged. I was relieved when Tony called and said he’d meet me there. The appointment consisted of three parts: a bone density test, a mammogram, and a CT scan.

The bone density test came first, and my nerves started going bleep, bloop, bleep. Then came the mammogram. The radiographer was incredibly gentle, explaining that due to the scarring from my lumpectomy, she needed to redo the test on my right breast. At first, I thought, “Okay, cool.” But then panic set in – what if she saw something wrong?

The second part of the mammogram was an ultrasound. By this point, I was trying to read facial expressions for any clues. I’m sure my face was tense, my jaw clenched the entire time. The radiographers smiled a little, but I couldn’t bring myself to smile back. I was scared as hell.

During the ultrasound, my mind raced. What if I have cancer again? Maybe chemo wouldn’t be so bad this time. But I’d definitely quit my job. I tried desperately to remember what happened during my initial diagnosis. What did the radiographer say last time? Our minds are conditioned to look for patterns, and I was searching for any sign, any hint of what was to come.

The ultrasound technician was polite but didn’t say much. She just said the doctor would come to tell me the results. When she left, the door almost closed behind her. I caught a glimpse of the mammogram technician through the slit, and she opened the door, saying, “So that you’re not so lonely.” My mind went into overdrive. Was that a sign? Were they being extra friendly to soften the blow of bad news? Oh shit. I probably have cancer again.

I started picking the nail polish off my fingers – that was very comforting. I don’t usually wear nail polish – in fact, I never wear nail polish, but the Dean treated all the ladies in faculty management to a beauty treatment at the somatology clinic at CPUT, and I asked for a manicure. I’m so glad that I had something to do while I waited. My phone was in the waiting room with Tony so I could not use it to distract myself.

Finally, the radiologist arrived. He introduced himself and confirmed my name. This is it, I thought. Then he said it all looks fine. Wait, what? My brain struggled to process. I said thank you, and he left. I had to double-check with the mammogram radiographer – he did say everything is fine, right? She confirmed.

Just then, the CT scan radiographer came to fetch me. I stopped hearing what anyone was saying, only catching phrases like “turn your gown around.” Three radiographers struggled to find a vein for the iodine drip. I told them about my recent blood test where they had to use a vein in my wrist. They tried there and found something, but it was excruciatingly painful. I didn’t complain – I just wanted it over with.

After what felt like an eternity, it was time for the scan. They injected the iodine, and I felt warmth spread through my entire body. The scan itself was quick – or was it? My sense of time was completely warped. And then, suddenly, it was over.

A wave of emotions hit me as I left the CT room. I almost walked out without my top on, but the radiographer gently reminded me to keep the gown until I reached the changing room. Everything was a blur as I made my way to Tony in the waiting room. I kept it together. Kept it together. Kept it together while we walked out of the hospital.

Once outside, the floodgates opened. Waterworks started, and emotions ambushed me – taking me completely by surprise. Hadn’t I said I didn’t care? That I didn’t give a rat’s hoo-har? Why was I crying? What the heck? I found myself completely unhinged – it was real. It took hours to ground myself again.

What was that? I don’t know. I just don’t know. Let go and let come hey. I wish I had a rand for every time I go past the start line again.