a pain in the back.

it started as a dull ache. deep in the right side of my lower back, just above my glute. i wouldn’t have even described it as pain — it was more an awareness of discomfort. i assumed it was from heavy lifting at the gym.

the dread came sinking in when it began radiating across my entire lower back. sitting in a chair at work became uncomfortable, and a workout at the gym made it substantially worse. i have a history of throwing out my neck but lower back pain was not a familiar struggle. i had recently tweaked my right ankle getting underneath the bar for a squat – which was unexpectedly set up lower than usual – otherwise i couldn’t think of a particular movement or moment that would have set it off.

a few years ago i read a memoir about a woman who died of cancer, and it was lower back pain that had been her symptom of progression to stage 4. it was the beginning of the end for her. when cancer moves to the bones it often starts gradually, is worse at night, and continues while resting.

advil and tylenol were not doing much to relieve my discomfort, and it was uncomfortable even while laying in bed. my hopes were resting on having success with muscle relaxants: but when i took one, nothing changed.

the stories i began telling myself: that the cancer was in my bones & that i would be dead by summer.

i was down a deep cancer-fear-induced rabbit hole, and there was no turning back. at the time i would have described it as intuition. i was convinced. for about 24 hours, reading, walking, watching TV…. nothing distracted me. my rational brain knew i was being irrational, but the story i had created had a life of its own. this is a side of me that i don’t often share – it feels wildly unhinged, out of character and represents a complete lack of control. and talking about it makes it worse, so temporarily burying it and focusing on being functional is a more successful approach.

this is the ugly truth of living with fear of cancer recurrence. it is terrifying, isolating and exhausting. and, i’ve only met a few people who truly understand (or are willing to articulate) the depths of distress it entails.

my every four-month monitoring scans had been loosely scheduled for mid-january; however, that would have been five months. my oncologist likes to give me choice – december, or january, you decide!? but giving someone choice over when they want to do the worst thing is not helpful. of course, like a child, i will put off the discomfort of scans as long as humanly possible. my counselor reminded me: you will feel so much better knowing, and you can handle it either way. i cried with unfairness. between scans i live in a beautiful world of possibility, and as they approach again, cancer infiltrates my thoughts, fiercely metastasizing and ripping away my hopes of living a big life, of finding love, of becoming a mother. the unfairness. the uncertainty. the grief. its heartbreaking. its suffocating.

the only person i wanted to talk to was my best friend, and her response in the middle of the night could not have been more measured, more reassuring. it was more comforting than even my counselor. she said simply, “back pain could literally be 10,000 things.” 10,000 things? with cancer only being on of them? i could breath again. i could see again.

my counselor always says that reassurance isn’t possible for anyone to give, nor should i be seeking it. the uncertainty is simply never going away. never? i am not seeking false reassurance, but i am seeking facts. instead of stories, i needed to be brave and change my scans. scans (mostly) tell the truth.

i called my oncologist and took the next appointment, three days later.

i know i can’t run to scans every time i experience hyperawareness of a physical symptom, or if i’m in pain. it isn’t safe to get scanned constantly, and it is also very expensive. it so happened that this fell within my every four-month window of time. i’m told by experts that there will be a time in my future where i will able to be able to have physical ailment, and not automatically assume the cancer has come back. what a beautiful day it will be when a headache is just an annoying headache, and not a full-on brain tumor.

i did not tell very many people about the scans partly because i was terrified and partly because i was trying to underplay them for myself. this is something i have to learn to bear, and it will take practice. i did not want to tell the whole story to my friends and family until i had news to share either way. i do not want the whole world to become about me and my fears every four months. it feels dreadfully self-centered.

i typically know what i need on these hard scan days, and i do my best to communicate that to the people close to me here in bangkok, so i am not alone unless i want to be.

to be honest, the best companion, is ativan.

my scans were last thursday, and i am happy to report that i do not have cancer in my bones. nor in my lungs, liver or brain. it would appear, i am healthy (other than a slight iron deficiency). my intuition was wrong. the stories i was telling myself were, in fact, just stories.

and i’m left with…

a pain in my back.

a new problem that i can actually (hopefully) solve. no catastrophizing welcome.

*as i re-read other posts i’ve written on the topic of scans, i realize how similar my thought process is each time. i hope, from the perspective of the reader, it doesn’t come across as a broken record. the above photo was taken in bangkok’s chinatown two weeks ago, in early december 2020. if you have been reading the news you know that COVID has taken a turn for the worst in thailand after many months of relative ‘normalcy’… which means we might be headed back into lockdown, we will have to wait & see. i’m currently in the islands, celebrating christmas quietly this year with writing, yoga, reading & time to connect over zoom… as well as lots of time to do my lower back stretches assigned by my physio (no excuses)!