The Fine Art of Doomscrolling After Cancer Part 2

Do This Instead

Now where was I? Ah, yes, doomscrolling. By the time I had recuperated from the double boobectomy and was looking down the barrel of a bag of IV fluid decorated with skull and crossbones, I was exhausted.

I was physically exhausted. But the mental exhaustion was worse. Every question and scenario my terrorized brain spat out often had no answers.

In this way, I wasn’t doomscrolling per se; I was really looking for assurance.

What are the chances this might happen again? What about the countless myriad of factors that may tilt the scale in my favor versus it’s time to plan the memorial service?

Would somebody please tell me I’m going to live another 20 or more years? Please? Anyone? Pretty please with a cherry on top?

Crickets.

And yeah, the exhaustion. I knew I need to take action, er rather, inaction.

I put myself on an information and doomscrolling diet. Packed away the small library I had amassed on breast cancer and cancer diets. Tossed the post-surgical wound care stuff I no longer needed. Passed the post-boobectomy accoutrements on to another pink sister.

Breathe.

And then Olivia Newton John dies. The nerve of her. All my intentions to restrict my efforts to scare the bejesus out of me went right out the window. This lovely lady died of… oh, you know already.

She fought breast cancer for over 30 years. You could feel the ripples of anxiety among the community of breast cancer patients and survivors.

Will I ever be free of cancer’s shadow hanging over my head?

I do quick math. 30 years. That would put me at 88 years old.

Um, no thanks. I will graciously accept my ticket out of here before pushing 90. Unless, of course, I am one of these feted octogenarians who appear on the cover of Runner’s World heralding their 50th marathon.

Is the cancer going to come back? What if I develop another cancer? What will be the long-term effects of the chemo? Will the hair I lost come back or will I be in the minority who are now dealing with a level of baldness? Could I cope with wigs? What about long hair wigs? But if I did long hair the wind could muss it. I once went sailing with long hair and it became a tangled mess. How does one wash wigs? Do they make wigs with real hair? Of course they do silly. This opens up pondering on if people opt to donate their hair along with their corneas upon death. Ew.

I pursue another line of fearful inquiry.

What about my eyebrows? They went on holiday with my eyelashes weeks after chemo ended. Will I be like one of these old ladies who has penciled in eyebrows? Or like a younger woman with Sharpie Chisel-Edged eyebrows? Will the pesky post-menopausal mustache now thicken and bring a beard along with it due to testosterone circulating unopposed by estrogen’s balancing act?

Stop brain. Just STOP. This barrage of questions took a nanosecond to crank out. And now I have this picture of me, riding my bike, wig falling off, chin hairs riffling in the breeze, black Sharpie eyebows, and the urgent need to use the bathroom so I don’t shit myself.

Nice. Again, this happens in a nanosecond. Maybe I should put a rubber band around my wrist to snap so I can catch myself from catapulting down this greased slide to doom.

And then it’s back to Olivia’s demise. What kind of cancer did she have? What was the stage and for the love of God, TELL ME IF IT WAS IN HER LYMPH NODES.

Because I must compare my stats with hers, put a wet finger to the air and predict my outcome based upon hers. Science, right?! It’s sort of the same thing I used to do before cancer-read the ages of the dearly departed in the obits, see if they are my age and then do a quick symptom check to see if I have the same fatal disease. (An aside, I think obits should always include the cause of death because, well, curious hypochondriacs want to know.)

While loved ones are celebrating finishing treatment, this is only the beginning of the worry shit show, part 2.

It was time to crank up the doomscrolling again!

Or not.

It’s time for the adult Theresa to learn how to work through this fear.

Starting with: I must focus on what my doctor tells me. She knows my details. I literally trust her with my life. Am I going to choose to believe her or Dr. Google? And yes, I realize it is a choice.

And this is where I am learning to turn my racing brain to focus on the positive. To not do so creates yet another cancer casualty: Crippling anxiety and depression.

So, I start there. Let’s review Theresa. I’ll speak slowly and loudly so your frightened brain can take it in.

Slow and lazy tumor. Took nine years, probably. All the tumors were stage one. There was no lymph involvement. There was one icky characteristic of the tumor that warranted chemo. And I completed the course, difficult as it was.

I still have the sheet of paper where the oncologist wrote out recurrence risk. Without the chemo, 20% chance. With chemo 10%.

With hormone blockers for 5–7 years, we’re talking 5%.

Damn. Those are pretty good odds.

BUT BUT BUT BUUUUUUUUT!!!!

Ah yes, that terrified voice reminds me of the 4% odds of cancer in the other boob.

I pat that worried part on the head.

There, there. You will be okay. You cannot reason your way out of fear. You must comfort it as you would a distressed toddler with monsters under their bed.

Probably about the time to work up a good sweat shaking what my mama gave me in Zumba.

I wish I could say “BOING! I have banished all fear.” But that would be untrue. But I can say with practice it is no longer all consuming.

Another tool I have used is reframing, well actually, it’s using something that is usually NOT helpful because it tends to minimize legitimate fear.

When someone tells me, “Well, at least…” You know you’ve been blown off.

But I am finding I can use the “at least” self-talk to my advantage.

At least I don’t have some horrible progressive neurological condition that is a sure death sentence with in a few years.

At least I am not in a wheelchair. Zumba would be tricky from a wheelchair.

At least… fill in the blank with whatever turns the raging lion of worry down to a purring kitty.

Not to diminish my struggles, but one need not look far to find someone saddled with much more difficulty. Today is the good day I may pine for tomorrow.

I truly feel fortunate that my cancer was caught early and is highly treatable. For most women, this is the case.

And Olivia Newton John? 30 years was a good run!

How about Googling statistics as one of my dear pink sisters suggested, on the probability of getting smoked by a bus?

There’s even a book, if I recall on the statistical likelihood of you being taken out by any manner of life stopping events.

Am I going to fret over the possibility of a car accident? Worry over developing Lou Gehrig disease? Or even, (way to go, Murica,) the risk of getting gunned down while attending a movie?

Finally, I must take a proactive stance in reclaiming my mind. This means more fun, less computer time.

More bike rides, less perseverating on shit that is beyond my control.

More kind words, less headline reading.

More ice cream (enjoyed with gusto) and less fear over my kale aversion.

More funny movies and laughter, less butt clenching mysteries (as much as I love those).

I must remind myself that if I can draw breath, there is more right with me than wrong.

Exercise is a huge part of my healing too. There is nothing like a good sweat and a release of endorphins to chase away worry.

Finally, I can connect with someone who is just now starting on the same journey and encourage them. “Me too” are powerful, healing words. It brings a heart connection that allows us to draw strength from one another.

I don’t know what I would have done without my pink sisters in those first days. And even though I am a year out, I can encourage and love on those that are newly diagnosed and terrified.

It’s crazy how that works. Encouraging someone else brings our own healing. I have found this to be true no matter the topic.

It reminds me of part of one of my favorite poems by Henry Longsworth Longfellow, A Psalm of Life.

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Life is short, I remind myself.

How will I spend this lovely day granted to me?

This is the question I must ask myself every morning. And then it’s time to dance.

Thanks so much for reading. You can find me around the internet at www.theresawinn.com, on Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram. If you’d like to support my writing in a small way, feel free to contribute to my wishlist.

THERESA WINNAPRIL 27, 2023