How do you cope with anxiety while waiting for cancer treatment to begin?
GO
Community Member
17 days agoWriting all this out has been surprisingly cathartic for me, it helps quiet my mind and make sense of everything swirling around. So, for anyone following along, here is Part 2 of my journey.
The Miles Between Appointments (and the Nights That Won’t Let Me Forget)
— Treatment Still Weeks Away —
There’s a strange kind of quiet that hits you when you’re driving alone these days — not peaceful, not relaxing, not the “clear your head” kind. No. This is the “I’m still a couple weeks away from treatment and my brain is doing warm-up laps like it’s training for the Olympics” kind of quiet.
Radiation hasn’t even started yet.
Hormone shots haven’t started yet.
But the thinking sure as hell has.
I know I’m heading into seven weeks of radiation — five days a week, forty-nine appointments lined up like a parade nobody wants to attend. And after that, three hormone shots over four months to pull the plug on my testosterone like they’re unplugging a fridge in a garage. My wife warned me I might get hot flashes, mood swings, maybe cry at commercials. I told her, “Great. I’ve always wondered what menopause was like. Didn’t think I’d get the deluxe package.”
But honestly? It’s these weeks before everything begins that really mess with me.
This in-between time.
This waiting room of the mind.
This limbo where nothing is happening — and yet everything is happening in my head.
My truck used to be where I’d relax after work, or think about what project I was tackling next. Now it’s where my brain holds unsolicited TED Talks.
I’ll be driving in the sunshine, thinking about grabbing lunch, and suddenly that little voice pipes up:
“Hey, quick question — what if the cancer is already spreading somewhere else right now?”
And then boom — I’m gripping the steering wheel like I’m trying to choke it.
It doesn’t help that this waiting period has become a highlight reel for every scary “what if” scenario my brain can come up with.
And let me tell you—my brain is TALENTED.
But daytime thoughts have nothing on the nighttime thoughts.
Because at night?
When it’s quiet, dark, and the world’s asleep?
That’s when my mind turns into a haunted house.
I’ll wake up at 2 or 3 a.m., heart pounding, brain halfway between dreaming and panicking, and for a split second I swear something is wrong — like wrong wrong. And then the stupidest thought hits me:
“What if cancer is everywhere? Like… all over me?”
And do I know what “everywhere” looks like?
No.
Not a clue.
But that didn’t stop me from waking up one night convinced it was crawling under my skin like I’d rolled in poison ivy made by Marvel villains.
So I sit up, sweating, patting myself down like TSA doing a full-body search, while my half-conscious brain narrates:
“Oh yeah, buddy. You’re covered. It’s everywhere. Congratulations.”
It took me a minute before the rational side finally woke up and went,
“Sit down. Cancer doesn’t work like that, you idiot.”
But even after I realized I wasn’t turning into a walking tumor exhibit, the fear didn’t just vanish. It just slunk back into the corner like a house cat waiting to jump out at 4 a.m. because you looked too peaceful.
That’s the thing about cancer in the “between stage.”
You’re not in treatment yet, but you’re not out of danger either.
You’re not fighting it actively, but you’re not done with the fight.
You’re stuck in this awkward middle place where your brain fills the silence with every fear it can find.
Construction taught me how to handle chaos, noise, heavy work, and guys who still can’t measure correctly even with a laser level.
It did not teach me how to handle the quiet.
And yeah, I lean on humor.
Humor is my shield.
If I can laugh, I can breathe.
If I can joke, I can stay upright.
But even with humor, the silence creeps in sometimes, during the drives, during the showers, during the nights where sleep doesn’t stick.
Not because I’m weak.
Not because I doubt myself.
But because I’m human.
And waiting can be its own kind of battle.
Treatment hasn’t even started yet…
and somehow the fight already has.
And that’s where the next chapter begins, inside the quiet moments where your mind tries to write the ending before the story has even played out.
Even though my own treatment is still a couple weeks away, I want to use this time — and this experience — to help other guys and families who might be going through something similar. This is why I’m writing about my journey. Cancer can make you feel alone even when you’re surrounded by people, and if sharing what I’m going through gives someone else a little strength, a little comfort, or even just the reminder that it’s okay to be scared and still keep fighting, then it’s worth it. No one should have to walk this road by themselves, and if my voice can help even one person, I’m going to keep speaking up.
Reach out. Message me. You don’t have to walk your quiet miles alone.
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