The night before a scan can feel like standing on the edge of a cliff. Sleep comes in short pieces, and every time I wake up I remember why. The fear slips into the room before the light does.
If you live with Cancer, or carry a history of it, you probably know this feeling. Doctors call it pre-scan stress, many patients call it “scanxiety.” I call it scan day anxiety, and it touches every part of the day.
What follows is how I walk through scan day, step by step, from the moment my eyes open to the moment I hear the results. It is not perfect. It is simply the way I protect my mind and hold on to courage when everything feels like it could change in a single phone call.
Step 1: Naming Scan Day Anxiety Before I Get Out Of Bed
The alarm goes off, and for a second I forget. Then it hits: today is scan day. My heart speeds up before my feet touch the floor.
I lie still for a moment and name what I feel. Fear. Anger. Sadness. Hope. All of it. When I name it, it loses a little of its power. I remind myself, “My body remembers danger, but this feeling is not a warning siren. It is a memory.” My brain learned to connect scans with bad news, so of course it reacts.
Many people with cancer hear the word “scan” and feel their chest tighten. You are not broken or weak. Your nervous system works exactly the way it should when it faces a threat. Some people find it helpful to read about this, like in the MSK patient guide on managing scanxiety during cancer treatment. For me, even that reminder, “I am not the only one,” gives a small sense of relief.
Before I sit up, I place a hand on my chest and take five slow breaths. In for four counts, out for six. I tell myself one short phrase: “I have lived hard days before.” It sounds simple, but it invites back my sense of strength.
Step 2: Morning Rituals That Ground Me Before I Leave
Scan day anxiety loves hurry and chaos. So I fight back with routine. Small, steady steps.
I do the same three things every scan morning:
- I make the bed. It gives me one finished task. The room looks a little more calm, so my mind follows.
- I wash and dress with care. I pick soft clothes, a warm sweater, socks I like. My body faces machines and clinics, so I wrap it in comfort where I can.
- I choose a steady breakfast or drink. If I am allowed to eat, I pick something gentle, like toast or oatmeal. If I have to fast, I drink warm water or tea.
These acts do not erase the fear, but they tell my brain, “I am caring for myself.” They remind me that I still have choices.
Sometimes I read a short reflection or prayer. Other times I sit in silence and picture myself as a tree. Roots deep in the ground, wind moving through the branches, trunk steady. That image of quiet resilience helps when everything feels shaky.
I also decide who knows about the scan that day. I might text one or two people and say, “Scan today. If you have a moment, send a kind thought.” I do not need a flood of messages, just a small circle that holds me in mind.
Cancer already takes so much. These tiny choices help me take a little piece of the day back.
Step 3: The Ride To The Hospital And The Waiting Room
The trip to the hospital often feels like walking toward the unknown. Every traffic light feels too long. My thoughts try to race ahead to the worst story they can find.
So I give my mind something else to hold.
Sometimes I listen to music that feels strong but gentle. Other times I play a short guided breathing exercise. The team at MSK even offers meditations for scan anxiety and stress, which can help you practice before the actual day.
On the ride, I ask myself three grounding questions:
- What do I see right now?
- What do I hear right now?
- What does my body feel against the seat?
These questions pull my attention back into the present. The future will come, but it is not here yet.
In the waiting room, I choose where to sit with care. If I can, I pick a seat near a window or a corner that feels less exposed. I keep one small “comfort object” in my bag, like a worn book, a soft scarf, or a stone from a favorite place. It is a reminder that my life is bigger than this hospital.
Sometimes I read stories from others who live with scan day anxiety, like the Cancer Health feature on scanxiety and medical tests. Their words remind me that fear on scan day does not cancel out my courage. It simply reveals how much this life means to me.
Step 4: Inside The Scanner When My Mind Starts To Race
Then comes the part many of us dread. The machine. The tube. The noise.
I talk with the technologist before I lie down. I ask, “How long will this part take?” and “Can you tell me when each part is halfway done?” Simple information cuts the fear down to size. Seconds feel less endless when I know they have a limit.
During the scan, I use a few quiet tools:
- I count breaths. In for four counts, hold for two, out for six. I start again at one when I lose track.
- I picture a safe place in detail. The light, the sounds, even the smell. A beach. A cabin. A garden.
- I repeat a short line: “I am still here.” It reminds me that I did not vanish into the machine.
Sometimes staff offer small comforts like a warm blanket or music. Nurses and techs know how strong scan day anxiety can feel, and many of them care deeply. Articles like how MSK nurses offer relief from scanxiety show how much thought some teams put into this part of our journey.
I will not pretend this time is easy. My mind still jumps to worst-case stories. But each breath is a quiet act of courage, a choice to stay in the moment instead of letting fear drag me into the future.
Step 5: Waiting For And Hearing The Results
For me, the hardest part is not the scan. It is the wait that follows.
If the results come later that day, I plan how I will spend those hours. I try not to let the time become a blur of doom scrolling and what-if loops.
I pick two or three simple tasks: fold laundry, walk around the block, watch a light show. I set a timer for each one. When the timer goes off, I pause and check in: “Where is my body? How is my breath? What do I need right now?”
I also decide ahead of time how I will receive the news. Will I log in to a portal myself, or wait for the doctor to call and explain it? Many people feel less anxious when the doctor walks through the numbers and images with them, instead of reading a raw report alone. Some find ideas about this in resources like the ChenMed guide on managing fear during cancer scans.
When the moment comes and the doctor speaks, I focus on three things:
- What do the images show right now?
- What does my team suggest next?
- What support do I need after this visit?
If the news is good, I let myself feel it. Relief. Joy. Tears. I try not to rush past it. I mark the day in a journal or in my phone. These moments carry me through harder ones.
If the news is hard, I still remind myself: “The scan did not cause the problem. It simply showed what was already there.” I ask my questions. I ask my doctor to repeat what matters. I bring one trusted person with me, or on speaker, if I can.
In both cases, my strength shows up in the same way. I listen. I breathe. I ask, “What is the next right step?”
A Quiet Kind Of Courage On Every Scan Day
Scan day anxiety does not mean you lack courage. It means you care about your life, your people, your future. Of course your heart pounds when all of that seems at risk.
When I look back at each scan day, I do not just see machines and fear. I see small, stubborn acts of resilience. A made bed. A warm sweater. A text to a friend. A slow breath inside a noisy tube. A question spoken out loud in the exam room.
You carry that same quiet power. You show up each time, even while your hands shake. You keep walking into buildings that hold some of your worst memories, because you still choose your life.
Next time scan day comes, you might ask yourself: “What one small thing can I do to care for myself from waking up to results?” Start there. Let that be your proof that courage already lives in you.
