Some Questions Will Never Get an Answer
Cancer taught me a hard, quiet lesson, some questions don’t have answers yet. That truth can feel sharp. Most of us don’t like loose ends. We want the solid ground of certainty under our feet.
So we ask. Will this treatment work? How long do I have? What happens next? These questions can circle in your mind, especially at 3 a.m., when the house is still and sleep won’t come. Cancer makes uncertainty feel like a room you can’t leave. There’s no clear finish line, no set calendar, no way to study and guarantee you’ll pass.
For a while, I got stuck in a loop that drained me. I tried to predict outcomes. I spent hours reading statistics. I ran every scenario like a rehearsal. I made backup plans for backup plans. It looked like progress from the outside. It felt busy, even responsible.
But I learned there’s a difference between planning and panic.
Planning is talking with your oncologist and asking clear questions. It’s lining up rides, meals, help with work, child care, or bills. It’s tracking symptoms and calling when something changes. Planning is action you can take today.
Panic is asking the same unanswerable question, again and again, hoping repetition will turn into certainty. It won’t. I can’t think my way into control. Neither can you.
Courage, I’m learning, often looks small. It isn’t always bold speeches or big moments. Sometimes it’s choosing not to pick up the same fear for the tenth time today.
I started doing something that sounds simple, but takes practice. I “shelf” questions I can’t answer. I’m not pretending they don’t exist. I’m not pushing them down until they explode. I’m just refusing to wrestle with them on repeat.
When my mind says, “What if the cancer has spread?” I pause. I name the thought. Then I answer it with the only honest line I have, “I don’t know right now. I’ll know when I know.” Then I do the next right thing. I make coffee. I step outside for air. I send a text to a friend. I take my meds.
Isn’t that a kind of courage, choosing the next step without the full map?
Accepting what I can’t control brings more peace than trying to control it. I can’t control how my body responds to treatment. I can’t control tiny cells I can’t see. I can’t control every side effect, or how heavy it will feel on a given day. I can’t control the future.
That still stings. It humbles me. My work life trained me to plan, measure, and deliver outcomes. Skill and precision were my tools. Cancer doesn’t care about my tools.
But letting go of the false promise of control gave me back something precious, energy. Not the forced kind, the real kind. The kind you need to live your own life.
So I point that energy toward what I can control. I alert my care team when symptoms change. I manage pain before it becomes a crisis. I protect my rest. I choose how I spend my good hours. I decide who gets access to my time and my heart. Those choices matter. Obsessing over what I can’t change doesn’t make me safer. It only makes me tired.
The medical world teaches this lesson on repeat. “Wait and see” becomes a daily phrase. Wait for blood work. Wait for scan results. Watch a spot that might be nothing, or might not. Then comes the question after each scan, growth, stable, or shrinkage? You won’t know until you know.
I used to think demanding certainty would calm me. It did the opposite. Calling the office every day won’t speed up the lab. Reading scary stories online won’t change what’s happening inside my body. It can steal a whole afternoon, though. It can steal a whole night.
Answers come when they come. That’s not comforting, but it’s true. Courage sometimes means staying in the not-knowing without letting it swallow you.
This doesn’t mean you stop caring. It doesn’t mean you check out. It means you sort life into two piles, what I can do today, and what has to unfold.
That scan in two weeks won’t change because I worry harder. But I can take my medicine. I can drink water. I can eat something that helps my body. I can step into the shower and let the warm water loosen my shoulders. I can call someone who makes me feel less alone.
I’m not talking about pretending everything is fine. Pain is real. Fear is real. Loss is real. I’m talking about something more grounded, separating “right now” from “what if.”
Right now, in this moment, I’m here. I’m breathing. My heart is beating. I might be sore, or tired, or sick to my stomach, but I’m managing this minute. The worst futures my mind can build aren’t happening in my living room at this exact second. They’re thoughts. Scary ones, yes, but still thoughts.
Can you let a thought pass through without treating it like a prophecy?
When my mind runs ahead, I come back to my senses. I feel my feet on the floor. I notice the air on my skin. I listen for ordinary sounds, a fan, a car passing, a dog barking down the block. I follow my breath in and out. The body brings me back when my mind wants to sprint.
I also shorten my time frame. “Forever” is too big. “This year” can feel heavy. But today, I can do today. This hour, I can do this hour. Sometimes it’s one minute at a time, and that counts.
Accepting that some questions don’t have answers is hard. It can feel like standing in fog. But it’s also freeing. I don’t need to know everything right now. I can focus on this treatment, this day, this moment. The future will show itself when it’s ready.
Until then, I practice a quieter kind of courage. I return to what’s real. I choose the next right thing. I let unanswered questions sit on the shelf.
And that’s growth worth celebrating.
