The monster under the bed

When I was a young child, I was afraid of the dark. As daylight dimmed and I knew bedtime was approaching, I'd begin to get nervous. I'd beg my mother to let me leave the closet light on so my room wouldn't be completely dark. She'd chide me and tell me I wasn't a baby, but after a few terror filled nights, she realized I was deathly afraid of the dark and allowed me to leave the light on in the closet as long as I only cracked the door. That gave me some comfort, but I always had to check under the bed before I climbed in and even though I shared a room with my sister, I was terrified that something would reach out and grab my ankle in the middle of the night. Sometimes, I feel like cancer is the monster under my bed now. Though I know, in my heart, it's not there, it sure feels like it might pop out and take hold of me again.

Yesterday, I went to the cancer treatment center for a bone scan. My oncologist ordered it to make sure all was well. It's been almost 11 years since I was diagnosed, but I still return for periodic tests. I'm thankful my doctor is keeping a watchful eye on me. Walking into the center after a year, I felt nervous. Though I wasn't there for treatment this time, the memories of all I'd been through over the years haunted me. The sights, the sounds, the smells of sickness were everywhere. 

Living in fear is definitely not fun. You'd think, after all these years of being cancer free I could accept the fact that I'm out of danger, but that's not the case. I know there could be a rogue cancer cell roaming through my body and one day, it could start growing. Next time, I might not be blessed to find it as early as I did the first one. I hope I never have to find out, but I may have to face that fear head on in the future. 

It'd be great if surgery to remove cancer could completely eradicate it. It'd be even better if there was some sort of internal scanner that could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was completely gone. PET scans, MRIs, CT scans and other tests do help, but I'm talking about a kind of internal high beam flashlight that is trained to look specifically for those deadly, wicked cells. 

Not long ago, I needed blood work. The technician had a hard time finding my veins because they're so tiny and she was limited to using only one arm due to my lymphedema. She tried several times and after missing again and again, went to get a lighted ultrasound scanner. Within seconds she'd found a vein and the needle was in. If we had a cancer cell finder like that, it'd be great but it would have to penetrate deep through tissues and muscles. I'd like it if it could work from the inside out, almost like radioactive dye works when having a thyroid scan. 

I imagine many have felt the overwhelming fear of a cancer recurrence like have. That fear has lessened over the years, but it's not completely gone. Some may think it silly to fear a possibility, but once you've experienced cancer, you don't ever want to meet that monster again. 

Though I'm grown now, I keep a nightlight on in my bathroom at night. It helps keep me from stubbing my toe or tripping over something. Sometimes, when I think back to my childhood, the feelings of those nighttime fears frightens me. It probably wouldn't have been so bad if my mother had talked with me and tried to soothe my fears or if she'd brought in a homemade bottle of colored water labeled "Monster Spray." It would have been great if she'd knelt with me and held the flashlight while I looked beneath the bed and fired away with the magic spray. At least then I would have felt like I had some sort of weapon to combat the evil. But cancer doesn't flee as quickly. Maybe that's why it scares me so.