Tag: anxiety

Anxiety is quite something, isn’t it?

I mean, there is worry – which is one thing – but then there is anxiety.

Trust me, I have done my fair share of worrying: I raised two boys so that is reason enough right there! I’ve worried over what we would do when Dan’s job was unexpectedly downsized leaving him unemployed. I’ve worried over silly things like what to wear to an event, would we be on time or late to an appointment, who would I sit next to when I have to be somewhere.

But anxiety? That’s a different beast.

Those worries can turn into anxiety for sure, but on their own they come and go as quick as the time passes.

Anxiety grips you. Holds you hostage. Clings tightly. Digs in deep.

Worry can be somewhat rational….”I’m worried about what the diagnosis will be”; “I’m worried if the person I love will be ok”; “I’m worried about missing out on something because I might be late.”

Anxiety… takes whatever I’m worried about and twists it into something so much more. I am not trying to do this intentionally, it is something my brain does for me all on its own. Isn’t that special?

Some people, my husband for example, does not have anxiety. Does he worry? Yes. Does he get anxious about what worries him? No. My oldest son seems to be just like him.

I find that strange.

I, on the other hand, have struggled with anxiety for most of my life. I almost wonder if it is something that arises from deep within me when I do not acknowledge what I am worried about, do not feel validated in what I am worried about, or cannot seem to work through what I am worried about.

Whatever it is, it is my worries MAGNIFIED.

I remember having bad dreams as a kid and wandering the house in the night unable to separate myself from that dream. I remember it so that must mean I was awake, but I also remember feeling trapped in it at the same time as if I was partially asleep. I could not settle. I could not relax. I did not feel “safe” even though I was safe inside my home.

I would go upstairs to my parents bedroom and try to settle into a “nest” built on the floor for the dog, but it was not “enough” to calm me or to stop the feeling of being “trapped in the dream.”

As an adult, I can now recognize that I was having a panic attack.

Unbeknownst to my brother, who was my arch nemesis at the time, I finally crawled onto the foot of his bed and curled up. It was there in the (if you have a brother then you understand, but to my brother this is no way disparaging of you as an adult!!!) grossness of his teenage bedroom by his yuck boy feet that I could feel secure again to be able to return to my own room and sleep once more.

I remember doing that more than once.

I also remember waking up in the middle of the night and scaring my parents half to death because I swore I could not breathe. I think my mom was on the cusp of taking me to the Emergency Room when I was finally able to settle down.

As I got older, the expressions of anxiety changed: insomnia continued, restlessness increased, inability to focus, a roaring in my ears, stomach “butterflies”, consuming thoughts while jumping from topic to topic.

It’s fun stuff.

Where did it all start? Why?

Who knows. Maybe there was a reason- it would be nice to “blame” it on some event I suppose. Or, as we now have discovered through science, maybe it just IS. A true medical diagnosis of anxiety that I have not been officially diagnosed with.

In 2014, I had the best time ever going to a Beth Moore conference with some friends and my mother. It was a chance of a lifetime to go and I am so glad we jumped at that chance! If you don’t know her- she is a dynamo of a speaker! An authentic woman of God. An incredible author too!

Anyway, at that conference, at the end, there was this time for prayer and reflection. In that time, I remember someone praying specifically for the chains of anxiety to be dropped; for those bonds that feel like they are holding a person prisoner, to be released.

I felt the release.

Does anxiety still beckon to me? Yes.

Does anxiety still cross my threshold into my home, into my mind? Yes.

Does it rule me? No.

Does it define me? No.

Do I still struggle with the temptation for it to consume me? Yes.

It’s a battle. In some seasons, it feels like an all out war, but I do feel free from its grip on me.

I’ve gone to counseling over the years when my personal coping choices were not effective due to the extreme circumstances I found myself in. I’ve changed many of those coping choices over the years, as well, when I realized what was helping or hurting me.

Well, let me tell you…. once again I can honestly say that I am struggling.

Hello, anxiety, my old friend….I’ve been freed from its chains but it still likes to try to take hold of me.

I made the decision to have the bilateral mastectomy and braced myself for the “comments” that may come my way once I announced my treatment plan.

I worried about what others would say, but I was anxious about what decision to make. See the difference?

There is an interesting detail that still remained: the MRI my surgeon still wanted me to have.

I met with the plastic surgeon on a Tuesday, and he went over what surgery would look like as well as the recovery plan. I handled a silicon breast implant as if it were a stress ball throughout that whole appointment.

Remember when I talked about all those choices we make in a day and how overwhelming more choices were to me? Well, who KNEW that there would still be more choices included even when I made a decision for the mastectomy~

*what kind of implant: saline, silicon, my own tissue?

*nipple or no nipple?

*tattoo nipple?

I never realized how modest I was until I started having health problems…These are crazy conversations to have with a stranger!

When I left that appointment, needless to say, I was overwhelmed and emotional. My anxiety had once again surfaced and the roaring in my ears was present. As I approached the elevator I saw a familiar face: one of the doctors I work with on a regular basis. I did not realize that he was a part of that specific medical group and was not prepared to make casual conversation so I made myself small and quiet: he never saw me standing there.

The next day I went in for the breast MRI.

At this point of the journey, I have had 2 mammograms (naked breasts squished in a machine with the tech standing right there “woman-handling” my breasts to obtain the best imaging views). I had 2 breast ultrasounds: one with the female ultrasound tech waving her lubed up wand over my breast and the second with a doctor joining her to do the same. I next had the biopsy, which was another ultrasound with my breast exposed and cleaned, and a doctor- with the tech- performing the ultrasound guided needle biopsy. I sat through an appointment with my “team” of physicians where 2 of the 3 doctors did a breast exam in front of my husband. Finally, I met with the plastic surgeon where another exam was completed, measurements were taken, and photographs were done all with the nurse present to assist the physician.

Everything and everyone have been incredibly professional. It is just a body part. I am a nurse and I know this. But it is personal to me.

Now it is time for the breast MRI. Are you kidding me with this one??? Top off, lay on your stomach and let your breasts dangle through a hole with my arms over my head.

Are you comfortable, Amy? Never better.

Oh my gosh. I am not ok.

It’s over in about a half hour and home I go with whatever dignity is left.

The next morning I woke up to the “My Chart” app alerting me to the findings from the MRI. They were a little confusing to me so I was pleased that the Nurse Navigator from my team called me within a few short hours:

“Did you see the MRI results?”

Yes.
“We are concerned that there were more spots on your left breast found. If a lumpectomy is planned, we will need to do more biopsies for sure. There is also a “spot” on your right breast. We “think” it looks benign, but that will need to be monitored every year from here on out depending on your treatment plan. We need to make some decisions quickly.”

(I’m at work in the middle of a procedure when this call came through.)

I am planning to have a bilateral mastectomy and met with the plastic surgeon Tuesday to discuss that as my plan. This MRI confirms that my decision is the correct one for me.

MORE spots? Are you kidding me?

I can’t have this surgery fast enough.

Do you know when that surgery will be scheduled?

“No, but I will tell your surgeon what we have discussed and it should be scheduled soon.”

Soon is a funny word, isn’t it? When exactly is something “soon”?? Tomorrow? Next week? Later today? In a month?

I take a deep breath as I hang up the phone and get back to my assignment at hand: my job as a procedural nurse. Back to business.

That same week, on Friday, I have a big thing to do for myself. It may not seem like a big deal for others, but this was huge for me.

My breast cancer is “hormone positive” which means that hormones “feed” it. I’ve been on one form of birth control or another since I was 18 years old. For about 8 years I took “the pill” and then I was introduced to an IUD.

Was it the birth control pill that caused all this? It is hard to say, but taking it definitely increased my risk factor for breast cancer.

My youngest child is a precious 19 years old. He was born in 2005. That means I have had this IUD as a birth control option for 19 years. I was told that my IUD could “carry me through menopause” nicely. It could diminish the side effects many women experience as they become menopausal. In 19 years, thanks to my IUD, I have not even had a menstrual cycle. No period. No cramps. No cravings. No obvious PMS symptoms.

For 19 years.

I was told it needed to come out. Yes, the hormone it releases is not one that feeds my tumor, but it is still best to not have any hormones be fed into my body anymore.

So on the same week that I met with the plastic surgeon and had the MRI, I now get up close and personal with my OB to have the IUD removed.

I cannot even begin to describe how vulnerable and exposed I am feeling these days. My body has become something more public than I would prefer it to be and it makes me incredibly uncomfortable. Is it all medically necessary? Yes. Has everyone been professional about all they have done? 100% YES.

Yet, I still feel raw just the same.

My OB calls me as I am driving to office because she does not know why I am having the IUD removed and wants to inform me that the “exchange of it for another” is not required for another year. She is being kind in trying to prevent me from an unnecessary appointment.

I inform her that I need to have it out because I have been diagnosed with breast cancer. She is immediately empathetic and says she will see me soon in the office.

My nerves are shot by the time I get there.

Here is the thing: I have had many appointments through all this. I’ve been told where to go, where to stand, where to park, when to arrive, what to wear all so something can be done to me.

THIS is something I have to do myself for myself. This is something that is going to change many things about me. My husband and I are fairly young: birth control is suddenly a new issue to deal with as we enter our 50’s. I will probably have periods again and all that goes along with it each month. They may be regular or irregular in their cycle, heavy or light. We don’t know.

And I will definitely being going through and feeling ALL of menopause.

I have to do it. This life change must happen for me to move forward as a breast cancer patient.

The tears start falling as soon as the doctor enters the room. I explain my situation as she compassionately listens. She gets it. She even asks if I want to take the IUD home so I can bury it (I declined that offer in case you wondered!).

She understands that in this one simple act, I have begun to grieve the life that I once knew, the future that I had believed would come.

I have breast cancer and life is going to be different because of it.

ANXIETY hit when I walked out of that office that day. It hit HARD. It hit fast and heavy. I got in the car and cried a million tears before I could even think of driving. I could not figure out what to do next as I sat there in the parking lot.

I was not worrying… I was anxious.

Anxiety won’t let me make a decision. It tells me that the choice to get a coffee from this Starbucks or that one is as big a deal as should I have open heart surgery soon or not. I cannot think clearly or hear my thoughts that should instinctively guide me toward my next natural step.

It freezes me in a moment of “do I go in or do I stay out?”

When Troy was a baby, he was born with a club foot. During my maternity leave, I had to take him weekly to the pediatric orthopedic surgeon’s office where she would wrap his little leg in a stiff yet pliable cast to gently turn his little leg outward. The goal was to increase the length of the ligaments on the inside of his leg and to tighten up the length of those on the outside of his leg (the Ponseti method). After that stage of treatment was completed, he needed to have his Achille’s tendon released surgically at the age of 3 months: a hard plaster cast was put on him for a month or 2. When that was removed, he had to wear special shoes that would attach to a bar to hold his legs apart as well as to keep turning the right foot outward with the shoe holding his foot more flat.

It was at this that I realized that I was having some serious emotional issues with what was going on with him. Over the early months of his life I seemed to handle most things alright. However, I needed to get this “normal” shoe that would go with his orthopedic shoe to fit into this bar (Denis Browne splint). I was to look for the classic baby shoe: white leather with laces.

I went to the mall so I could go to the Payless Shoe Store (did I just date myself??). I remember standing outside the store and would take a step toward it and then back away. I did this for quite a while. I could not go in, but I could not walk away either. Back and forth. Do I go in? Do I go in? Do I go in? I could not make the decision. I could not breathe either and it felt like the weight of the world was suddenly sitting on my chest.

Anxiety at its finest.

21 years later and I am just as frozen. Crippled by it.

Through my years of grief counseling, I have gained some wisdom. One refrain entered my head: do the next thing. If you don’t know what to do, just do the next thing. It does not matter what it is, just do it. Then do what is next after that.

I started with turning my car on and continuing to deep breathe. I chose the closest Starbucks and treated myself to a hot latte made with oat milk (it changes the latte game, I’m telling you!). I chose my next step from there and gradually made it through the day.

I believe I did some therapeutic shopping that day and bought fancy recovery jammies with buttons as well as new lounge wear as if I’ll be some idle queen laying on her chaise lounge enjoying the companionship of those around me instead of recovering from having my body surgically altered because I have to instead of doing it because I want to.

The day ends and I notice that I am without word of a surgical date. I can now assume it will not be the next week but cannot guarantee any secure future plans I’ve committed to for the weeks to come. We look at our calendars and try to determine how to plan Dan’s work-travel as well as my speaking engagements I have looked forward to. It was stressful because we knew we needed to cancel our plans at any minute.

The weekend passes as we tell people, “we don’t know yet” when they inquire frequently and with compassion.

The unknown is so hard. Hard to plan for. Hard to stay present in the moment. The weight of not knowing settles on me uncomfortably. I do not want to harass my doctors office with phone calls. I do not want to try to micro manage this situation – which has only proven to make me more anxious in the past and I’m already intense as it is.

The waiting means I continue to walk around with potentially growing cancer inside of me.

I want to TRUST. I want to believe that God is IN this still. Trust that I will not fall through any cracks in the system. Trust that God’s word to me is true that I will NOT be overwhelmed or consumed by the waters and fire that threaten me.

I decided to give the office until Tuesday before I would call them. By Tuesday it would have been a week since I was seen in the office with the plastic surgeon and the decision to have the mastectomy was made.

Remember that surgeon I saw by the elevator that I hid from?

When I got to work on Monday, there he was in my break room. For this to be truly understood, you have to know that I work 2 days a week. These two days vary from week to week as I do not have a consistent schedule at all. Also, I work with many different doctors as they all have different schedules too. I can see the same one each week, but another only once a month.

That is the case with this particular surgeon: I do not work with him too much. I work with enough to know him and for him to know me, but I am not scheduled to be in his room each time he is in our unit. It’s just how our schedules go there.

But here he is in my breakroom at 0800.

A co-worker of mine is there as well and asks me the infamous question: do you have a date yet??

I said no and then looked at the doctor. She sees me look at him and asks, “could he help?”

He asks, “with what?”

I inform him that I have breast cancer and that surgeons in his office will be doing my surgery but I have not received a surgical date yet and that is making me more and more anxious about all of it. Could he help me to get it scheduled in some way??

In that moment I remember that his sister had been treated for breast cancer so he is even more empathetic than the usual person I inform of my situation.

God has put the right person in the right place at the right time for me.

He immediately agrees to help and within minutes, I was told, he was on the phone with his office manager.

In that moment the relief I felt was palpable when I could still see the hand of God working in my situation. He had not left me alone in my anxiety -even if I could not feel Him directly there.

I was promised that He would be right here and here He was.

Before lunchtime that day I received the call from the surgeons office that I had been waiting for and my surgery is officially scheduled.

April 16, 2025 at 0900 I will be having a bilateral mastectomy.

The pressure eased a little that day. The anxiety subsided somewhat as my trust in the Lord was strengthened. I was, and am, thankful for God’s continued provision.

I am going to need that reminder for the days to come.