POST 19: “Shut the Fuck Up, Brain” — Post-Scan Edition (Now Featuring Anxiety: The Remix)

The scans are done. Diagnostic mammogram, check. Ultrasound, check. Inner peace — ha, good one.

The tech smiled that careful smile, the one that’s all professionalism and zero comfort, and said “the doctor will review and reach out soon.” Soon. Such a cute word. Means absolutely nothing — could be tomorrow, could be next Tuesday, could be sometime after the next presidential election. Nobody knows. That’s the whole bit.

And now the waiting starts, which means my brain has clocked in for its shift, grabbed its caffeine and its conspiracy board, and is running this situation like a poorly funded startup powered entirely by panic. It’s spinning scenarios faster than Netflix renews bad shows, building PowerPoints of Doom, cross-referencing WebMD at 2am, and drafting emotional eulogies that are somehow also to-do lists. It’s me, but extra. So much extra.

Everyone keeps saying “don’t worry until you know,” and I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. But that assumes I have some kind of off switch, some little lever in my central nervous system labeled “calm the fuck down” that I just… haven’t tried yet. I have tried it. It doesn’t work. My brain doesn’t believe in peace — it believes in chaos, overanalysis, and making everything deeply, catastrophically personal.

The internal monologue goes something like this: What if the doctor’s on vacation? What if they already know something and just haven’t called? What if they did call but you missed it — did you check your voicemail? You didn’t. Check it. Right now. What if the number didn’t come through because of bad reception? What if the nurse quit mid-shift and your results got lost in the ether? What if they’re gathering an entire medical board to discuss your case because it’s that bad?! And then it pauses, takes a breath, and whispers: “What if you’re fine? …Nah. Let’s not risk it. Keep spiraling.”

I tried meditation. My brain turned it into an interrogation — “what do you mean breathe? Why? What are we preparing for? Is this panic breathing or acceptance breathing?” I tried distraction. Scrolled, cleaned, made coffee. It said “cute, but what if you’re dying while cleaning?” At this point I’ve accepted that my brain isn’t trying to help me — it’s just trying to stay employed. Because if I ever actually relaxed, it’d be out of a job.

So fine. I talk back. I made myself a little arsenal of one-liners to throw at it when it gets loud — what I’m officially calling the “Shut the Fuck Up, Brain” Starter Pack:

“We’re not solving cancer with overthinking.” “Put down Google, Karen.” “You’re not psychic, you’re just dehydrated.” “We’ll panic after coffee.” “If it’s fatal, we’ll know before brunch.” “No one’s ever died of waiting, but plenty have died of bad Wi-Fi.” “This isn’t a plot twist, it’s just Tuesday.” “You’re not a prophet, you’re just bored.”

It doesn’t make the fear disappear — nothing does, really. It just lowers the volume a little, and sometimes that’s genuinely all you can do. Turn the screaming into background noise until your brain gets bored and finds a new hobby, like replaying every embarrassing thing you’ve ever said since 2003.

Because waiting is hell — not fiery, dramatic hell, more like the DMV of emotional torture. You take a number, you sit there, you exist in limbo while your brain fills out unnecessary paperwork and occasionally asks to speak to the manager of your nervous system.

So yeah. The scans are done and the waiting has begun, and my brain is somewhere between existential dread and open mic night. Both, somehow, at the same time.

Now it’s your turn — what’s your line? What do you tell your brain when it won’t shut the fuck up? Let’s make a list together, because laughter won’t fix it but it sure as hell makes the waiting a little less unbearable.

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