POST 18: The Waiting Room (Again)” — Because Apparently I Needed a Sequel

It’s been two years since my diagnosis — two years of learning to live with sarcoidosis, the flares, the fatigue, the slow rebuilding of a body that doesn’t always listen. And honestly? I was doing okay. Keeping up with my checkups, minding my meds, existing like a semi-functioning adult. You know, frolicking through life’s metaphorical field of fucking daisies.

Part of the annual “keeping up” checklist included the usual — bloodwork, scans, and that special joy known as the mammogram. Let’s pause there, because I swear, if men had to have their parts smashed flat between two cold plates while being told “don’t breathe,” the technology would’ve evolved decades ago. They’d have invented some cushioned holographic hover device that whispers affirmations and dispenses whiskey shots. But no — we’re still out here getting our boobs turned into pancakes for the sake of early detection.

Anyway. I did the thing, checked the box, went home. And just when I thought “cool, another year of being fine-ish,” the universe — dramatic as ever — decided that was too peaceful.

It started with a phone call. You know the kind — the nurse’s voice goes soft and careful, like she’s reading from a script she’s had to use too many times. “We just need to schedule a diagnostic scan and an ultrasound on your left breast.” That’s it. That one sentence, dropped casually into your Tuesday like, “By the way, your entire nervous system? She’s booked for the next two weeks.”

You hang up. You stare at the wall. You think — not again.

Because peace is fragile like that. You start to believe maybe you’ve earned her, and then life shows up like “aww, that’s cute. Anyway…” and flips the damn table.

So here I am again — rehearsing calm I don’t feel, pretending I’m fine while my brain boots up Worst Case Scenario: The Reboot. You’d think after everything I’d be better at this. After being misdiagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, after glowing with radioactive anxiety for months, after scans and biopsies and holding my breath for “results pending” — you’d think I’d have mastered the art of staying calm. Spoiler: I haven’t. And I’m starting to think that’s not a personal failing so much as just… the honest cost of having been through it before.

The first time around, I didn’t even panic. I accepted it, made peace with it, got a little philosophical about the whole thing. I thought about what mattered most if I didn’t make it — seeing my kid get married, holding my grandkids someday — and somehow that was enough. I was calm. Almost too calm, like my mind went on autopilot to protect me from the weight of what I was actually facing.

But this time there’s no calm. There’s no stoic acceptance or “I’ve been through worse.” There’s just rage — pure, white-hot, kick-a-trashcan, scream-into-the-pillow rage. Because it’s not fair, and it’s always something, and every time I start to breathe again some body part or medical system decides to throw a plot twist.

And I’m not just mad about the fear — I’m mad about the system that profits off it. I pay a small fortune every month for “premium” insurance, which in theory should mean I’m covered. But here I am, about to drop another $600 just to find out whether or not I’m allowed to relax. Because that’s the game, right? HMO means you wait months for an appointment but pay less. PPO means you get in faster but bleed money while doing it. Either way you’re still in the same purgatory — waiting for someone to tell you what’s wrong while your bank account joins your anxiety attack.

And everyone says the same thing: “Don’t worry until you know.” Sure, Brenda. Let me just flip the off switch on my central nervous system real quick.

Because waiting doesn’t feel like waiting. It feels like being trapped in a two-week-long panic attack with no soundtrack except the ticking clock and your own heartbeat. It’s rehearsing grief in advance, mentally preparing for bad news just in case, because at least then you’ll be ready — except you won’t be, because you can never actually be ready. You just endure. You sit in the quiet between panic attacks and call it coping. You cry in the car, at your desk, in the shower — anywhere that doesn’t require an audience — and then you keep showing up to work, replying to texts, folding laundry, pretending to function while your body feels like a live wire.

The worst part is that you know this dance. You’ve been here before, and you remember how weirdly peaceful it felt last time — how you thought if this is it, I’ve had a good run. But peace doesn’t come the same way twice. The first time you’re naïve, you don’t know the cost of the waiting. The second time, you do. And that’s what makes it worse.

So here I am — angry, tired, and waiting. Waiting for clarity, waiting for calm, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But I’ll still show up for the scan, because fear and I have history, and she knows I bite back.

To everyone else living in this diagnostic purgatory — you’re not broken for being scared, and you’re not weak for being furious. You’re just human. And if all you did today was survive the waiting, that’s enough.

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