The MRI, the Meltdown, and the Moment I Realized I Still Had Healing to Do

It’s been 14 years since my cancer diagnosis, and still — unexpectedly, sharply — the trauma shows up.

As you know, I recently moved to Seattle, and with that came a new medical team and new protocols. One of those changes? A routine breast MRI. No big deal, right? After all, I’ve been through chemo, surgery, radiation, years of scans and follow-ups. I’m "past it." I’m "fine."

Except, I wasn’t. At all.

When the MRI order came through, I had what can only be described as a full-body, soul-level panic attack. I didn’t want to go. Not because I was afraid of the scan itself — though the clanging tube and contrast dye aren’t exactly cozy — but because of what it represented. The fear that something might be found. The fear that I’d be dropped back into the machinery of biopsies, blood draws, PET scans, appointments, decisions. The fear of being a patient again.

And what hit me hardest? Realizing how much of that trauma I never truly dealt with 14 years ago. I white-knuckled my way through it all. I survived. I moved on. But I never really unpacked it. And it was still there, right under the surface, waiting for a moment like this.

I actually made an appointment with my doctor to try and talk my way out of it. I sat in her office, in tears, explaining that I wasn’t afraid of the MRI — I was afraid of what might come after. False positives. More tests. More waiting. I told her I didn’t want to go down that road again.

She looked at me and said, plainly:
"Don’t be a baby. Just do it."

Brutal. And yet… somehow, exactly what I needed to hear.

Then she softened and suggested therapy might help me process all of this. Through my tears, I asked if she had anyone she could recommend. She apologized and said she didn’t. And then, through the blur of it all, I stiffened up and said:
“Well, this may not be the appropriate time, but I am a therapist now. Want to refer someone to me?”

We both burst out laughing.

I asked her if that was a completely ridiculous thing to say, given that I had just been a puddle on the floor minutes earlier. She smiled and said, “That’s exactly why you’re perfect. You have the empathy women need. You’ve lived it.”

So, I booked the MRI.

When I arrived, I looked at the tech and said:
“Just a heads up, I’m going to cry through this.”
And without missing a beat, he said:
“Yeah, the breast MRIs are hard ones, not fun at all!”

Not what I needed to hear.

I laid in the machine, trying to breathe, crying under the loud thumps and clangs. But I got through it.

What I couldn’t get through was the wait.

I realized I wasn’t equipped to handle the dread of watching my patient portal for results. I knew that if I saw them before my doctor called, I’d spiral — misread something, panic, imagine the worst. So I emailed my doctor and asked her to please call me with the results no matter what. I needed a human voice. I needed to not be alone with my fear.

The waiting was brutal. I had the biggest panic attack I’ve had in years. I couldn’t breathe. I was pacing my apartment, my heart racing.

In therapy the next day, telling my therapist how ridiculous it was, he pointed out something crucial...

I had been alone in my apartment waiting for the phone call with the MRI results — just like I had been 14 years earlier when I got the call that I had cancer. I had the not be alone, to be at my mom's apt, but alas, she and Jack have a life and they had their own doctors appt! How rude! :) But I didn't know WHY I didn't want to be alone. 

That memory, buried deep in my nervous system, came roaring back without warning. It made so much sense. And it caught me completely off guard.

So, what’s the moral of the story?

It’s okay to be a baby and cry — as long as you still do the thing.
It’s okay to advocate for yourself and ask your doctor to help you through the hard parts.
It’s okay to realize that trauma doesn’t disappear just because time passes.
And it’s more than okay for those of us who’ve walked this road to still be afraid sometimes.

I did the MRI. I survived the panic. I’m okay.
And I’m still healing — one honest, vulnerable moment at a time.