Over a decade has passed since I last underwent surgery or had chemotherapy, in many ways my ordeal has become a distant memory, a blur of hospitalizations, trips to the cancer centre and having my life completely upended. Only about half of women with ovarian cancer live beyond five years, fewer still become cancer free. Yes, I’m one of those fortunate ones. However, I still don’t believe in the term “cured” to describe the status of my ovarian cancer, I will only say that I”m in remission or NED (no evidence of disease). 

For me the fear of recurrence is ever-present, an insidious shadow that lingers in the back of my mind. I’ve been released from the cancer centre, and I no longer visit my oncologist for regular assessments. Still, I’m constantly reminded of the fragility of my remission by every ache, every medical scan, and every follow-up visit to my family physician. This uncertainty is a heavy burden to bear. It can be like living your life on a precipice, not knowing if or when you might fall off.

Every moment of normalcy is tinged with an underlying sense of dread that the cancer might return, that the nightmare might start all over again. I’ve somehow learned to navigate life with this invisible weight, to cherish the days of health while always bracing for the possibility of illness. For me, it’s become a delicate balance between hope and fear, between trying to live fully and the anxiety that the disease could reappear at any time.

The lifelong threat of recurrence that I’ve had to accept is complicated to convey to those who’ve never had their physical health suddenly and viciously destroyed. One person graphically compared the experience to being forced to live with a loaded gun pressed against the back of your head.

“Imagine you’re going about your day, minding your own business, when someone sneaks up behind you. You feel something press up against the back of your head, as someone whispers in your ear. “Sssshhhhh…. don’t turn around. Just listen. I am holding a gun against the back of your head. I’m going to keep it there. I’m going to follow you around like this every day, for the rest of your life.”

“I’m going to press a bit harder, every so often, just to remind you I’m here, but you need to try your best to ignore me, to move on with your life. Act like I’m not here, but don’t you ever forget one day I may just pull the trigger, or perhaps I won’t. Isn’t this going to be a fun game?” 

I find this an effective metaphor for what it’s like to be diagnosed with cancer—to be living with any stage of cancer, or any type of the disease. For most survivors, remission doesn’t change the constant fear, the profound uncertainty and apprehensiveness never entirely disappear. Please, if you have friend or loved one who has ever been diagnosed with cancer, consider this fact. They may never talk about it, or they may wish to talk about it often. The most compassionate thing you can do is listen to them. They aren’t asking you to make it better; they simply want you to sit with them in their fear, their sadness, their anger, just for the moment. 

Don’t try to talk us out of the difficult emotions that we’re experiencing. That approach doesn’t help, and it will only make us believe that what we are going through is being minimized. Don’t remind us of all the good things we still have in our life, we know, and we’re grateful. But some days we’re tremendously uneasy—we feel that gun pressing ominously against us, and we need to talk about it. Offer us an ear.