Every time my phone rang last week, my stomach dropped. A ringtone, a withheld number, the buzz of a text message, and suddenly my heart was racing before I’d even looked at the screen. Rationally, I knew it could be anyone. Emotionally, I was bracing for bad news.
This is scanxiety: the very real distress before, during or after medical scans and tests. It is the knot in your stomach while waiting for an MRI. The dread that arrives with a CT appointment letter. The inability to concentrate when blood test results sit somewhere in an inbox. The way a normal Tuesday can feel impossible because you are waiting for someone, somewhere, to tell you whether life is about to change.
As a GP, I’ve heard patients describe this feeling for years. I knew people struggled to sleep, became tearful, snappy and distracted. But since my own cancer diagnosis last year, I have come to understand scanxiety in a far deeper way.
People often assume the hardest day is diagnosis day, and of course, that day can split your life into a before and after. But what nobody really prepares you for is how long fear can linger after treatment ends. There is an expectation that once the surgery is over, the radiotherapy finishes, the medication starts, you should feel grateful and move on.
Sometimes you do feel grateful. But you can also feel frightened, and that’s OK.
Follow-up scans, check-ups and surveillance appointments can re-open emotions you thought you had neatly packed away. You may be back at work, making packed lunches, replying to emails, remembering PE kits and pretending to listen when your child tells you a 15-minute story about Minecraft. But underneath it all, your mind is waiting for the phone to ring.
If you have previously received difficult news in a hospital room or over the phone, your body remembers that experience. Through trauma, the nervous system learns that certain places, sounds and situations are associated with danger. So you find yourself in a perfectly ordinary kitchen, reacting as if there is a threat in the room.
This is why telling anxious people to “just relax” is about as useful as telling someone with hayfever to “just stop sneezing”. Well-meaning loved ones often say: “Think positive” or “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” We hate seeing the people we love in pain and want to lift it somehow, but the truth is that often, the only reassurance you really want is the result itself.
Others may suggest speaking to people who have been through something similar. Sometimes that helps enormously because shared experience can be comforting and connective. But it can also backfire – when you are already frightened, hearing another horror story can send your mind into a tailspin.
In calmer moments, the internet can be useful. In anxious moments, it can feel like psychological warfare. Your nervous system is on high alert, scanning for danger, so suddenly every headline, every health story, every algorithmically served advert appears to be speaking directly to your fears. You begin to wonder if your phone is listening, when really it is anxiety making everything feel loaded.
So what helps? I wish I could offer a magic solution. However, there are some practical things that can help.
Ask your referring clinician for a plan: when will results likely be back? How will I hear? Who do I contact if I’ve heard nothing? Even a little certainty can soften the edges of worry.
Tell healthcare staff if you are struggling. You do not need to perform bravery. Radiographers, nurses, receptionists and doctors see this every day and can be gentler than you expect.
Write things down – questions, worries, dates, symptoms, practical tasks. Anxiety loves clutter. Putting thoughts on paper can stop them from endlessly circling.
Choose your distractions wisely. Doomscrolling is not rest. Fresh air, movement, a walk around the block, watching something comforting, sitting beside someone safe – these often help more than another hour online.
If it feels overwhelming, speak to your GP. Anxiety around health can be severe and deserves support just like any other health issue. Most of all, I think people need permission to stop minimising it. Scanxiety is a deeply human response to uncertainty, especially when you have known fear before.
As a GP, I still request scans for patients every week. But being on the other side has changed me. I am slower with my words now. Softer with reassurance. More mindful that the period between “we’ll send you for a scan” and “everything looks OK” can contain an enormous amount of suffering.
So if you are waiting right now for a letter, a call, a message, an appointment, I hope you know this: you are not overreacting. You are carrying something very heavy. And you are not alone.