Cancer and the Fear Beyond Death: What Am I Really Scared Of?

Understanding the True Fear Behind Cancer

A few nights ago, I wrote about the dreaded waiting game—the anxiety and depression that set in while awaiting test results. After I finished, my husband read my post and wanted to talk. He sensed that my frustration and anxiety stemmed from a fear of the unknown, or perhaps a fear of dying. While there is some truth to that, it is not the whole story. So, he asked me, "Is it death you fear? And if not death, then what?"

The truth is, I do not fear death itself. I do not want to die, of course—if I could, I would live forever. But death is not something I am afraid of. As my 7th-grade teacher, Mrs. Connor, once said, "Everyone must do two things in life: die and pay taxes." Even at a young age, I understood that death is inevitable. Life is a journey toward an end. In many cultures, death is even celebrated—think of Mexico’s Día de los Muertos, New Orleans’ Jazz Funeral, China’s Qingming, or Japan’s Obon Festival. So, if death is not the fear, then what is?

The Weight of Time in the Cancer Journey

This was the heart of our conversation the other night. I explained to my husband that it is not death itself that I fear; it is the time limit that terrifies me. We all have an expiration date, but the circumstances surrounding mine make it overwhelming. Cancer has imposed a timeline on my life, one I cannot ignore. I am forced to live by a strict schedule just to avoid dying or to potentially extend my life. The constant reminders are relentless: MRI scans, blood tests, the Optune device I wear every day. Maneuvering around the bathroom with this heavy device on my shoulder and dealing with special travel documents all serve as persistent reminders of what is happening inside me.

Cancer does not just challenge the body—it becomes a clock ticking inside your mind. It erodes your freedom and reshapes your daily life into one ruled by alarms, pills, appointments, and fear. Every time I plan something, I wonder, “Will I be well enough to go?” “Will I still be here?” The idea of running out of time weighs heavily on me, more than death itself ever could.

The Emotional Toll of Cancer’s Daily Reminders

It is difficult to put into words how anxious and depressed this makes me feel. The emotional toll of living with these constant reminders is hard to articulate, and at times, the weight of it all feels unbearable. The daily grind of surviving with cancer is like an invisible backpack filled with bricks—bricks made of appointments, treatments, fatigue, and loss of control. I try to live normally, but there is always that silent undertone humming behind every moment: You are on borrowed time.

Every beep of the Optune monitor, every voicemail from my neurologist, every form to fill out before a scan reminds me that this is not a break, it is a job. A job I never applied for. A job that pays nothing. A job that never ends. The pressure to smile, to be the “inspirational patient,” is another layer of stress. I want to be honest, and some days I want to scream. Not because I am giving up, but because I am tired of pretending it is not hard.

I cry in the car. I cry in the shower. I cry when a song comes on the radio that reminds me of the version of myself who never saw this coming. Then I get out, dry off, and keep going. I keep pushing forward not because I am brave, but because what else is there?

Facing Fear with Hope and Honesty

So, if death is not the fear, then what is? It is the constant, unrelenting reminders of my illness and the imposed time limit on my life. The burden of living by a strict schedule just to survive—or to maybe extend my time—creates anxiety and depression that is hard to shake. The real fear is not that life will end, but that it will be reduced to waiting, coping, and counting down. It is the loss of freedom. The fear of losing opportunities to live fully. The fear of not being able to love deeply, experience freely, or leave a meaningful legacy.

There is also the fear that people will forget who I was before cancer. That I will become “the guy with cancer” and not the one who loved to cook, who made people laugh, who had plans and ambition and pride. I want people to remember my whole story—not just the fight, but the fun. Not just the hospital visits, but the karaoke nights, the family dinners, the quiet mornings with coffee and my dog curled up at my feet.

And the scariest thing of all? The thought that even if I do everything right—take every pill, wear every device, follow every protocol—cancer might still win. That I might still lose this battle. And that is where courage comes in. Not the courage to be fearless, but the courage to fear and keep living anyway.

Living Beyond the Cancer Fear

I have started journaling more, not just for my blog but for myself. I write down what I am scared of, what I am grateful for, what made me smile that day. It is part therapy, part legacy. I have also started opening up more to friends—not just the “I’m fine” script, but the real deal. I tell them when I am scared, when I am tired, when I need a break. And you know what? They show up. People want to help. Sometimes we just have to let them in.

I am also finding peace in creating small routines that bring comfort: making my favorite cup of tea, playing my favorite songs, giving my dog a treat and seeing him wag his tail like it is the best day ever. These tiny rituals help anchor me. They remind me that life is not just what cancer takes—it is also what I choose to keep giving.

Yes, I am afraid. But I am also awake. Cancer has stripped away the illusion that we have forever, and in that strange gift, I have found a new kind of clarity. A new kind of strength. And even on the hardest days, that strength pushes me forward.

Helpful Resources for Cancer Patients

• American Cancer Society
• National Brain Tumor Society
• More Blogs from JohnVsGBM

Tags: Cancer, Glioblastoma, Mental Health, Fear of Time, Coping with Cancer, JohnVsGBM, Optune Journey

Disclaimer: This blog reflects personal experience and is not medical advice. If you or someone you know is struggling, contact your healthcare provider or call 988 for emotional support.