There is no other way to say this: getting an MRI when you are living with brain cancer is a mind-bending, soul-shaking experience. I do not care how many times you do it. It does not get easier. It just gets... different.

Every three months, the same nightmare routine kicks in: I lay down on that hard plastic slab, they slide me into that whirring, clanking tunnel of doom, and the anxiety hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest.

Oh, you thought the MRI was the scary part? Nope. The real horror show happens in your mind while you are trapped in that loud, claustrophobic tube, imagining every possible terrible outcome. Welcome to the grand, swirling carnival of clean scan anxiety.

MRI: The World's Worst Spa Treatment

First off, whoever invented MRI machines clearly had never heard of "comfort." It is cold. It is loud. It smells like burnt dust and regret. They slap a cage around your head like you are some sort of space prisoner, shove some foam blocks next to your temples, and tell you, “Just try to relax.”

Relax? Sure, buddy, let me just pretend I am not lying in a deafening coffin while a magnet bigger than my car takes a billion pictures of my brain, hunting for any little gremlin that might be growing back.

Within the first two minutes, my imagination completely loses its mind. It is like a bad movie montage: flashes of my doctor with a grim face, me crying in a chair, my family devastated. And right about the time the MRI machine starts sounding like a dying washing machine, I am full-blown catastrophizing.

Funny how every beep sounds like a diagnosis.

Preparing for the Worst (Because That Is How My Brain Works)

Here is the thing: it is not that I expect bad news. It is that I feel like I have to prepare for it. Like if I somehow imagine the worst possible scenario ahead of time, I will be better equipped to survive it.

Spoiler alert: That is not how emotions work.

Still, every single MRI, my brain runs through a full doomsday dress rehearsal:

• The doctor’s face turns serious.

• The words "progression" and "new mass" fall out of his mouth like bricks.

• I practice nodding stoically, like a brave warrior (even though in reality, I would probably be sobbing and hyperventilating).

• I imagine calling my family, breaking their hearts all over again.

• I even picture planning my funeral with really inappropriate jokes, because that is just how I roll.

It is mental self-torture at its finest.

And meanwhile, outside my dramatic internal soap opera, the machine keeps thudding and humming, completely unaware it is the set piece for a total emotional meltdown happening in real-time.

Clean Scan – And Yet...

Finally, the MRI ends. They pull me out, and I stagger off the table like a newborn giraffe. Then it is the dreaded waiting game until the results. You would think that once you hear "clean scan," it would be champagne, fireworks, and a victory lap, right?

Yeah, about that.

It is not that simple.

When the doctor walks in with that big relieved grin and says, "Good news, John, everything looks great!" – I definitely feel a rush of relief. I am grateful. I am thankful. I am SO happy to be able to text my family, my friends, and say, “Another clean scan!”

But lurking under all that joy is this weird, gnawing feeling.

Because guess what? The anxiety clock just... resets.

I survive this battle only to rearm for the next one.

The Bittersweet Reality of Clean Scan Anxiety

People congratulate me. They are so genuinely happy for me. And I am happy too – but there is a part of me that feels guilty for not feeling more... triumphant?

Instead, it feels bittersweet.

Every clean scan is a win, but it is also a reminder that I have to do it all again in three months. It is like crossing a finish line, only to realize it is a treadmill.

You get no break. You get no trophy. Just another timer starting over.

• Three months until the next MRI.

• Three months until the next panic attack.

• Three months until I am lying there again, thinking about every worst-case scenario.

Clean scan anxiety is the emotional version of Groundhog Day.

Finding Humor (Because Otherwise I Will Cry)

I cope with it the only way I know how: sarcasm, bad jokes, and pretending I am tougher than I actually feel.

Sometimes when the MRI tech asks, "Are you ready?" I want to say, "Sure, just let me finish crying into my hospital gown real quick."

When the doctor says, “Everything looks stable!” I want to reply, “Well, thank God, because I already picked out my urn and everything.”

And when people say, “You must feel SO RELIEVED!” I just smile and say, “Totally!” while secretly wanting to crawl under a weighted blanket and binge-watch reality TV for eight hours.

Because honestly, "relieved" is too small a word. "Relieved" is what you feel when you find your keys. This is something deeper. This is surviving another emotional landslide.

The Unexpected Exhaustion of Good News

Another thing people do not always understand: even good news is exhausting.

It is like running a marathon at a full sprint while carrying an emotional backpack filled with bowling balls – and when you finally reach the finish line, someone hands you a clean scan and says, "Good job!"

You smile. You thank them. And inside, you are quietly wondering how long you can keep carrying all this.

Because no matter how strong you are, how positive you stay, living under the constant shadow of "what if" is soul-tiring.

Even victories start to feel heavy after a while.

Gratitude and Grit

Do not get me wrong. I am grateful beyond words. I know how lucky I am to hear the words “no evidence of disease” when so many others do not. I treasure it.

But I also know that acknowledging the hard feelings does not cancel out the gratitude.

You can be happy and scared. You can be thankful and tired. You can celebrate and cry at the same time. Humans are messy like that. Welcome to the full emotional buffet of clean scan anxiety.

And maybe that is what real strength looks like. Not pretending everything is fine. But admitting when it is complicated.

Resetting the Clock – Again

So here we are. Another clean scan. Another three-month countdown.

I will live my life. I will make plans. I will try to forget, for a while, that this clock is ticking in the background.

But I know, deep down, that I will be back in that MRI tube soon enough. And I will be imagining all the worst-case scenarios again, because that is just how my broken, hilarious, stubborn, hopeful brain works.

And you know what?

That is okay.

Because every clean scan – every single one – is a win. Even if the victory comes wrapped in a weird mix of joy, fear, gratitude, and sarcasm.

Especially if it comes with sarcasm.

Final Thoughts

If you are reading this and you know the feeling – the swirl of emotions, the clock resetting, the weird guilt about not feeling purely joyful – you are not alone.

You are surviving something bigger than most people can understand. You are carrying the weight of hope and fear at the same time. You are doing your best with a hand you never asked to be dealt.

And that, my friend, makes you one tough, beautiful, broken, badass human being.

Clock's ticking. But so is your heart.

And it is still beating. Loud and proud.