I Am Currently in an Abusive Relationship... With Cancer

When people hear the phrase “No Evidence of Disease,” they often assume it means freedom, safety, and relief. And on paper, it does. The scans show nothing. The tumor is quiet. The doctors smile and say, “See you in three months.”

But for those of us living with terminal cancer, NED is not a finish line. It is not closure. It is more like living in an abusive relationship—one where you never know when the next blow will land, where the silence is heavy, and where peace always feels temporary.

The Question That Sparked It

Today someone asked me how it feels to know I am NED. Their tone was full of hope, almost celebration. I wanted to mirror that joy, but instead I froze. Because what I wanted to say was this: NED feels like walking on eggshells. It feels like waiting for the other shoe to drop. It feels like being trapped in something that could explode at any moment.

I have never been beaten physically, but I know what it is like to live with the mental weight of fear. Cancer, even in remission, is a presence in the room. It breathes down your neck when you try to sleep. It whispers when you try to make plans. It never really lets you rest.

The Illusion of Safety

An abusive partner can have moments of calm—flowers, apologies, promises that things will be different. In those moments, you want to believe it. You want to cling to the idea that the worst is behind you. But deep down, you know the cycle. You know the danger is never truly gone.

That is exactly what NED feels like. The scan comes back clear and for a moment, you breathe. You think, maybe this time I’ll get longer than three months of peace. But in the back of your mind, you know the cycle. Glioblastoma does not give happy endings. Terminal cancer does not politely fade away. So you live inside a fragile bubble of relief that can be popped at any second.

The Mental Bruises

Physical bruises fade. Mental ones can linger for years. Cancer leaves both. Even when the MRI shows nothing, my mind is tender with fear. Every headache feels suspicious. Every wave of fatigue feels like betrayal. Every cough, every stumble, every moment of forgetfulness whispers, it’s back.

This is the cruel part of being NED. People expect you to celebrate, to dance in the freedom of “no evidence.” But you are carrying invisible bruises—memories of surgery, chemo, radiation, and the statistics that haunt your every thought. The abuse does not stop just because the scans are clean.

Living With Hypervigilance

Those who survive abusive relationships often talk about hypervigilance—always scanning the room, always on alert for the smallest change in tone or body language. That is what living with NED feels like. I scan my body for symptoms the way a survivor scans for danger. I read my doctor’s face for any flicker of concern. I analyze every word in the MRI report as if my life depends on it—because it does.

The worst part is how it steals from the present. It makes joy harder to hold onto. It makes peace a fragile visitor that you never fully trust.

Finding My Own Way Through

And yet, I am still here. I am still breathing. I am still laughing, loving, and building a life around this fragile, unpredictable reality. Just like survivors who rebuild after leaving abuse, I am learning to create a life not defined entirely by fear.

For me, that means leaning into advocacy, building JohnVsGBM, and turning my pain into purpose. It means acknowledging that yes, I am afraid—but I am also alive. It means celebrating the clean scans while also admitting the truth: NED is not freedom. It is survival inside uncertainty.

What I Wish People Knew

When you ask someone with cancer what it feels like to be NED, know this: it is complicated. It is relief and fear tangled together. It is gratitude wrapped in anxiety. It is like living with someone who once tried to kill you—someone who might try again.

So if you love someone living in this space, do not just say, “That’s great news!” Ask them how they are holding up with the waiting, with the unknown, with the constant whisper of what could be. Because that is the part we carry silently, and it is heavier than most people realize.

Closing Thoughts

Being NED is not the happy ending it sounds like. It is more like living in an abusive relationship with cancer—always waiting for the blow, always listening for the silence to break. But like survivors of abuse, I am learning to reclaim my power in the small moments: the laughter in the car, the hug from my husband, the simple gift of waking up to another day.

Those are the moments that matter. Those are the moments cancer has not stolen.

And those are the moments that remind me—I may not control the next blow, but I can still choose how I live between them.