Doing the Two-Step

Learning to live with the “in-between” times of life

Jun 13, 2026

STEP ONE

I try to ignore it, but MRI day is fraught with emotion. “Scanxiety” fits: I expend energy deflecting the fear that crawls up my back and wedges into my brain.

“Don’t borrow trouble.”
”You’ll be safe.”

And then, “What’s wrong with you? It’s just an MRI. You’ve had them before. So what if you’re claustrophobic? Who cares if it’s loud and uncomfortable? Buck up, sister!”

(That’s Gertrude. If you haven’t met her yet, she’s my inner critic. Such a fun girl.)

I focus on what’s controllable: good sleep the night before, a healthy breakfast, and staying hydrated.

I contemplated asking for anxiety meds, but then I’d need a driver. I’d managed without it before; I could again.

Managing a health issue isn’t only physical; it’s profoundly mental.

And then, I remember.

Return to the practices that have carried me before:
truth, worship, community, and noticing the small mercies.

So, out go the prayer requests: K., A., R., and Mom. They step in on my behalf, and the relief is nearly instant. In my Daily Lectio Divina, I find a verse that brings peace.

An image takes hold: being covered by God. I begin to see the MRI as a blessing. I picture that confining space as respite: just God and me, safe and sound.

With my trusty playlist blaring, I dodged the smooth tracks from winter tire studs as the pouring rain threatened hydroplaning. Just as I arrived, the sun popped out.

The first blessing: all the techs were women.
The second blessing: the IV nurse was confident, caring, and coolly nailed the stab on the first try.
The third blessing: a warm blanket.

If you’ve never had a breast MRI, let me try to set the scene. First, I crawl up onto the platform, balancing face-forward on my knees and hands. The techs then open my robe and pull it to each side as I lean forward, lowering myself onto a hard, narrow bridge of sorts.

It takes a minute to acclimate to the hard pressure on my sternum as the techs position my hands overhead and connect the IV for contrast1. Once the paddles are pressed against each side of me, it’s time to be still.

Now I’m lying face down, my head cradled in a padded circle, like a massage. My arms are stretched out in front of me (Superman style), and in one hand I’m holding the emergency stop button, just in case.

A cozy, heated blanket covers me, and as I close my eyes, I’m asked, “Are you ready, Ellen?” I’m reminded that unless it’s an emergency, I cannot exit the MRI during the contrast part of the test. Once it’s started, we have to finish.

I enter feet first. My earplugs2 are in, but they are no match for the clanking, screeching, and clunking that ensue. I always notice a small breeze, but I’ve never been brave enough to open my eyes. I don’t trust my brain to avoid the deep, dark hole of claustrophobia, so I begin to pray.

Prayer is my best weapon against fear.

Loved ones come to mind, and prayers rise. The image that began earlier becomes crystal clear: Within this humongous hunk of metal, God is with me. I am joyful because I live in a country that has access to this kind of screening. I am grateful that I have been cancer-free for three years already.

Listen to Surrounded (Fight My Battles) by Michael W. Smith

This is how I fight my battles.
It may look like I’m surrounded, but I’m surrounded by You.

I was surrounded by God’s loving, mighty arms. My breathing slowed, muscles relaxing. Time seemed nonexistent. I wasn’t just enduring, I was flourishing, overflowing with peace and comfort.

“It’s time for the contrast. Are you doing ok?” interrupts the tech.

The cold liquid bursts into my arm, and the familiar metal taste invades my mouth. More thumping, clicking, tapping, and chirping last a few minutes, and then it’s over.

I made it.

Step one: Complete. ✅

Head aching, I pop into a favorite bakery for a celebratory treat, relaxing in the sunshine.

Let the waiting begin.

STEP TWO

The tears always surprise me.

Even though the risk of recurrence is small and seems insignificant, I still battle worry.

And grief was close. A friend died of ovarian cancer last week, making my heart more tender and my fear closer and stronger. Even when my mind blocks out my emotions, my body holds the anticipation.

And tears are the release.

All day, I resisted refreshing the test results page. For me, constant checking leads to increased anxiety. No thank you.

Then, just past the 24-hour mark, I took a deep breath and logged in. I saw the new report, and prayed, “Lord, please let it be good news.”

I’ve never loved the word “unremarkable” more.

I’ve gotten more proficient at reading test results after misreading my initial biopsy results in 2023, when I was first diagnosed with breast cancer. This test result raised a tiny concern when I saw the BI-RADS Category 2: Benign3. Upon further research, my next steps are the usual: stay on my normal rotation of an MRI, then six months later, a mammogram.

When I read the positive results, it was like a switch was flipped.

Warmth, fatigue, and depletion rose. Adrenaline and cortisol had kept me alert and primed for action. As they ebbed, my parasympathetic nervous system took charge.

As “the cancer might be back” became “clear for another year”, I admitted the weighty burden I had resisted naming all day.

Steady as she goes.

Step two: Complete. ✅

The Two-Step of Scan + Wait is over for another six months. You may know what it’s like to resist projecting into an unknown future while carrying questions as you move through ordinary life. You may be asking:

How will I manage the care of my loved one, plus all of my other responsibilities, in this new season I’m facing?
Will I get the job, promotion, internship, award, certification, or experience I want or need?
How will I live without that loved one, home, job, pet, or friend?
My plate is already full, but I see more demands coming towards me. Where will I find the time, energy, or resources?
How can I effectively plan today while I’m waiting for news of the future?

Whether your wait is minutes or years, rituals can help ease the discomfort. Some things I find helpful:

Community. Strength lies in numbers, and prayer works. Let others lift you up when you’re feeling unsteady. Seek company for coffee or a walk.
Faith. Reinforcing your foundation with Bible reading, singing, and prayer returns the focus to a Force outside of you that is strong, capable, and trustworthy.
Presence. Stay small and slow, noticing the little gifts (Joy Droplets) that are raining down on you, despite the stress.
Self-kindness. Notice tension, limits, or needs. Prioritize healthy choices and boundaries that bring true restoration.
Coping: I ruminate, so I choose productive activities that keep my brain busy during the wait. Keeping my hands busy prevents me from feeding my anxiety with a device.
Celebrate. The MRI is stressful and exhausting, and a small celebration for making it through boosted my spirits. Permit yourself a pat on the back for the small gains.

A prayer sent to me by my dear friend, R., who also went through breast cancer treatment.

Father, thank you for my dear friend, Ellen. I bring her before Your throne of mercy today and ask for grace and peace. Calm the storm that seeks to thwart her resolve in You, speak gentleness over her soul, and let her walk forth in Your peace. When we’re faced with hard stuff, be that Anchor that holds us firm. And ultimately Father, cause the MRI to bring good results, no masses detected, and let her breathe a sigh of relief. I know that feeling. You feel these things for us, and we are grateful people. Cover her now with all that You are for all that she needs today. In Jesus name, Amen.

If you’re in a waiting season, what helps keep you calm and grounded?
Do you have a regular practice of noticing and recording what you are grateful for?
Where do you find your strongest community support?

Discussion about this post

Ready for more?