There is a kind of relief that comes with normal test results.
The scan looks okay.
The scope is reassuring.
The labs are not screaming emergency.
The genetic test does not show the harmful mutation you were afraid of.
The doctor says something like, “This is good news.”
And it is.
I want to be very clear about that.
Good news is good news.
When you have spent so much of your life in hospitals, waiting rooms, exam rooms, procedure rooms, and patient portals, you do not take good news lightly. You know what it feels like to wait for results with your stomach in knots. You know what it feels like to read words you barely understand and immediately start Googling, even though you know you probably should not. You know what it feels like to brace yourself before opening a message from your doctor.
So when the results are normal, there is gratitude.
There is a deep breath.
There is the quiet thought of, Thank God.
But what I am learning is that normal test results do not always make the fear disappear.
Sometimes the tests are normal, but the fear is not.
Lately, I have been through a lot medically. It has felt like one thing after another. Headaches. Neurological symptoms. Numbness. Cognitive concerns. Abdominal symptoms. Crohn’s worries. Genetic testing because of family history. Appointments. Procedures. Scans. Lab work. Messages. Waiting.
So much waiting.
And after all of that, I have received a lot of reassuring news.
My recent scopes were reassuring. My imaging did not show active inflammatory bowel disease. My genetic testing did not find a harmful gene mutation. My bone density was normal. In so many ways, I have been handed results that should allow me to exhale.
And I have exhaled.
But I have also noticed something else.
My body does not always trust relief right away.
My mind can read the word “normal,” but my nervous system still whispers, Are we sure?
Are we sure they looked at everything?
Are we sure nothing was missed?
Are we sure this symptom does not mean something else?
Are we sure this will not become another chapter I was not prepared for?
That may sound dramatic to someone who has not lived with medical trauma, but if you have, I know you understand.
When your body has betrayed you before, it takes time to believe it is safe.
I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease when I was fifteen years old. My life changed in ways I never could have understood at that age. I went through major surgery, an ileostomy, complications, more surgeries, and years of learning how to live in a body that did not always follow the rules.
That kind of history stays with you.
Even when you are doing well.
Even when you are living your life.
Even when you are working, traveling, laughing, loving your family, and genuinely trying to stay positive.
It stays.
Not always loudly. Not always in a way people can see. But it is there.
It is there when a new symptom shows up.
It is there when a doctor orders another test.
It is there when you are waiting for pathology.
It is there when you open the patient portal and your heart starts pounding before your eyes even reach the result.
And then, when the result is normal, everyone expects relief to be simple.
Sometimes it is not.
Sometimes relief comes with tears.
Sometimes relief comes with exhaustion.
Sometimes relief comes with disbelief.
Sometimes relief comes with guilt because you know you should feel happy, but you still feel afraid.
I think that is the part we do not talk about enough.
There is a strange emotional space between “nothing serious showed up” and “I feel okay now.”
That space can feel lonely.
Because how do you explain that you are thankful and still unsettled?
How do you explain that you believe the doctor, but your mind is still scanning for danger?
How do you explain that good news can calm one part of you while another part is still standing guard?
I do not think that makes us ungrateful.
I do not think it means we lack faith.
I do not think it means we are negative people.
I think it means our bodies remember.
Our minds remember the times the news was not good. Our hearts remember the moments we had to be stronger than we wanted to be. Our nervous systems remember the hospital rooms, the procedures, the pain, the complications, the fear, and the uncertainty.
So when peace finally comes, we may not know how to receive it right away.
That is where I am right now.
I am trying to receive the good news.
Not dismiss it.
Not minimize it.
Not immediately jump to the next fear.
Not spiral into every possible “what if.”
Just receive it.
I have had to remind myself, sometimes out loud, Not this time.
Not this time.
This test was okay.
This result was reassuring.
This scan did not show the thing I feared.
This moment is not the same as the worst moments I have already survived.
That does not mean I ignore symptoms. It does not mean I stop advocating for myself. It does not mean I pretend everything is perfect when it is not.
I have learned the importance of listening to my body. I know what can happen when things are brushed off or missed. I will always be someone who pays attention, asks questions, and follows up when something does not feel right.
But I am also learning that there is a difference between advocating for myself and living in a constant state of fear.
That line can be hard to find.
Maybe you know that feeling too.
Maybe your story is not medical. Maybe your tests are not scans or scopes or bloodwork. Maybe your “results” are something completely different.
Maybe your marriage is okay now, but you still flinch from the hard season.
Maybe your finances are steadier now, but you still panic when a bill comes in.
Maybe your child is doing better, but you still sleep lightly, waiting for the next phone call.
Maybe your grief has softened, but certain dates still knock the wind out of you.
Maybe life has given you evidence that things are okay, but your heart has not fully caught up yet.
If that is you, I want you to know something.
You are not broken because peace feels unfamiliar.
You are not weak because reassurance takes time.
You are not ungrateful because good news did not instantly erase the fear.
Sometimes healing is not only about getting the answer you prayed for. Sometimes healing is learning how to live with the answer after years of bracing for something worse.
I am trying to practice that.
Practice believing good news.
Practice letting my shoulders drop.
Practice not borrowing trouble from tomorrow.
Practice reminding myself that I can be watchful without being consumed.
Practice telling myself, Today, I am okay.
And maybe that is where the hope is.
Not in pretending fear never shows up.
Not in forcing ourselves to be positive every second.
Not in shaming ourselves for the thoughts that come after years of hard things.
But in gently choosing, again and again, to come back to what is true right now.
Right now, I have received some good news.
Right now, I can breathe.
Right now, I do not have to solve every future fear.
Right now, I can be thankful.
The tests may be normal, and the fear may still need time.
That is okay.
I am giving myself permission to heal at the pace my heart can handle.
And if you are in that same space, I hope you can give yourself permission too.
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One Response
What a great excerpt! I learn more about you with every blog Jacqueline. When they say health is everything; it is. But unless you have dealt with major health issues it is easy to take health for granted. So yes that switch to good news afters years of not good news is difficult to shut off. I appreciated your insight and love how you always leave on a positive note. And advice on how to accept the good news. This was a very therapeutic read.