Leaving My Anxiety at the Bronch Room Door

Learning to trust when fighting feels safer.

The mask that was feeding me oxygen felt like it filled my entire view from the table, and then my doctor stopped by to say hello.

Anxiety is not my friend, but it has been my constant companion since I can remember. Sometimes it works in my favor by motivating me to do things I may not really want to accomplish but are in my long-term best interest (client work, planning, etc.). But most of the time, it takes me down rabbit holes and into rumination spirals that do me no good whatsoever.

I learned late Tuesday that I had an appointment with Rudy (the robot guide) for my bronchoscopy on Friday. That gave my anxiety three days to ramp up and cause me great stress and worry. But I was determined to fight back and not let the anxiety win.

A robot-assisted bronchoscopy involves general anesthesia, intubation, and threading a bronchoscope and surgical tools through my airway and deep into my lung. It’s not a walk in the park, nor is it major surgery. But it is still a procedure that warrants an operating room. Given that, of course, my anxiety immediately had to prepare me for everything that could go wrong:

They don’t get to the nodule because it is so deep in my lobe

They nick something, resulting in a pneumothorax (collapsed lung)

Something really bad happens, and I die (and of course my anxiety cannot name that “something bad” but tells me I need to worry anyway)

All of these thoughts entered my mind many times between Tuesday and Friday. I was successful at shutting them down quickly, but sometimes, they persisted and caused me great stress and what I call FIMS (fear in my stomach). Luckily, and because I have been working on managing my anxiety over the last few years, the incidents were short-lived.

I woke up at 5 am on Friday, tired from not sleeping very well. I knew I would be “sleeping” during the procedure, so it was all good. I showered with the antibacterial soap I was instructed to use, did not apply any lotion as instructed, but luckily was allowed to use deodorant. I was told I could brush my teeth but was not allowed to swallow. Who in the world does that? I guess people do, or they would not have to tell you not to.

No metal on your body meant I needed to take out my nose ring, which is not an easy task. The last time I took it out, I lost one part of it in the bathroom, and it took me what felt like forever to find it. Luckily, it was an uneventful extraction.

I was not allowed to eat or drink after midnight, so my morning routine was quite easy, and I was ready to go with 30 minutes to spare. Rich fed and walked Botti while I was keeping myself calm on the couch. I was reading the news, which is truly counterintuitive to keeping myself in a calm space, but I did it anyway.

Between news stories, I noticed the date on my phone and realized it was the 19th of the month. My mom died on this day, 11 months earlier, and next month on the 19th, it will be a full year. As soon as that thought entered my mind, I felt the FIMS and thought to myself, “I could die today, too.” As irrational as the thought was, it still affected my entire body. I felt that fear in every cell. But, because I refuse to let anxiety rule me anymore, I squashed it quicker than I would have a year ago. But …

The number 19 was my favorite number when I was younger (10 was a close second)

I spoke to my biological mom for the first time on November 19, 1993.

My mom died on July 19, 2025

So now, 19 is not as special as it used to be. But today was also Juneteenth, a day of historical celebration, and reading a couple of articles about it made me feel much better.

Yet, a small level of anxiety still lingered under the surface as we drove to the hospital.

We arrived and were sent to the wrong place before being sent to the correct one. Then, at the proper area, it took four people to complete my check-in due to a “new system.” During the wait that seemed to last forever, more anxiety:

Oh no, is this a sign, and not a good sign?

When they tell the story of my death, will this part be foreshadowing?

And other unsettling thoughts.

Finally, I was told to sit in the waiting room, and as soon as I got comfortable, I was called back. Once in pre-op, Carla laid out my lovely purple paper gown and equally lovely non-slip gray socks, then left while I changed into my bronchoscopy attire. She came back with warm blankets, which is one of the best parts of these procedures.

Shortly after Carla left, Mike, my nurse, came in and began explaining what would happen. Since uncertainty is my kryptonite, knowing what was coming helped calm the bit of nerves I was still experiencing.

After a failed attempt to get the IV into my right arm, undaunted, Mike was quickly successful with my left arm. During our time together, we chatted about kayaking and his desire to paddle a lake near where I lived. He said it was a private lake, but believed he found a public launch. I told him about watching fireworks while kayaking at Kensington Park, and he thought it would be cool to do that.

Mike left the room to get Rich from the waiting room, so he could sit with me while I waited for the anesthesiologist and respiratory fellow to come by. Soon after Rich arrived, Dr. Lee, the anesthesiologist, came by for a quick chat, making sure I understood I would be “put to sleep” during the procedure. I understood and resisted making a joke about him having a magical bag of potions that would make me a sleeping beauty. He was nice, but I don’t think he would have appreciated my humor in that moment.

My procedure was supposed to start at 8:30 am, and at 8:40, I assumed they were running late and resisted the urge to assign more meaning to it. After a bit more waiting, the respiratory fellow came in, explained how the procedure would go, and asked if I had any questions. I did not, and she seemed good with my lack of inquiry. Then another anesthesiologist (I assume the assistant or similar; she did not say exactly) came in with the procedure nurse, and they started prepping me to move to the “Bronch Room,” as they called it. As they began to wheel me out of the pre-op room, I kissed Rich goodbye as I could feel my anxiety starting to awaken from its slumber.

The entire time I was in pre-op, my heart rate was in the low 70s, which meant I was succeeding in keeping my anxiety to a minimum. No longer with my Fitbit, I could not verify that my heart rate was increasing, but my body told me it surely was.

As they rolled me down the hallway, into an elevator, and then another set of hallways, they were discussing my “induction” and whether they needed to call Dr. Lee before doing it or not. I wanted in on the conversation and asked what “induction” was, and they said “putting me to sleep.” I said okay and was happy I got to be part of the discussion.

They wheeled me into the room, and as they moved the equipment out of the way so the bed would fit through, I said, “Oh, a tight fit,” because, well, that is what I do in these situations. Rely on humor to get me through.

The nurse on the far side of the procedure table welcomed me, and I smiled at her widely. She seemed astonished that I was smiling and said it was amazing. In that moment, I realized that I had succeeded in keeping my anxiety level so low I was actually, genuinely, happy to greet her. Wow.

I slid over to the procedure table with the nurse’s help, and once I was in position, I realized how hard it felt. I told myself it would not matter as I would be asleep very soon. It was cold in the room, and my teeth began to chatter. The nurse asked if I wanted a warm blanket, and I enthusiastically said yes. Even with the warm blanket and me breathing the oxygen they were giving me deeply and calmly, my teeth continued to chatter, and I could feel the anxiety circling. But I was in control, and I could feel it.

Then Dr. F came by to say hello. He had a gentle, kind face and long curly hair. I don’t think I had been given any drugs at that point that would have possibly skewed my impression of him, but I thought he looked like a very cool hippie who would take such good care of me. I was very much at ease, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in recovery.

My recovery nurse was very kind and caring. In those first few moments after coming out of anesthesia, as my nurse asked what I needed and how I felt, I understood and greatly appreciated the caring and professionalism of the team who were part of my procedure. I was feeling very grateful for the care and that the procedure was behind me. Those feelings then led me to analysis mode as I started to think about the anxiety I was feeling and fighting for the last few days.

My anxiety thinks it is keeping me safe, but it isn’t. What it does is keep me in fight mode when I need to be in surrender mode.

I have known this for a long time, and the work I have done on myself has been enormous, allowing me to get through this procedure and all that is ahead of me with grace and confidence that those around me will take good care of me. Surrendering seems counterintuitive to someone who has fought her whole life, but I know that I cannot go about this cancer thing alone. I need a team of professionals to help me, but they cannot help me if I don’t trust them, and I cannot trust them unless I surrender.

I am not sure whether the trust comes before or after the surrender, but I know the surrender is mandatory. Everyone on my team is a trained professional, full of empathy and care, who is tasked with helping me through this process.

Two radiology techs came by to take an X-ray of my chest, and I chatted with them as they took a couple of shots of my chest. When the techs left, my recovery nurse came to check on me again, and I thanked her for being so caring and kind, and she genuinely appreciated my comment. I meant it, and I felt she sensed that.

Then, Rich came in, and it was so good to see his face. I was very much awake at that point and feeling good. I knew that as soon as the results from my chest x-ray showed the absence of a pneumothorax, which I was pretty sure it would, I’d soon be going home.

I was wheeled out of the hospital by another kind person who seemed genuinely happy with his job. As I stepped into the car, I felt a great wave of relief that this phase of my second cancer journey was over. Now comes more waiting, but only for less than a week. On Thursday, I meet my radiation oncologist for the first time and learn what plans he has for the utter and complete death of the unwelcome nodule in my lung.

Victoria