Living With Scan Anxiety: A decade after my first brain aneurysm scan, it still takes work
- May 6
- 4 min read
Updated: May 10
A personal viewpoint, from Rebecca Middleton
I’ve lived with a brain aneurysm diagnosis for around ten years now. Long enough that people sometimes assume I must be “used to it” by now - that the monitoring, the waiting, the uncertainty somehow becomes routine. And in some ways, it does. I’ve developed those “psychological muscles for uncertainty” that Dr Kym Winter from Rare Minds talks about in our podcast together. I know the system, I know the process, and I know what to expect.
But here’s the truth I want to say out loud, because so many in our community feel it too: “scan‑anxiety” is real. It doesn’t matter how many years have passed or how stable things have been. When a scan is coming up, something shifts.
When the calendar reminder hits, everything rises to the surface
Most of the year, I can keep my aneurysm somewhere in the background - not forgotten, but shelved. I get on with life, family, and managing the charity. I’m grateful for the NHS monitoring I receive, and in the years when they can’t scan me, I’m fortunate to be able to pay privately. I never take that for granted.
But as the next scan approaches, the quiet background hum becomes louder. Stress rises. Worry rises. Thoughts I can usually keep tucked away come right back to the front of my mind.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not even always visible. But internally, the ground shifts.
The day itself: loud, clinical, and heavier than it looks
People often say, “But it’s only a scan - it doesn’t hurt.” And they’re right. It doesn’t hurt.
But it is loud. It is stressful. And the drive there and back is its own emotional journey.
You go in carrying every “what if” you’ve tried to ignore for months. On the outside, you lie still while the machine clatters around you, and you try to breathe normally. Inside though, my mind is doing the opposite.
This year, I felt that familiar tightening in my chest as I walked in. I did the scan. I drove home. And then came the waiting — the part that so many of us find the hardest.
The phone call that made my heart stop
My neurosurgeon phoned earlier than expected. His voice was lower, slower, not as upbeat as usual. Instantly, my anxiety filled in the blanks. Every tiny change in tone became a clue. Every pause became a warning. Every word felt like it was leading to the worst.
This is what heightened anxiety does - it analyses, interprets, catastrophises. It tries to protect you, but it often overshoots.
And then he said the words I desperately needed to hear: my scan was clear. My repaired aneurysm remains stable. No new aneurysms. All is well.
Relief washed over me so quickly it almost made me dizzy.
Putting the box back on the shelf
In our podcast, Kym talks about the idea of “putting the worry in a box and placing it back on the shelf.” It’s a simple metaphor, but it works.
After the call, I could feel myself slowly doing that — closing the lid, putting the box back where it belongs, and letting myself return to my life rather than living in the space between fear and uncertainty.
It takes practice. It takes time. And it’s never perfect. But it’s a skill we can learn.
Rewarding ourselves for doing hard things
One of my favourite things Kym said in the podcast was that we should reward ourselves after going through something stressful. Not because we’re fragile, but because we’re human.
This time, I was lucky - I had a few days away with friends planned, and it felt like exactly the right kind of exhale. Other years, my reward is something much smaller: a hot chocolate, a quiet walk, a moment of stillness. The size doesn’t matter. The acknowledgement does.
Why I’m writing this
Because so many people in our community tell me they feel silly for worrying. Because they think they shouldn’t talk about it. Because “it’s only a scan.”
But it isn’t only a scan. It’s a checkpoint in a life shaped by uncertainty. It’s a reminder of what we’ve lived through. It’s a moment where fear and memory and hope all collide.
And that deserves recognition. It deserves compassion. It deserves space.
If you haven’t listened yet, our conversation with Dr Kym Winter on Living With Health Anxiety is one I return to often. Her insights have helped me, and I know they’ve helped many others too.
Scan‑anxiety may never disappear completely, but with the right tools, support, and self‑kindness, it becomes something we can live with - not something that controls us.
Wherever you are in your journey - newly diagnosed, years into monitoring, post‑treatment, or supporting someone you love - your feelings around scan time are valid. They are shared.
And you are not alone.
