"This isn't a gentle walk. It's a rollercoaster." A psychologist on life after cancer treatment.

Joanna Biegaj, Wprost.pl: What happens in a patient's psyche when silence falls? When no one calls with test results, no more procedures, hospital visits, or chemotherapy are planned. When the adrenaline wears off and the treatment is complete. What does such a patient feel?

Milena Dzienisiewicz, psychologist and psycho-oncologist: It starts a little earlier. The moment the patient realizes they're about to finish treatment—they know it's the last chemotherapy session or the last week of radiotherapy, for example. That's when the thought first comes to mind: "What's next?" And that's when a certain anxiety begins to arise.

I once tentatively called this "treatment ending syndrome." The patient wonders what it will be like when treatment actually, realistically ends.

And when the moment comes when the oncologist says, "Dear patient, treatment is over, go and live," a mix of emotions emerges. On the one hand, there's a huge sense of relief. The thought, "I made it, I did it, the treatment is over, it's behind me." We experience this sense of relief, joy, and sometimes patients also express satisfaction that they've coped with the challenges of treatment.

And it would be wonderful if that was all we had left. Unfortunately, soon after the feeling of relief and joy comes fear, anxiety, and a multitude of thoughts related to the question: "Okay, but what now?"

After all, until now, for many months—because let's remember that cancer treatment lasts not weeks, but months—we were constantly under constant surveillance. We were constantly being examined, checked, monitored, asked how we were feeling, if anything was bothering us. Suddenly, all of that vanished. And it was, in fact, another crisis.

What exactly is this crisis situation?

Our entire lives have been focused on treatment until now. All our plans, our entire lives, for example, as a family, were subordinated to the regimen – the rhythm of treatment. And suddenly, the treatment ends. The doctor says he'll invite us back in, say, three months. The patient thinks, "But what about those three months? What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to do this? What's the point?" Indeed, this is a time when, first of all, we need... well, time to readjust and adapt. Only this time, we're not constantly running to the hospital, we're not constantly being examined, and the next tests aren't until, for example, three months later.

Anxiety sets in, primarily related to the fear of a relapse. We vigilantly monitor our bodies, listening to make sure everything is working as it should. On the one hand, we want to start living again, recover, and return to our usual activities if we've taken a break from treatment. But our bodies don't allow us to do so yet. And our minds often don't either. It's truly a mixed bag of emotions.

We say that at the moment of diagnosis there is a cauldron of emotions, but at the moment of completion of treatment there is also a cauldron of emotions.

What happens to the sense of worth and control of those who have endured this many-month experience of being "in the hands of the system " ? I'm referring here to how cancer patients think about the future. What's it like? On the one hand, you're already in "normalcy," you can start planning things, and theoretically live a normal life, but on the other hand, the fear of relapse keeps you stuck where you started.

I'll start with the fear of relapse . This is a fear experienced by over 90 percent of patients. That's what the literature says. And what the literature also strongly emphasizes is that we still know too little about this topic and that more research is needed. I don't think I've ever met a patient who hasn't experienced this. Of course, this fear can vary in intensity.