The unofficial cancer patient dictionary

Nobody hands you a dictionary when you're diagnosed with blood cancer.

At first, it can feel like you’re learning an entirely new language. Suddenly you’re hearing terms like remission, neutropenia, biopsy, or stem cell transplant. But somewhere between appointments, scans, and treatment, many patients pick up another set of words altogether.

These are the words that emerge from lived experience.

Most don’t come from textbooks. They’re from people living with cancer, searching for a way to describe what life with cancer actually feels like.

They describe the anxiety before a scan, the strange milestones worth celebrating, the mental fog that makes you forget why you walked into a room, and the emotions that can linger long after treatment.  

Some are funny. Some are deeply personal. Some capture feelings that can be difficult to explain any other way.

You may know some of these already. Others might be completely new. Either way, we hope this unofficial cancer patient dictionary gives you a few moments of recognition, validation, and maybe even a smile that says, “Yep, that’s exactly what that feels like.”  

Because while every cancer experience is different, there's something powerful about discovering that someone else has felt the same thing and found a name for it. 

The unofficial cancer patient dictionary

Cancer ghosts  

(KAN-ser gohsts) noun: The memories, emotions, or unexpected reminders that can linger long after treatment ends. A smell, a song, a calendar date, or a routine follow-up appointment can suddenly bring cancer back to the front of your mind. 

Example: I finished treatment years ago, but hospital smells still bring out a few cancer ghosts. 

Cancerland 

(KAN-ser-land) noun: The strange and often overwhelming world that comes with a cancer diagnosis, where daily life starts revolving around appointments, treatments, scans, blood counts, side effects, and insurance paperwork. 

Example: Before my diagnosis, I had no idea what a CBC was. Now that I live in Cancerland, I’m practically a doctor. 

Cancerversary 

(kan-ser-VUR-suh-ree) noun: The anniversary of a cancer-related milestone. Depending on the person, it might mark a diagnosis, the end of treatment, a transplant, or another meaningful date. Some celebrate it. Some reflect on it. Some prefer to let it pass quietly. (See also Diagnosiverary and NEDaversary.) 

Example: Tomorrow is my cancerversary, so I'm taking the day off and doing something that makes me happy. 

Chemo brain 

(KEE-moh brayn) noun: A common term for the mental fog, forgetfulness, word-finding, and concentration challenges that can happen during or after treatment. More formally known as cancer-related cognitive impairment (CRCI). 

Example: Chemo brain is real. I opened the refrigerator three times and still couldn't remember what I was looking for. 

Diagnosiversary (or Diagnosis Day)  

(dy-ag-noh-suh-VUR-suh-ree) noun: The anniversary of a cancer diagnosis. It can bring up gratitude, grief, anxiety, reflection, relief, or a combination of emotions that don’t fit neatly into a single category. (See also Cancerversary.)  

Example: My diagnosiversary always catches me by surprise. I never quite know how I'm going to feel when the date comes around. 

Fear of recurrence (FOR) 

(feer uhv ree-KUR-ens) noun: The lingering worry, uncertainty, or anxiety that cancer could return or progress. It can show up before follow-up appointments, after new symptoms, or during periods when life finally starts to feel a little normal again.  

Example: My fear of recurrence tends to get louder right before follow-up appointments. 

Good kind of cancer 

(good kind uhv KAN-ser) noun: A phrase patients often hear when someone is trying to be reassuring. Usually refers to a type of cancer with higher survival rates, more treatment options, or a better prognosis. The problem? It still involves hearing the words "you have cancer." (See also: Doesn't actually exist.) 

Example: My doctor said the outlook was encouraging, but I still wasn’t convinced I had a “good kind of cancer.” 

Grief tourists 

(greef TOOR-ists) noun: People who briefly appear after a cancer diagnosis with concern, curiosity, or questions, but may not stay involved for the long haul. While their support can sometimes feel fleeting, many are simply unsure of what to say or how to help. The patients who know this term often use it with humor to describe the difference between those who visit for a moment and those who walk beside you through it all. 

Example: Lots of people checked in when I was diagnosed, but over time I learned who the grief tourists were and who would truly be there for me. 

NEDaversary 

(NED-uh-VUR-suh-ree) noun: The anniversary of reaching NED, or “No Evidence of Disease.” For many patients, it’s a milestone that recognizes relief, hope, and a chance to celebrate how far they’ve come. (See also Cancerversary and Other birthday.) 

Example: We celebrated my NEDaversary with takeout, cake, and absolutely no discussion of scan results. 

No-hair-day 

(noh-HEHR-day) noun: A lighthearted term some patients use when treatment-related hair loss becomes undeniably real. Often used with humor to describe finding hair on a pillow, losing a handful in the shower, or deciding it's time to reach for a hat, scarf, or razor. 

Example: The first no-hair-day was tough, but after that I decided to have some fun shopping for hats. 

Normie (or Cancer normie) 

(NOR-mee) noun: Someone whose life hasn't been shaped by a cancer diagnosis, treatment, or survivorship. Patients sometimes use the term humorously when noticing how differently they now view things like blood tests, doctors' appointments, or the passing of time. 

Example: When I mentioned my scanxiety and my friend looked completely confused, I realized I was talking to a cancer normie. 

Other birthday 

(Uh-thur BURTH-day) noun: A second birthday of sorts. The date someone received a stem cell transplant, CAR T-cell therapy, or another treatment that feels like a fresh start or a new beginning. For some patients, it becomes every bit as meaningful as their actual birthday. (See also NEDaversary.) 

Example: I still celebrate my actual birthday, but my other birthday is the day of my transplant. That’s the day everything changed. 

Play the cancer card 

(PLAY the KAN-ser kard) phrase: Usually said with a wink, this means giving yourself permission to ask for help, skip an obligation, accept a little extra grace, or put your own needs first after everything cancer has already demanded from you. 

Example: I was exhausted, so I played the cancer card and let someone else host the family reunion. 

Ring the bell 

(ring the bel) verb phrase: To take part in the tradition of ringing a ceremonial bell after completing cancer treatment. While it doesn’t mean every challenge is over, it often marks an important milestone worth recognizing. 

Example: I finally got to ring the bell today, and there wasn't a dry eye in the room. 

Rollercoastering 

(ROH-ler-koh-ster-ing) verb: Moving rapidly between hope, fear, relief, uncertainty, gratitude, frustration, and every emotion in between. Often used to describe the emotional ups and downs of diagnosis, treatment, or survivorship. 

Example: One minute I felt optimistic, the next I was worried again. I've been rollercoastering all week waiting for these results. 

Scan clean 

(skan kleen) adjective: Informal shorthand for receiving scan results that show no detectable signs of cancer.  

Example: I had my follow-up scan last week, and I'm scan clean. 

Scanxiety 

(skan-ZY-uh-tee) noun: The stress, worry, or anticipation that can build before, during, or after scans, especially while waiting for results. A nearly universal experience among people affected by cancer. 

Example: The scan itself doesn't bother me nearly as much as the scanxiety while I'm waiting for the results. 

Spoonie 

(SPOO-nee) noun: A term borrowed from the chronic illness community. A spoonie uses “spoons” to describe having a limited amount of physical, mental, or emotional energy to spend each day.  

Example: I'd love to join you, but I'm low on spoons today and need a quiet night at home. 

Survivor guilt 

(ser-VY-ver gilt) noun: Feelings of guilt that can arise when your treatment is working, you’re doing well, or you’ve reached a milestone while others are facing recurrence, progression, or loss. A difficult emotion that’s more common than many people realize. 

Example: Even after reaching remission, I struggled with survivor guilt when I thought about my friends still in treatment. 

The Big C 

(the big see) noun: An informal nickname for cancer, often used when the word itself feels too heavy, frightening, or difficult to say out loud.  

Example: For months, my family called it “the Big C” because nobody was ready to say the word out loud. 

Thriver 

(THRY-ver) noun: A person who prefers the term thriver over survivor to reflect growth, purpose, joy, or resilience after a cancer diagnosis. For some, it represents moving beyond survival and embracing a full life. For others, survivor feels more accurate, and that’s okay too. There’s no right way to describe your experience. 

Example: She calls herself a thriver because cancer inspired her to pursue goals she once put on hold. 

Toxic positivity 

(TOK-sik poz-uh-TIV-uh-tee) noun: The pressure people feel to stay positive no matter what they’re going through. Patients often use this phrase when well-meaning encouragement leaves little room for fear, sadness, anger, or other honest emotions.  

Example: People kept telling me to stay positive, but sometimes I just needed space to admit that this was really hard. That’s why conversations about toxic positivity resonate with so many patients.  

More than words 

The terms in this unofficial dictionary emerged because people needed a way to describe experiences that don’t always fit neatly into clinical language. 

They reflect the moments, emotions, milestones, and challenges that patients have spent years putting into words for one another. Some may make you smile. Others may feel uncomfortably familiar. All are reminders that many of these experiences are shared. 

If you're navigating life with blood cancer and aren't quite sure what you need right now, that’s okay. Blood Cancer United’s highly trained oncology social workers and nurses, known as Information Specialists, can help you understand your options and assist through treatment, financial, and social challenges.  

In addition, Blood Cancer United has free support, educational resources, and an online community that understands what you’re going through. 

We exist to support you. Whether you're newly diagnosed, in treatment, or navigating life after treatment, you'll find tools and connections created with patients and families at the center.