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WHEN I was 30, the ovarian cancer I’d had as a child returned after a 20-year hiatus. The new diagnosis arrived dramatically, when a trip to the emergency room revealed a tumor that was causing internal bleeding. During the week I spent in intensive care, my son, Leo, stopped speaking aloud and talked only in a whisper. He was almost 4.
Home from the hospital, I juggled a raft of medical appointments on top of the chaos of normal life. I had a young child, a part-time job as a librarian, a growing freelance writing career and a ridiculous number of volunteer commitments. My partner, Matthew, had a day job as an archivist and wrote articles on the side. As usual, my anxiety was all about money. Sometimes I find it easier to fret about money than to worry about big things like cancer...
Home from the hospital, I juggled a raft of medical appointments on top of the chaos of normal life. I had a young child, a part-time job as a librarian, a growing freelance writing career and a ridiculous number of volunteer commitments. My partner, Matthew, had a day job as an archivist and wrote articles on the side. As usual, my anxiety was all about money. Sometimes I find it easier to fret about money than to worry about big things like cancer...
