My divorce took sixteen months.
Cancer recovery was faster in some ways.
Slower in others.
The first follow-up scan terrified me.
Every ache became a recurrence in my imagination.
Every lab result felt like a verdict.
But medically, things went well.
The surgery had removed the known disease.
My oncologist recommended additional monitoring and treatment based on pathology.
I followed it.
Not perfectly.
Nobody does anything perfectly while frightened.
But I followed it.
Daniel’s lawyers tried to subpoena broad portions of my medical records in the divorce.
Monica objected where appropriate.
Relevant medical information could be addressed.
My entire history was not an invitation.
Daniel claimed he needed to prove I had cognitive side effects.
An independent evaluation found no evidence that I lacked decision-making capacity.
I was fatigued.
Anxious.
Occasionally forgetful.
Which described half the adults I knew.
The evaluation became important because Daniel had spent months telling people a different story.
