When a Health Scare Reveals the Truth About Your Partner

If you’ve ever had a health scare, you know how terrifying it is. One minute, you’re going about your life, and the next, you’re drowning in uncertainty, fear, and pain. When that happens, you need a partner who will be there—not to fix everything, but to hold your hand, ease your fears, and simply show they care.

For me, that wasn’t my reality.

The year my son graduated from high school, I started experiencing ovary pain. At first, it felt like mild ovulation discomfort—nothing an ibuprofen couldn’t handle. I brushed it off. But over the next few months, the pain became more frequent, creeping into my mornings and worsening after meals. I started feeling bloated, uncomfortable, and uneasy. Still, I ignored it.

Then, it got worse.

Over-the-counter meds stopped working. The pain became unbearable. I wasn’t eating. I was sleeping all the time, drained of energy, lying in bed and just wishing for relief—any kind of relief. My ex? Nowhere to be found. He didn’t check on me, didn’t seem to care. It was my middle daughter who stepped up, bringing me water and pain meds, making sure I was still breathing.

Eventually, I went in for my physical and mentioned the pain to my doctor. He sent me for a CT scan. My ex wouldn’t even go with me. Not that I was surprised—he was too busy having an affair with some girl from work.

Later that night, I got the call.

There was a mass on my left ovary. “Call your GYN immediately,” they said. If it ruptured, it could be bad. I was terrified.

A few days later, my GYN reviewed my scans, did an ultrasound, and confirmed it: a solid, 6cm mass. Not a functional cyst. It had to come out. They ran a CA125 blood test to check for cancer. The waiting was unbearable. Days passed before I finally got the results—negative. No cancer. Though they wouldn't be sure until they did surgery.

A month later, I had surgery. My ex took me to the hospital, but not because he wanted to. They told me someone had to be with me.

Post-surgery, as the nurse wheeled me out, I saw him speeding by, completely oblivious to me sitting there, fresh out of surgery. He was too busy chatting with a couple he knew—because apparently, whatever was going on with them was more important than his wife who just had a tumor removed.

I managed to get home, feeling more annoyed than anything. The mass turned out to be endometrial, not cancerous, but I was diagnosed with endometriosis. Through it all, my ex never once showed concern, never held my hand, never reassured me. My kids and my mother worried more about me than he ever did.

Looking back, maybe he was hoping he could get rid of me.

Here’s the truth: how your partner treats you in a medical crisis tells you everything you need to know about how they really feel about you.

Believe them.

Reflections

We moved into my childhood home when I was just 18 months old. It’s wild to think about, but I actually have a memory from moving day—a quick flash, like a snapshot in my mind. I was sitting on my wooden rocking horse, back and forth, back and forth, right under the kitchen window where our table would always sit. I watched as my mom and dad carried things inside, my tiny world shifting around me.

There’s this thing called childhood amnesia, the idea that most people can’t remember anything from before they were about three or four. Supposedly, only about 15% of people have memories from that early. But I do. I remember that moment. I was wearing a little light-colored dress. I don’t remember the exact shade, just that it was soft and familiar. Oddly enough, I don’t recall my sisters being there, even though they would have been around 9 and 14 at the time.

We lived in that house until I graduated high school. I didn’t realize it then, but my parents stayed there so I could grow up with the same friends, the same school, the same sense of stability. And that’s something I’ve come to appreciate more than ever.

After high school, before I started college, we moved about 30 minutes north. A bigger place. Older. A house with more space for my dad to garden, which made him so happy. I adored that house. There was a walking path through the woods, a quiet little loop about a fourth of a mile long, and I’d try to walk a mile a day. It became my sanctuary. There was even a small bench nestled between two trees where I’d bring a book and just exist in the moment.

I lived there until 1996. Then life started shifting faster than I was used to. I met my ex, and we moved into an apartment.

I had grown up with stability. I wasn’t used to moving around. But suddenly, I found myself in a cycle I never thought I’d be in. I struggled to pay bills. We were evicted. Forced to move again and again. In five years, we lived in six different places. Twice, we had to move in with my mom because she couldn’t stand to see me struggle. Eventually, she suggested we find a place together—somewhere with an in-law suite so we could split the bills and have a sense of security.

That’s how we ended up in the house I’m in now. Almost 24 years. Crazy. It’s probably the only home my three youngest even remember. And at least, despite everything, they had that stability.

I’ve always been responsible. I worked hard. Got my first job in a pharmacy during college. They even tried to convince me to go to pharmacy school. I took the entrance exam, got accepted—but it wasn’t what I wanted. I stayed at the pharmacy for three years, moved up to a service assistant (basically an assistant manager). Then I left, though I don’t even remember why. Maybe it was because I planned to move to Athens for school.

After that, I worked at a bank. I was there for almost four years, even while pregnant with my oldest. Later, when we moved to the apartment, I became an office manager at a yacht company. Stayed a year. Had a few other stable jobs before going back to college for my Master’s. That’s when I found writing. Built a career. Almost 18 years now.

Through all of it, I tried to provide my kids with stability. I always worked. Sometimes, I paid the bills alone.

He made our lives so hard.

From the moment we started dating, his job history was a whirlwind. An auto body shop. An equipment rental place. A boat broker. Manufacturing. Four different sign companies. Roofing. An electric company. Three car lots. A sporting goods store. An embroidery shop. A gym. A carpet cleaning business. A furniture store. A patio furniture company. A gun store.

Oh, and let’s not forget the time he tried to start his own sign business—only to quit before it even had a chance.

Out of all those jobs, he was fired from nearly every single one. Stole from four. 

As far as our relationship, he cheated seven times—three of those were full-blown relationships. The first five years, he drank heavily. And the kids? He was neglectful more times than I can count.

I sit with that sometimes. The guilt. The weight of knowing I stayed in a loveless relationship, hoping things would get better. Hoping I was doing the right thing.

He always gave me just enough love to keep me there. Just enough to make me believe.

I was surviving. And now, as a mother, I wonder if I should have done more.

But I can’t change the past. And looking back now, the picture is so much clearer. I wasn’t the problem. I never was.

Heartbreak, Healing, and the Beautiful Chaos of Motherhood

 

I’m not going to lie—when I was younger, I swore I’d never have kids. I had my fair share of babysitting horror stories, and honestly, they were great birth control. I just didn’t see myself as a mom. Maybe deep down, I thought it wouldn’t even be an option for me.

But life has a funny way of surprising you.

I was 22 when I found out I was pregnant with Allison. Looking back, I truly believe she came into my life exactly when she was meant to—because God knew we would all need her when my daddy got sick. I don’t know if I could have gotten through that time without her. I don’t know if any of us could have.

She was just six months old when everything changed.

The day after Christmas, my dad went to the hospital. He’d been hurting for a while, but he refused to go before the holiday. “I don’t want to ruin Christmas,” he had said. We thought it might be a heart attack. It wasn’t.

Cancer.

At first, they told us it might be tuberculosis. We had to wear masks, waiting for more tests. Then, they found it—the cancer in his lungs was so advanced it had eaten a hole straight through. The doctors told us he wouldn’t be coming home. That we should say our goodbyes.

But we prayed. Everyone prayed.

Then, a miracle.

They ran scans again, and the cancer had disappeared. It was gone.

God gave us more time.

My dad went through chemo and radiation, and for a while, we believed he had beaten it. Allison became his little sidekick, crawling into “Pop Pop’s” lap while he read to her. She had no idea what was happening, but her presence gave him joy. Gave all of us joy.

But cancer is cruel.

A year and a half later, it came back with a vengeance. This time, there was no stopping it.

My dad passed away in April of 1995. Just days before, I had taken Allison to get Easter pictures. They were beautiful. I prayed he would get to see them.

They arrived in the mail the day we buried him.

Heartbreak.

But that little girl? She kept me going. Her smile, her innocence—I had to keep moving forward for her.

The Babies Who Made Me

Before my son Graham was born, I had a miscarriage. Another heartbreak.

But then, Graham came into the world, full of life and energy. He loved Jar Jar Binks, Mighty Joe Young, and Teletubbies. He played with Hot Wheels and was always on the move. Then, at just six months old, he got RSV.

I had faith. But we almost lost him.

Heartbreak. I like to think my dad was up there telling God, no throw him back....not yet.

And then, Julianna. My light. She had the sweetest smile, a giggle that could melt any bad day away. She and Graham were inseparable. She loved The Wiggles and Barbies, had the curliest little ringlets, and always stole my Big Macs.

When we called home to announce her birth, Graham tried to say "Julianna," but what came out was "Noonienana." And just like that, her nickname was born.

After Julianna, my ex was supposed to get a vasectomy. I even made the appointment.

He didn’t show.

Two years and two months later, Maggie was born.

Maggie, Stubborn. Headstrong. Loved spaghetti and ice cream for breakfast. Boo Bah and also the Wiggles. A personality all of her own. Definitely the "youngest child syndrome"

Finally, our family was complete.

Surviving Motherhood and Heartbreak

I won’t sugarcoat it—parenting was hard. And I did most of it alone.

While I was raising our kids, he was out drinking, partying, cheating. I remember those nights. Him gone. Me and the kids piled on the couch, watching Disney movies, eating cookies, brownies, and popcorn. Some nights, we’d stay at Nana’s so we wouldn’t have to be alone.

Nana was always there. My ex’s mom? Not so much. She chose not to be part of their lives. I never understood why.

But you know what?

They didn’t miss her.

Through every struggle, through every moment I felt like I was drowning, my kids were my constant.

There were hard times. Parenting is hard.

But now, looking at the people they’ve become—strong, kind, resilient—I know that if I do nothing else in this life, I’ve done this one thing right.

They are my greatest accomplishment.

A Word of Advice

Be careful who you choose as your partner. That person will also be the father or mother of your children.

There’s a lot of heartbreak in my story. But in spite of it all, my kids turned out amazing.

And that is healing.

It's OK To Be Alone

 

When I was in high school, I had a two-year relationship. We were so in love—at least, we thought we were. He was a year younger than me, and we were convinced we’d graduate, get married, and live happily ever after. Life had other plans.

We’re still friends. He’s married now with two kids, and we’ve joked over the years that maybe it should have been us. But honestly? I have no regrets. He went into the Navy, built a successful career, owns a home, has a boat, and takes care of his family. He made something of himself.

And then there was my ex-husband. The red flags were waving from the beginning. He was selfish and irresponsible in ways that should have made me run. I remember once my mom lent me $10, giving me a $20 and asking for the change back. I left the $10 on the counter, planning to bring it to her when we went over later. But when I went to grab it—it was gone. I searched everywhere, confused, until he told me to “just forget about it.” Turns out, he took it.

That was just the beginning. Over the years, he pawned things constantly—sometimes even my things. A small radio my mom gave me? Gone. Childhood rings I actually wore? Gone. The class ring my dad took me to pick out, something that meant the world to me? Gone. Even a tennis bracelet he had given me.

I should have left.

But I stayed. Because I was afraid of being alone.

When his daughter from a previous relationship was little, we had her every other weekend. But remember when I said he was an alcoholic? That meant I took care of her while he slept off his drinking. When I was pregnant with Maggie, I finally put my foot down. We are not getting her unless YOU take care of her. At least help me. I refused to do it alone anymore.

His response? He signed away his parental rights. We never saw her again.

Looking back, I can see all the ways I was taken advantage of. All the ways I was unhappy. But I was terrified of being alone. Terrified of raising the kids by myself.

It’s okay to be alone.

Since he left, I’ve learned some things:

• Being alone gives you time to connect with your own thoughts and feelings. To figure out who you really are—what you want, what you value.

• It gives you the freedom to do what you enjoy, without needing permission or worrying about someone else’s expectations.

• Alone time can be peaceful. It’s a chance to recharge, de-stress, and just be without carrying the weight of someone else’s problems.

• Being alone doesn’t mean being lonely. It means choosing your own company and enjoying it instead of feeling trapped or unwanted.

I’ve learned that I like my solitude. And I will never again be in a relationship that makes me feel alone. Never.

Whether you’re celebrating a birthday solo or curling up in bed with snacks and a movie, never regret being alone. You don’t need another person to validate you.

Don’t get me wrong—I do get lonely. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll die alone, and yeah, that thought makes me sad.

I don’t know what the future holds. But for now, I’m enjoying the quiet. No one belittling me. No one criticizing me.

Someone asked me recently if I ever feel lonely enough to wonder what my ex is doing.

The answer? No.

I did plenty of wondering when he was still here.

Now, I just focus on me. And it’s the most peaceful feeling in the world.

Waiting For What

 Tonight is one of those nights. Actually, the past few days have been rough. My divorce has been final for just over a month, and while I don’t miss him, I do miss the idea of what marriage was supposed to be. Having a life partner. Someone to share the little, everyday moments with—like what ridiculous thing happened at the grocery store or staring into my medicine bottle wondering if I took my medicine again.

Not too long ago, this house felt too small, even at over 4,000 square feet. There were kids running through every room, laughter echoing down the halls, and absolutely no privacy. Now, it’s just... quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that makes your thoughts louder than they should be. I don’t even cook anymore. Not for myself. Not for anyone.

My days used to be packed—school parties, sporting events, band concerts, family dinners. Now, I wake up every morning and just... wait. But for what? I don’t even know. Just to get through another day?

Financially, things are tight. My ex was terrible with money, and even though our big dreams—traveling more, buying a cabin, owning land—were probably never going to happen, at least they were something to hope for. Now, I’m broke and overwhelmed by all the things this house needs. The front deck alone will cost $2,000 to fix. The floors need to be redone. The house needs a fresh coat of paint. The yard looks like it belongs in a before photo. It all feels like a sinking ship, and I’m just standing here watching it go down.

I haven’t felt like I had a purpose in a long time. And now, without the chaos, the distractions, the plans for someday—I feel like I’m just waiting.

But waiting for what?

From Half-Empty Journals to Healing: How Writing Helped Me Through Divorce

 

When I was younger, I had a thing for journals. I bought them constantly - pretty ones, fancy ones, ones with gold edges and dreamy covers. And then…I wouldn’t use them. I was “saving” them. For what? Who knows. Some grand, important thoughts that never came?

Every now and then, I’d get inspired, crack one open, and write consistently for a week - maybe even a month if I was really on top of things. But eventually, I’d give it up. Sometimes, I’d go back and rip out the pages like they never existed. Other times, I’d leave them behind—half-empty journals with only a few pages filled, collecting dust.

Looking back at my marriage, I realize I had so many journals I started, and they all had one thing in common: I was unhappy. Page after page, I was writing the same feelings over and over again. And yet, I stayed. I didn’t walk away. I wish I knew why.

But I digress.

The night I knew my marriage was ending, I reached for a journal.

The Christmas before, my mom and youngest daughter had gifted me a beautiful set of matching journals—ten in total, each in soft pastel colors. I had asked for them, hoping (once again) that I’d finally start writing regularly.

That night, I chose the pink one. I opened it up and started pouring my heart onto the pages. I think I filled ten in one sitting. I had so many big, messy emotions and no one to really share them with. Sure, I talked to my kids, but there’s only so much they needed—or wanted—to hear.

So, I kept writing.

Somehow, it became a habit. A year later, in November, I did something I had never done before—I finished a journal. Every single page. And let me tell you, it was therapeutic. Journaling became my outlet, my safe space, my proof that I was moving forward.

And this time, I wasn’t saving the pretty ones for “someday.” I was using them.

 

I still don’t write as much now as I did when things fell apart but I do write at least once every week or so. I’m almost halfway into my second journal. It’s super helpful.

If you haven’t tried it, I highly recommend it. It’s like a free therapist, a judgment-free zone where you can spill all your feelings, no matter how messy they are. The following are ways to get started. At least, it’s how I did.

Step 1: Grab a Journal (or Whatever Works)

No need for a fancy leather-bound book (unless that makes you feel extra put together). A $1 notebook, a notes app, or even scrap paper will do. Just something to write on!

Step 2: Ditch the Pressure

You don’t have to be Shakespeare here. No one is grading your grammar. Write in bullet points, messy paragraphs, or even one-word rants. (“UGH” is valid.)

Step 3: Start with a Brain Dump

Feeling overwhelmed? Write it all down—your frustrations, your wins, the things you miss, the things you don’t. Let it all out. No filter needed.

Step 4: Try a Prompt

Not sure what to say? Start with something simple like What do I need today? or What’s one thing I’m proud of myself for?—even if the answer is just “I got out of bed.” That counts.

Step 5: Make It a Habit (But No Pressure)

Try writing a little each day. Even if it’s just a sentence. Over time, you’ll notice patterns, growth, and (eventually) a whole lot of healing.

Journaling won’t magically make everything okay overnight, but it will help you process, vent, and rediscover yourself. And let’s be real—your journal is way cheaper than therapy.

Lessons in Love and Loss: Why I’d Rather Struggle Alone Than Settle for Less

 

Before I met my ex, my credit was flawless. I was working two jobs, taking care of myself and my daughter, and making sure she had everything she needed—and then some. She was my world. All the free time I had, we spent together—shopping, going to the park, swimming, and making memories.

I was also really proud of the life I was building. Right after she was born, I bought a brand-new Mercury Tracer. Paid for it all on my own. Never missed a payment. That car was a symbol of my independence.

Then I met him.

When we started dating, he had a brand-new truck… which he wrecked. Didn’t make a single payment on it. After three months, the finance company came and took it back. And somehow, despite all that, he convinced me to trade in my Tracer and go in with him on a BMW 325i. It was a year old, and the payments were more than double what I had been paying. I only had a year left on my Tracer, but suddenly, I was locked into a six-year loan for a car I couldn’t really afford.

Deep down, I think I knew I’d end up paying for it on my own. And sure enough, that’s exactly what happened. I was working full-time, while he could barely keep a job. Fired from one place after another. And what little money he did have? It went straight to alcohol.

I held everything together for as long as I could, but after about six months, we fell behind. I couldn’t keep up. I remember sobbing when we lost the BMW—not just because we lost the car, but because I felt like I had lost everything I had worked so hard for. Four years of responsible payments on the Tracer—gone, just like that.

For a while, we didn’t even have a car. We relied on my mom to get us places. Eventually, he got a cheap truck from a buy-here-pay-here lot. Meanwhile, my perfect credit? Destroyed.

Ladies, let me tell you something: It is so much easier for an unreliable man to drag you down than for you to lift him up. If he isn’t pulling his weight, let him go. If he isn’t working hard to take care of you, walk away. A man who truly loves you will do his part. He won’t sit back and watch you struggle alone.

After 20 years, he finally started stepping up. Maybe that’s why I stayed as long as I did—because I knew being on my own would be hard.

And it has been.

But you know what? I said it before, but it needs repeating. I’d rather struggle alone than be with someone who never appreciated me.

I recently came across an Instagram post I made 13 years ago. I had written about feeling alone and depressed. And you know what hurts the most? Realizing that, even back then, I already knew.

I have regrets. And yeah, I get lonely. When your kids are grown and living their own lives, it’s tough. But at least now, I can rest easy knowing that no one is controlling me. No one is draining me.

And that peace? It’s worth everything.