The decision to stop working

Ever since my metastatic diagnosis almost exactly a year ago, the idea to stop working has been in the back of my mind, but I just wasn’t ready to make the leap. In the two months between my diagnosis and the Big Surgery I was in crisis management mode, focusing on tying things up, both personally and professionally, in case I died on the table (is that morbid? To me, it was a very real possibility). After surgery, I spent three months in recovery, helping my body get back to a point where it wasn’t in constant pain. I was successful, and I am very proud of that achievement! In January I went back to work because my body felt ready, and I longed for a return to normalcy. And yet throughout it all, there was a voice in my head, growing ever louder, encouraging me to accept how irreversibly my life had changed, and to think about what my future direction should be. My stepson is 23, my daughter is almost 11, and I have been a full-time working parent throughout their entire childhoods. How much longer will I have with my family?

It’s very scary, purposely letting go of a job that is secure, steady, and reliable, although in some ways the pandemic helped me prepare for this. In 2020, as my library closed and all the staff were sent to work from home, I had very real fears that we would all be dismissed. I am extremely grateful to my employer that all the library staff were kept on even though we didn’t open to the public again for a full year.

Also, it’s very painful letting go of a career for which I got my Master’s, and have invested so much time and energy. Twenty years ago, when I decided to become a Librarian, I thought “Ah, this is a career to which I can devote my whole life!” and then in 2015 when I had my first cancer diagnosis, I thought, “Well, at least I can retire early at 55 with partial benefits.” And now I am here, about to quit my job in the middle of what should be my most income-generating decade. I am aware of the Sunk Cost Fallacy, but that is small comfort when the uncertainty of “What’s the best choice?” is so stressful. I still love reading. I still love libraries. Working in a public library has been a dream come true, and I have been incredibly lucky to have been in that world. Never in a million years I thought I’d have metastatic Stage Four cancer at the age of 44.

I’ve talked all this over with my husband, my sister, my best friends, my therapist, and my cancer support groups. I’ve let it sit in my brain to see how the thoughts rest. I’ve said these words out loud, to see how they feel in my mouth.

And this decision feels right.

I’m ready to accept that my life expectancy has shortened significantly. I’m ready to accept that, even though I do love my work and my profession, spending time with my family is more important to me. I’m ready to accept that, according to the US government, my type of cancer makes me very eligible for Social Security benefits like Medicare. I’m ready to accept that the opt-in long-term disability policy I’ve been paying into since 2015 was created for this very thing. And, most importantly, I’m ready to accept that my daily health is not as good as it once was. Although my incision has healed and I don’t have pain in that area any longer, frequently I am exhausted at the end of my days. I’ve been noticing more and more brain fog. In spite of my monthly Sandostatin shots I still get flushings on the regular, and bad IBS flare-ups (how much my cancer and my IBS are interconnected is unclear). Increasingly my blood pressure fluctuates wildly, which sometimes makes me weak, woozy, and gray around the edges. Sometimes I’ll get sharp, unexpected pains in my abdomen. My Cromogranin A, the most important marker in my blood for my cancer, is steadily creeping up month after month. I know to the casual observer I “look great!”, since that is the usual response after I tell people I have cancer, but truly, I am not doing great. Don’t judge a book by its cover and all that.

My oncologists, from the beginning of this metastatic journey, have told me it’s only a matter of time before my cancer bulks back up to a point of needing another big surgery and/or additional treatments. It’s not “if”, it’s “when”. The slow freight train is headed my way, and I’m tied to the tracks.

So, what would Future Me want Present Me to do?

As much as I love my job and being a Librarian, I don’t want to work until I drop dead. I want to experience life with my family as long as the cancer will let me. My wonderful husband is incredibly supportive of this decision. The role of sole breadwinner is a LOT of responsibility, but he is ready to step up.

What’s next?

I’m looking forward to spending more time with my family. Being home in the afternoon after my daughter gets back from school is going to be huge: we can garden, read books, birdwatch, and write silly songs together. Not gonna lie: being a full-time working parent has been very hard, and the mommy guilt is real.

Our two dogs and two cats are going to get a whole lot more cuddle time with me! Also, I’ve had some ideas for children’s books that have been rattling around in my head for a long time, and I’d like to see if I can write them down. Maybe I’ll try to actually get over my stresses around food and learn to cook. I’ll finally have time to give meditation a try. I’d love to visit all the public libraries in our metro area. I’m going to sharpen my budgeting skills and manage the family finances on a reduced income. And, of course, I’m going to become an expert navigating Social Security benefits.

I have been working as a Librarian since 2003, and have loved every minute of the last 20 years. My last day of work will be Thursday, August 31, 2023.