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that I was the wife of an upandcoming baseball player. I was uncomfortable suddenly having money, and found that it could make situations awkward and unpleasant. Sadly, some people from the past—people in our families—even stopped talking to me because of it. I still can’t believe that ties were severed over money. I thought that if I had help, even more people would look at me with a mix of envy and disdain and say,“Well, she has it easy . She’s not doing anything .” I cared too much about what people thought, and I felt that having help would erase everything I did as a mother in the eyes of others. So I had no babysitter, no nanny, and I took my kids with me everywhere.
    What complicated things even more when Grant was little was the fact that in 2001 I received a diagnosis and intensive surgical treatment for melanoma. It started with a spot on my back. It had been there awhile. My brother and sisterinlaw had each said something to me about it. I’d attempted to see a couple of different dermatologists a year or two before, when we were living in Philadelphia, but for some reason those appointments got canceled, and I didn’t follow through with them. Maybe I was in denial.
    At a physical in Arizona after Curt’s trade, the doctor immediately noticed that spot on my back. “I don’t like that,” he said. “I need to remove it.” I didn’t think it was a big deal. I didn’t argue with him and just said, “Go ahead.” It seemed good to get it over with. Maybe I could even avoid the lecture about how bad the sun was for you, not to mention tanning beds. Of course, I’d heard of sunscreen and knew there was this thing called “skin cancer,” but I never paid much attention to it.
    I had been a serious sun worshipper. As a teen, I broiled myself on my parents’ tarcovered roof, slathered in baby oil. Each season I made a point of getting a stingy red burn first, to establish a “base” for a nice tan. Just thinking about it hurts. It’s amazing when you think about how much we didn’t know only a short time ago. Tanning beds became a regular part of my life in my twenties. They provided a way to maintain a golden glow yearround and they were a serious timesaver for a busy person. As the technology advanced, some tanning places had the ability to administer a fiveminute shot of radiation that was the equivalent of sitting in the sun for thirty minutes. I could fry myself in between the pediatrician’s office and the grocery store without missing a beat. It was a way of life for me in those days. I had a permatan.

    After removing the growth from my back, the doctor sent it to a lab for a biopsy. It never occurred to me that it might come back positive for cancer, but it did. The doctor called the next day and said I had to go see a plastic surgeon. Not only did I have skin cancer, but I had the deadly kind: melanoma. In all, I had to undergo five surgeries on my back and front to remove all the malignancy, all the while wondering, What if they can’t get it all? What if it comes back?
    Shortly after my surgeries were completed, Curt was featured in a story on ESPN because he was going to be in the 2001 AllStar game. The news of my cancer had made it around the clubhouse, and the reporter asked Curt about it. Then they sent another reporter to interview us.
    At first I felt the woman wasn’t taking me—or skin cancer—seriously. I felt almost mocked by her. Finally, I said to her, “I’m not going to be a part of this piece unless you show pictures.” She seemed taken aback. Then I showed her pictures—like the area where they removed six inches of skin from my back. The reporter changed her tone with me. I’d finally gotten through to her.
    Once ESPN ran the segment, suddenly everyone wanted to interview us. People magazine did a big article, and many other publications and television shows jumped on board with our human interest story.
    There went my privacy. I’d barely had time to