I’m rethinking my image of serene, smooth-sailing Dr. Cavanaugh. It is 7 p.m. on a Monday night. She is headed home after a long day discussing tumors and telling patients who wouldn’t just let their phones go to voicemail that they need more chemo. Maybe worse. At home: her kids—two, not much older than mine, hastily crafted dinner, a mountain of email, a bag unpacked from the conference she returned from late last night. She probably used the only quiet moments of her whole day to call me from the highway.
