Nurse Beefcake, thank you for your cool-cat beefy ways. Thank you for sauntering into our room tonight and bringing a smile to my daughter’s face. Your distracting ways take her mind off the nausea and chemo and cancer for a few precious moments. Do you know what makes me happy? Your sweet, kind, steamy presence allows my daughter to be a regular girl who crushes on a regular guy like the rest of her regular friends back home.
A new Kindle Fire makes us happy because it makes you happy, my daughter. How could I say no to a piece of technology after you sold me on it: “I’ll be able to read books on it, Mom. I could listen to music and watch movies and check FaceBook when we’re in the hospital.” How could your dad and I say no to you after all of the things you’ve been through these past nine months? I’ll continue to love and read my paper books like the old-school girl I am. I’ll continue to love the way a book feels in my hands, the whole sensory experience—the smell of books old and new, the way the paper feels under my finger’s caress. I’ll continue to be a hedonist and bibliophile with physical tendencies and I’ll continue to love the techie in you.

Dad’s mashed potatoes. Fuzzy blankets and PJ pants. Friends who love us with or without hair. A single room for chemo when we were expecting a triple. Roller derby love and our derby sisters make us super-duper happy. Bubble bath that smells like Hawaii and dreams of summer. Family. Friends.
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