It’s about quarter to eleven. I’m sitting in front of my computer drinking a cold Corona, nibbling on some corn chips, and I’m thankful for the Corona, the chips, and the ability to use the toilet when I want to.

I spent the last 24 hours with Mrs. Lockard in Georgetown, pulling a 24-hour shift while everybody else rested. Her family has been staying in the room as on-call nurses, providing companionship, making sure she gets immediate attention and getting the correct information from the various doctors who visit. My wife inherited a familiar stubborn streak from her parents, and comes by it honestly: Mrs. Lockard would hoist herself out of bed and crawl to the bathroom without aid, so somebody has to be there to keep an eye on her. Besides leveling her immune system, the chemo did a number on her memory recall, so she doesn’t remember what the doctors have told her from one minute to the next. So Jen started keeping The Book. The Book sees everything—from the embarassing to the important. It’s a record of her progress, of her climb out of the gutter and into the big ball return of life. Years from now, when this experience is a memory, the family will know how many times she ate popsicles and what color they were; how many bowel movements on a given day; or what goofy shit she said while hallucinating the first week. There are funny notes to each other in The Book, as well as lusty 4am ramblings about the primary care doctor. (He is pretty hot; I’d believe all this care was purely philanthropic if I didn’t actually witness the Lockard women ovulating when he enters the room.)

I saw a lot of Mrs Lockard this weekend (more than I wanted to, frankly—those gowns tend to fall open in the back) and I was nervous going into Saturday night. I’m not a fan of hospitals, doctors, needles, or machines that beep at four in the morning. I’ve only been there for a six-hour shift before this weekend, while others have put full weeks in at the hospital. So I feel unworthy to have been present for two huge leaps in her progress: I would much rather have one of her sisters been present for the first triumphant trip to the bathroom. Or Jen to have been there for the look on her mother’s face when they brought her first solid food in a month. I haven’t put the time in, and I know they could use those boosts more then me.

So I’m going to enjoy my chips and salsa, drink my Corona, and enjoy a trip to the bathroom this evening. If any of the family is reading this, know this: she had a good day.