Good hell is going through chemo,
and still finding the strength
to play Barbies with your daughter,
while trying not to puke on Ken.
It’s smiling through the burn of it,
the ache in every hollowed bowels,
because her giggle—bright and careless—
reminds me that it's not about me.
Good hell is screaming fear into pillows,
then packing lunch with shaky hands,
brushing hair with love and patience,
as your body makes its cruel demands.
It’s finding beauty in the benign,
grateful for another day,
to see her sing and dance,
and tell me the most wonderful tales.
Good hell is fighting battles
that no one else will understand,
but holding onto tiny moments—
a touch, a laugh, a little hand.
It’s hell, but somehow still good.
A paradox I bear with grace.
Because she’s worth the pain, the sickness,
and every tear that I hide.