Sweet Baby, Sour Cancer

My journey through cancer and pregnancy, twice.

Everyone says how well I have handled my situation, what a positive attitude I have, how strong I have been. Well the man behind the big green curtain running the show here has been Nate. He has been where I received my strength from, his positivity has kept me smiling and full of hope. His eyes looking at me the same as always even though my looks and my body resembles nothing like it used to be. Long hair, short hair, no hair doesn’t matter to him. Pre-pregnancy, pregnant and post baby body with now a scar across one side of my chest . He still reaches for me the same.  I look in the mirror and cringe but Nate still see’s me just as I was. Taking over 100 & 10% caring for Cora when all I could do is sleep and recover from surgery after surgery. Taking care of a new baby and a sick wife is no easy task.   Nate did it all. He is a rock, my rock ! My force not to be reckoned with. True, deep, passionate, love. 
I wish I could say that I wrote what is written below this. But, I can’t take the credit. When I was reading it, it was like I was reading my own words. It rang so close and is just what I wanted to write to Cora about her Daddy on this Valentine’s Day. It was taken from another blog called, Mom Life Now. 

To my dear Daughter, 

Many, many, many, years from now you will notice these things called boys. They will be nice looking and smell really good. These boys will talk words to you that speak of love and passion, of wanting you–all of you.
Their “sex” will be lacking.
Believe me, dear girl, I know what crazy hot lovemaking is made of. Until the boy can assure you of the following, it is not true passion.
If he can patiently wait for over three years. From pregnant to (not pregnant) to pregnant to nursing, with your hormones fierce, and desire often dead. “Please, just let me sleep. I am so tired.” will be your common response. Until he can love you still, choose you still, it is not true passion.
If He can call you beautiful when even your feet are swollen from baby belly.  Call you perfect after your belly hangs loose with skin and your eyes deep with bags. Until he can still call you these things, it is not true passion.
You may throw things at him, yell words of hate and shame as you feel the hormones and anxiety of post baby blues run deep. Until he can love you even deeper, piercing through the pain into your heart, it is not true passion.
He will go to work where there are other women, pretty women. Pretty women with no children and varicose free, high heeled legs. I know the way they toss their pretty little hair to and fro.

He will come home to you, your hair pulled back into the frizziest of buns (I had none) a baby on your hip, spit up down your arm. Until he can come home to you–you with no makeup–and express there is nothing as wonderful as seeing your face, it is not true passion.

You are touched by his love, and whisper tonight you will return the favor. Tonight there is a crying baby and a feverish toddler who just joined you in bed. Until he can laugh, fully laugh about this, it is not true passion.
Can a man like this exist? Yes, dear girl, and you call him your dad. He has shown me what true love is.
The hormones have faded. I am not pregnant. I am not nursing. My own passion has returned. Can I truly say “returned?” I really had no idea what passion was. So intense, so raw, I cannot put it fully into words.
I am not in love with just another man. I am in love with the father of my babies. The one who called me beautiful through nights of ugly, called me strong through days of weak, called me valuable through days of uncertainty. The one who waited patiently for me. 
This is love dear girl. This is passion. It is being one with he who is going to be there for you, till death do you part, regardless. It is something mystical and unexplainable. It is something crazy. It is crazy hot sex.
Wait dear girl. Wait for him. There is nothing so beautiful as finding your heart in his, the one who will wait for you–even after marriage.

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