(I don't have great answers to most of these, but I'm beginning to accept that might be okay.)
Here goes - in no particular order:
Does she have cancer because of the clove cigarette you tried before the Police concert in 1984, or because you brought her on the ship when she was a baby, or because you made her eat cooked carrots when she was five, even though she hated them?
What do you tell people when they offer to help and the only thing you really need is the only thing they can never do, no matter how much they want to?
Is "Pain Level 2" the same today as it was last month?
How do you know whether she's telling you the truth when she says she's "fine"?
What does "fine" even mean? Relative to what?
Do you try to stop remembering the times your little girl was scared and she came to you, and you promised her you would never let anything bad happen to her? (No. Because she came to you.)
How often can you tell your daughter you love her without driving her a little crazy? (It doesn't matter if it drives her a little crazy. She still wants to hear it.)
How will you hold it together when her pain gets worse?
Why did your kind, joyful, lovable daughter get cancer - when there are so many unkind and unhappy and unlikeable and perfectly healthy people? (You know it's an ugly question, but you ask it anyway.)
Mixed results? With chemo? Seriously?
Does she really need all these scans?
Doesn't she need more scans?
Knowing it could succeed or fail completely, when do you switch to immunotherapy?
Should you tell loving, caring, people - who want so badly to help your daughter - that nobody beats cancer with strength and determination. Just like nobody succumbs to cancer because they're weak and lack determination. Cancer doesn't care. It just doesn't. Do you tell people that? (No. You don't.)
How do you make sure you give her and the man she married five months earlier enough space when they live downstairs and you only have one kitchen?
How do you let people know how grateful you are for their prayers and the hope they give you? Thank you doesn't seem like nearly enough.
Why can't you remember the name of the woman who ignored some ridiculous policy and got oxycontin for your daughter on a Friday afternoon after everyone else had left and your daughter was in so much pain that she openly wept? (Maybe because the woman was an angel, and she never told you her name and maybe that's why nobody at the office can tell you, either. Or maybe you were just incoherent at the thought of your daughter in that much pain.)
Should you tell people that "rubbing kale on it" won't cure her cancer, even if it worked for their friend?
Will you celebrate her twenty-seventh birthday with her? (Yes!)
Will you celebrate her twenty-eight with her?
What can you do to make this second count, and how do you do that with Marcia and Chris and Nate and Victoria and Jackie and John and Danny and Paul and Mitch and Bob and Becky and Tanya and Steve and Jon and John and French and everybody else at the same time? Because they all deserve it just as much as she does.
How can you better help her husband who continues to work to maintain medical insurance while you get to stay home and take his wife her medication and drink in her smile when she snuggles with Bindi? Should you be doing his laundry? (Not if you're going to mess it up as badly as she does.)
How do you tell her that cancer has taken her beloved friend who made the best barbeque ribs and Sangria every summer in Manteo, and who was diagnosed just two months before she was?
Is there any chance Bindi really could get certified as a therapy dog? (Nope.)
How much time should you spend Googling "Neuroendocrine Cancer Research" when you could be collecting moments? (Almost none.)
When you get old and start seeing the hummingbirds or dragonflies or butterflies in your kitchen, who will be there to admire their colors with you?
Can you trust Dr. McGaughey? (Yes. Completely. Also, this is a double-edged sword. See the title.)
How can you get the schedulers to stop calling her for routine BS, and to start calling you?
Why can't you get the same answer from the insurance company about how much they'll reimburse her for her wig (that she never wears, by the way) two phone calls in a row?
What do you say when people ask, "How is she?" Or how is your wife? Or her husband? Or your sons? Or you?
What questions is she asking herself but not sharing with you?
If you really always believed it, why did it take a crisis for you to act like time is more important than money? (The answer to this one is obvious, I think.)
What about #cancerperks? Is it okay to tell people about your daughter's disease when you make reservations for a wine tour?
Is it okay to laugh in the treatment room? (Always.)
Does she believe it when people tell her how beautiful her smile is, and how she's helping them to live more fully?
How many #processpirates or love letters to your daughter is too many? (More than you can write.)