Butterfly needles. hCG levels. Tears, (which have been scientifically proven to contain cortisol to relieve stress.) STAT orders. Ultrasounds. The best damn OBGYN a girl could ask for. Blood draws every 12 hours. D&Cs. One line. Two lines. Red lines. Blue lines. Phlebotomists who tear up and hug you when they hear your story. Phlebotomists who smile a genuine smile when you tell them, “I’m okay. I was lucky.” Anesthesiologists. Anesthesiologists who ask you to sing to sleep. Doctors and nurses who sneak you your favorite foods. My wonderful, crazy, and absolutely hilarious 89-year-old grandmother who was released from the hospital this morning. Good Samaritan Hospital who made sure that pneumonia only means a 48-hour hospital stay, no matter if you grew up in a time where there was only one telephone in your entire town. The men in my life that will rub my shoulders, my hands, and my feet, even though they don’t sleep with me. Hospitals with DirecTV. Hospitals with on-demand. Don’t Be Tardy. The Knick. The Incredible Dr. Pol. Stanford University School of Medicine, and my amazeballs classmates that keep checking up on me and bringing me module recordings. Virtual dissections. Secure exam programs. Puppies. Kitties. My puppies and kitties. My Godchildren. Being a fairy Godmother. The Nie Nie Dialogues. Prayers. Being in prayer. Flowers. Duragesic for debridements and dressing changes. The amazing staff at VMC’s burn unit, plastic surgery unit, and reconstructive surgery unit. My badass insurance company for declaring my burn surgeries as reconstructive so that I haven’t had to pay a damn dime. And, above all else, finding happiness in the face of a storm.