Chicago, Day 1

Six of us left D/FW last Friday for Chicago -- Steve, Cooper, Katie, me and Jim and Betty. We were especially thankful that American Airlines had resumed regular service that week, as we were flying on an MD-80. Uncle Jim had flown in from Houston the night before and met us at O'Hare.

We split up after claiming our bags. Steve and his parents took a cab downtown, and the kids, Uncle Jim and I hopped on the train. The taxi beat us by about an hour (we had a transfer and a few blocks of walking), but Cooper and Katie loved the train experience. When we stepped out of the underground station and Cooper saw the city streets, he instantly brightened. "I love Chicago," he gushed. He has always loved big cities -- New York, Boston, San Francisco, Philadelphia, D.C. I expect, when given the chance, he'll eventually ditch suburban life.

We regrouped at the hotel (the Courtyard Marriott off Michigan Avenue, on Ontario Street), and then headed out for a late lunch. About a block away was the West Egg Cafe, which I had read about earlier. (For those readers who don't know me well, I'll tell you now -- I love planning a vacation almost as much as taking a vacation.)

The West Egg is where Katie discovered her signature Chicago meal -- strawberry banana pancakes. She ate them every day we were in the city!

Then we split up -- Betty and Steve returned to the hotel, and the rest of us took a cab to the Navy Pier. We spent about two hours at the Chicago Children's Museum, which is now definitely in our top 3 children's museums. (The other two are probably in Milwaukee and Philly, though the Lakeland, Fla., one is a contender, too.) The museum successfully appealed to both Katie's and Cooper's age group. They both loved the water room, which offered opportunities to build dams, operate locks, pump water, float boats, build pipes and more.

As the museum was closing, we left for the giant ferris wheel, which offers great views of Lake Michigan and the downtown skyline.

We returned to the hotel to rest. Jim, Betty and Jim went to see Wicked that night, and Steve, the kids and I walked a few blocks to dinner. We found the Mity Nice Grill, at the back of a fancy shopping mall, and settled in. We were all tired from the day, but Cooper seemed the most exhausted. He barely touched his meal and was falling asleep in the booth. Not even the prospect of dessert would rouse him, so we went straight back to the hotel and put the kids down for the night.

And then I had a minor breakdown. Normally when Steve and I travel to a city, he ventures out before our bedtime and comes back with a surprise dessert. Well, he can't do that now. He's not stable enough to walk alone in our quiet, familiar neighborhood, much less a relatively unknown, crowded city. And that's when I started to cry.

At home, we've adapted to our new living-with-cancer routine. And going out of town would be different, I knew, than any other time we'd been out of town together. But no amount of planning had prepared me for how sad I would feel at that moment when I realized that even minor details of our vacation rituals would change.

And then I felt selfish for feeling sorry for myself and for wanting "old Steve" back. I mean, honestly -- I don't have a tumor in my brain stem. I'm not the one who is confined to the room unless someone goes with me. I should be grateful (and I was, really, just not at that exact moment) that we were together as a family, that we were celebrating Steve's progress -- not greedy for what life used to be like. And all those thoughts made me feel worse. And it was my birthday. (Natalie, a friend whose daughter is undergoing chemotherapy for optic gliomas, calls it a "how the heck did we get here" moment.)

I pulled myself together, left the hotel and wandered the city streets in search of dessert. I eventually found a wonderful, individually sized cherry pie with white chocolate mousse and ate it in our room. (Steve couldn't eat anything that late, as he was close to taking his chemotherapy. He has to wait two hours after eating before he can take the anti-nausea medicine and another 30 minutes before the chemo.)

Steve and I talked about it all, and we agreed that we just hate the Damm Spot. I am especially thankful that we can talk with each other about our moments of melancholy and that we support each other through these minor crises and much larger ones.

For more photos from our first day, click here.

Coming next: Day 2 report (and no crying, at least by me!)