Steve at Zale

After we got the call this afternoon, we sprang into action. Steve called his mom, who drove up right away to take care of napping Katie and Cooper, who would be coming home from school soon. I gathered Steve's belongings and called the Bassens for help getting Steve into the car.

We pulled into the Zale Lipshy valet area, and the intake nurse arrived to help Steve out of the car, into a wheelchair and onto the rehab floor.

We spent the next couple of hours going over medications, schedules, expectations and other introductory details. We met Dr. N, the physician who will oversee Steve's treatment, and his resident, Dr. C.

We learned that because of swine flu fears, children younger than 12 aren't allowed on patient floors. I had had big hopes of the four of us eating dinner together and reading bedtime stories in Steve's room. We'll just have to move the visits downstairs to the lobby.

A respiratory therapist stopped by to check Steve's pulse-oxygen levels and start his breathing exercises. She is the same RT who helped Steve at St. Paul a month ago. She chatted with us for a while, describing her husband's recovery from cancer 13 years ago. And she shared her belief that a good attitude is essential to healing.

We, of course, agree.

I left after Steve finished dinner. We've decided that during this stay I will spend nights at home so that we can both rest well.

I'll return early Wednesday morning to meet the physical and occupational therapists as well as the social worker, who will help with arrangements for home accommodations.

*****

One of my high school friends, Angela, delivered dinner to the house tonight. She made Steve's favorite dessert, pecan pie.

When I told Steve about the dessert, he reminded me of one of our favorite grocery store stories.

The week of our first Thanksgiving together, I wanted to make chocolate pecan pie to take to a dinner. I'd never made any kind of pecan pie before, so the ingredients -- as simple as they are -- were new to me.

Steve and I shopped together, and we couldn't find the Karo Syrup. We couldn't even pronounce Karo. A fellow shopper took pity on us and led us up and down aisles, saying loudly, "Where's the Kay-ro? Where's the Kay-ro?"

We laugh about that moment every time we see a bottle of corn syrup or talk about pecan pie. (And sometimes we recall that I burned the pie. There were a few baking disasters that first year.)