Sam wanted to know at 8:12 p.m. exactly when it would be “official.”

“Three hours and forty-eight minutes,” I told him.  “That’s when you’ll be 8!”

“Really!” said a relieved Sam.  He thought he’d have to wait most of the day to celebrate his birthday as he wasn’t born until 6:30 p.m.  on March 11, 2008.

There’s been a lot of talk of countdowns in my family this week.  Today we celebrate two: Sam’s birthday and the conclusion of Nate’s chemotherapy.

I’m thinking about where I was eight years ago this moment.  I was asleep.  In about two hours I would wake to the start of labor.  I had no idea how to be a mom or that thousands of tiny, wonderful moments awaited me.

I also had no clue how to adjust my life to accommodate change that new life inevitably brings.  With this, I have stumbled and struggled.  It’s taken these eight years to become comfortable with just the idea of this blog’s theme — that life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans.  Parenthood has been a great teacher.  And yesterday I got another lesson.

Nate’s chemotherapy was supposed to finish at 9 p.m. March 10.  In my head I imagined how it would play out: we’d all gather around Nate’s bedside as nurses unleashed him from the chemo line.  We’d cheer and ring our noisemakers.  My family and the nurses would eat cake.  Of course there’d be a video of the celebration.  Nate and Sam would be laughing.  Most importantly, the end of Nate’s chemotherapy would finish the day before Sam’s birthday so Sam wouldn’t have to share his special day.

But as it is, the chemo didn’t stop until 12:36 a.m. today.  Interruptions with the chemo pump throughout the week caused a delay.  I sent Ted, Sam and Kim home hours ago.  And the cake I bought to celebrate?  Well, the woman at the supermarket’s bakery apparently thought I said my son’s name was “Mate.”

The day didn’t turn out as planned. And that’s a good thing because today was beautiful.  Every moment.  We celebrated all day, not just for ten minutes at exactly 9 p.m. as I initially envisioned.

I awoke to find Nate’s hospital door gleefully proclaiming “Last Chemo!”spelled out just above two leprechauns.  A clever nurse with a great sense of humor had rearranged my “Luck of the Irish” decoration to a more personalized message for Nate.

Then Kim, my awesome sister-in-law, flew in from Boston to spend time with her nephews.  We shopped at a party store for noisemakers, balloons and banners for both boys’ celebrations.  We made it back in time for rounds and handed noisemakers to the residents and attending physician who were happy to cheer Nate’s last day of chemo.

Kim visited with Nate so I could take a break.  I even had time to go to dinner with friends.  When I came back to the hospital, Kim, Ted and Sam were together having fun with Nate.  Although they couldn’t stay until the chemo finished, they congratulated him before leaving.

Nate and I spent the rest of the evening as we normally do and sometime after 10 p.m. he fell asleep in my arms.  His nurse came in and told me she anticipated Nate would finish the chemo at around 12:30 a.m.  She and her colleague returned moments before Nate completed his infusion.  They quietly watched with me as the pump went to zero.  Then they unhooked him.  

I broke into tears.  They hugged me.  A few minutes later, our nurse asked me to come to the nurse’s station.  Gathered together were several of our heroic nurses.  They  congratulated me and we then then dug into the “Mate the Great” cake.  It was perfect.

Now it’s time for bed.  In a few hours another day of celebration begins.

Who knows what will happen.

Happy Birthday Sam!  Thank you for making me a mom.  Thank you for thousands of tiny, wonderful moments.  Thank you for first teaching me how to let go of “other plans” so that I can experience life.  You have given me the strength to see your little brother through these past six months and I will be forever grateful.

This campaign season, we’ve heard a lot about the evils of the richest 1% of the country. But, as is so often the case, there’s another side to the story.

My family owes a great debt to a one-percenter who died more than 80 years ago. As you know, if you’ve been reading this blog, for the last six months we’ve been living in a local hospital, and that makes us guests of Alfred Irenee du Pont de Nemours.

Our 19-month-old son, Nate, has been undergoing treatment for leukemia at the Nemours/Alfred I. duPont Hospital for Children in Wilmington. This is the hospital that “Mr. Alfred,” as he was called when he worked at his family’s gunpowder factory, established in his will. And I’m grateful that he did.

The extraordinary doctors and nurses at Nemours have saved our son’s life twice in less than two years. First, there was successful open heart surgery when Nate was just five weeks old. Then, since October, there’s been the chemotherapy that’s driving Nate’s cancer into remission, hopefully, forever.

Mr. Alfred was many things: a powderman, a pugilist, a poet, a philanthropist. (He was also a banker, an engineer, and a musician, but I can’t think of “p” words for those.) And he was, from the moment of his birth, a plutocrat. That’s an old-fashioned word for a one-percenter.

Throughout his life, he experienced what it is to have enormous wealth. He also experienced what it is to have enormous suffering. Both his parents died in the same year when he was just 13. In adulthood, he went deaf and was blinded in one eye.

St. Paul wrote, “that tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope.” And so it was with Alfred, whose great hope was to improve the lot of his fellow human beings. Like Franklin Roosevelt, another aristocrat who learned firsthand how frail we all are, the hardships of Alfred’s life led him to develop sympathy for the downtrodden, the underdogs. And he acted on those sympathies.

Before there was a federal Social Security program, Alfred pushed Delaware to adopt a pension program for the elderly. While the state dithered over it, he decided to set up the system himself. He put up the money and had checks mailed to seniors up and down the state.

Alfred’s kindness (as well as his foibles) are brilliantly detailed in Alfred I. DuPont, The Family Rebel by Marquis James. I read this book while keeping Nate company in his hospital room. It was quite an experience to read about Alfred while being surrounded by the greatest manifestations of his legacy. Nate’s room overlooks Nemours Mansion, Alfred’s 300-acre estate patterned after Versailles.

It was an act of posthumous generosity that ensured Alfred would leave such a lasting legacy. (In that, he was like a decidedly eccentric one-percenter, Howard Hughes, who endowed the Howard Hughes Medical Insitute.)

Alfred left most of his fortune to charity when he died in 1935, writing in his will: “It has been my firm conviction throughout life that it is the duty of everyone in the world to do what is within his power to alleviate human suffering.” His money was used to create the Nemours Children’s Health System that today operates world-class hospitals in Delaware and Florida that treat thousands of children, including our Nate, every year.

Alfred’s life underscores a fundamental truth: Whether you’re a one-percenter, or a 321er like Nate, you shouldn’t be judged based on a group stereotype, you should be loved as an individual.

That’s a lesson a certain one-percenter running for President might want to recall.

Today’s blog entry is written by Ted to express our thanks to the legacy of Alfred I. du Pont. 

Much of Cinderella’s story is about the wicked stepmother and her evil daughters.  But those nasty ladies get way too much airtime.

So much drama centered around their attempts to thwart Cinderella.  Oh the time taken by chatter about their malevolent ways.  It’s exhausting.  Too bad more focus isn’t given to Cinderella’s fairy godmother and other friends who lift her up, pamper her and teach her how to accept help even at the depths of her despair.

This week I had my own Cinderella story of sorts.

Nate’s cancer is the obvious villain of my story and I shall give it no more mention in this post.  Take that AML!

So let’s talk about the heroes.

But first, like all fairy tales, a little background …

Those of you who know Ted are keenly aware of his passion for presidential history and, in particular, his favorite: Number 16.

Years ago while dating I promised Ted we would visit at least one presidential site or attend an event per year.  I’m embarrassed to say that I may have even written this down on a piece of paper and wrapped it up as a Christmas gift.  Romantic right?

As what often happens with these type of “experience” gifts, I haven’t kept up.  Some years were good (Harry S. Truman Presidential Library, 2003; Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library, 2006; Lincoln bicentennial birthday celebration, 2009; Clinton Presidential Center, 2015).  As for the other years, our interests veered from history museums to children’s museums.

When I was thinking about what to get Ted for Valentine’s Day this year I fell back on our old theme and contemplated giving him a membership to the Lincoln Club of Delaware.   The gift included a black-tie event during which a prominent Lincoln scholar addresses the audience in celebration of President Lincoln’s birthday.  For Ted, there couldn’t be a better present.  Given my profession and interest in Lincoln, the membership would make me happy too.

There was just one problem. How would we be able to attend the gala with one child in the hospital and the other at home?  What about our outfits?  Where would we find time to shop?  Ted had not worn a tux since our wedding and I don’t have formal gowns gathering dust in the closet.  I spend my days in jeans and hadn’t had a hair cut since before Nate’s hospitalization.

Here’s where our Cinderella heroes come in.

When my friends heard about my gift idea for Ted they too became excited.  Each time I threw an obstacle in the way, they moved it.

“But I don’t have time to get a dress,”  I said.

“Rent the Runway!” they responded.

“But what about the kids? Who will watch them?” I pushed.

“Well you have more than one friend.  We’ve got this,”  they countered.

For the past three weeks my friends did everything they could to make sure Ted and I made it to our own ball.  They watched Nate so we could shop for a new tux.  They helped me pick out a fun dress and my dear friend, Patty, rented it for me on the fabulous Web site, Rent the Runway.  Another good friend, MC, loaned me earrings.  Friends watched Nate so that I could go and have my hair cut and styled and then took care of both boys for us for our evening out.

Before leaving for the gala Friday evening I took the arm of my husband who looked so dashing in his new tux.  I felt pretty spectacular too in the dazzling designer, emerald-sequined gown with trumpet hem.   We walked down the stairs of our home to see Sam wide-eyed and grinning ear to ear.

“Wow,” he said just before he left for his own fun evening out to bowl and eat pizza with his babysitter and her boyfriend.

On our way to the event, we stopped at the hospital to see MC, who was watching Nate.  How special we felt when she and Nate’s nurses made a big fuss over us.

“Do a prom pose!” they said, snapping pictures of us with the Nemours water tower in the background.

As for the night itself, we had such a great time.  We toasted President Lincoln.  We visited with friends and met new ones too.  We had great conversations and learned new things from the Club’s guest speaker.  We even stopped for a drink on the way home to rehash our evening out.

I realize I’m stretching it to try and connect Cinderella and Abraham Lincoln.  But they both did have gifts that weren’t initially appreciated by those around them.  Both also achieved a great liberation — one personal and one for a nation.  And for one night we felt free too, thanks to good friends who made it all happen and cheered us on along the way.

One word at a time.  That’s how Stephen King describes how he writes.

Now in the last hour of Nate’s 168-hour, continuous chemotherapy infusion, I am thinking about the past 167 hours.  Every single one of them.

For the past seven days, I have often felt like we are in the middle of a Stephen King novel.  Dark moments.  Gruesome scenes.  Anger.  Tension.  Frustration.  Humor.  Exhaustion.  And one moment in particular that was just plain gross and oddly comic.

I am also thinking about the literary master’s approach to writing and how perfectly it sums up how Nate and I have survived this week.   One hour at a time.

Chemotherapy presents obvious darkness.  I see my child overcome by nausea.  I watch as the chemo drips from the bag, down the pole, into the pump and out to tubes that are connected to my son.  Plastic tubes that go straight to his heart via a central line threaded through his jugular vein.  I fear what’s to come when these drugs wipe out his immune system.

But with Nate there’s an added twist.  He’s a toddler on chemo.  A curious, active toddler who knows I am not a patient woman.  A toddler who loves to watch my mouth drop open when he’s mischievous and has mastered this sport.

Turn your head from Nate for a few minutes and you’ll find him with a wide grin across his face, his teeth chomping on the tubes that contain the toxic chemicals.  Sometimes he tries to use the tubes to zipline to the chemo pole.  He’s found these three-foot lines also make for good lassos and nooses.

“Na-ate!  WHAT are you doing,” I yell.  I panic.  He smiles.  I shoot up, rush over and take the tubes from his hands or his mouth.   At the same time, the sensitive chemo pump knows something’s not right and starts beeping loudly until nurses come to shut it off.  On and on this goes all day and night.

Nate’s behavior has earned him the nickname “Johnny” from the scene made famous by Jack Nicholson in The Shining.  Nate discovered there’s a gap in his bed that can’t be zipped while he’s on chemo.  He loves to peer out of the opening  with a big grin and then attempt to climb out onto the chemo pole — roughly a five foot drop to the floor.  “Na-ate,”  I’d yell before rushing over to prevent him from falling out just as the alarms began to beep.

I too earned a nickname from a Stephen King novel.  Carrie.  During a sleepless night, Nate threw up what seemed to be buckets of a chocolate Boost shake.  With such force he launched this vomit into the air causing it to land all over me and cover the floor.  What a scene Nate and I were to the nurses who rushed in responding to my call for help.  I stood dripping in the dark room.  My face stunned as the liquid fell down my hair, face and clothes.  Nate was equally soaked.  The Mickey Mouse on the glow-in-the-dark T-shirt I was wearing appeared decapitated as the chocolate-colored puke covered his face.  Once we finally went to bed, Nate and I slept in until noon the next day.

We’ve slept in a lot of days this past week, and it hasn’t been a total horror show.  We’ve managed to have fun.  Heck, getting through a long infusion of chemotherapy with only one episode of vomiting is actually an accomplishment.

My family also watched the Super Bowl from Nate’s room and I had some visits with great friends who made these hours pass more quickly.  I introduced Nate to “Finding Nemo” and he loves it.  We had some pretty great naps on the couch in our room.

But I am now thankful that as of this moment Hour 168 has passed.  Nate is free.  And for me, it’s End of Watch.

Cooped up for days there was just one thing to do on our second full day of freedom from Room 47.  An alphabetical scavenger hunt.

Couldn’t be too difficult, right?  This is a huge hospital: lots of wings, plenty of floors and so much to look at.  But Nate and I weren’t sure.  Would we find a tricky “Q?”  How on earth would we discover a “Z?”  The eight-point Scrabble letters also seemed a bit intimidating — would we have to search all day for the the “J” and “X?”

We were bored yesterday morning and needed an adventure.  Nate’s immune system was strong enough for a stroll.  With cancer treatment, you never know when you are going to be in isolation.  We’ve learned to take advantage of free time.

What follows are our discoveries, A to Z.  Some treasures were at our doorstep, others were a bit more challenging.  But all of them brought Nate and me some fun on an otherwise boring, cold January day in the hospital.

A is for the vast, whimsical and beautiful collection of ARTWORK displayed throughout the hospital placed at various heights for children small and tall.

B is for 2B, the floor dedicated to cardiac patients and where Nate underwent successful open heart surgery at five weeks of age.  At that time we thought spending three weeks in the hospital was a long time.

C is for CHILD LIFE specialist Jenn who helps Nate and Sam (as well as Ted and me) cope with being in the hospital.  Jenn brings us volunteers, toys, beads and activities, along with fun and laughter.

D is for the smart, empathic and strong DOCTORS who are treating Nate’s cancer.  They truly are saving Nate’s life.  They are mighty and brave.

E is for the ELEVATORS that shuttle us up and down.  Floor Three, please

F is for FRANKI, our FRIEND, whose photograph hangs in the Hall of Heroes outside of the NICU.  As a newborn, Nate was treated in the NICU for a fever.  Ted and I would pass this photo several times a day and wonder: “Who is this little miracle with the brightest smile and where is she now?”  A few days after discharge, Franki’s mom and dad coincidentally knocked on our door.  They had learned there was a new baby with Down syndrome who lived in the neighborhood.  They offered support and encouragement.  Little did they know that their daughter had already been doing that for us.  Franki and her parents continue to inspire us today

G is for GIFT SHOP.  Here, Nate is signing “more” in front of the stuffed animal display.  This kid knows his mother is weak when one of her boys asks for something in a store.

H is for HAND SANITIZER.  The noise of this dispenser drives me crazy, but I do appreciate its effectiveness in preventing infection.

I is for ICE MACHINE.  How I wish I had this industrial gem at home!

J is for JAZZMAN’S, which has the best coffee in the house.

K is for KITCHEN, Nate’s favorite toy in our unit’s playroom.

L is for LOBSTER LANE, the hallway that bridges the old and new hospital wings and always reminds us of Maine!

M is for MARY, the nurse manager for Nemours Center for Cancer & Blood Disorders.  She always makes time for us and has the best candy in her office.

N is for NURSES.  Words won’t do justice for what they mean to us.  They are sharp and compassionate, kind and fun.  On the frontline of treatment, they are calm and collected.  They take care of our whole family.

O is for OCCUPATIONAL THERAPIST Chelsea who is passionate and playful in helping Nate develop new skills.

P is for PIANO, the grand piano that the sits in the hospital atrium.  Yesterday Jim from Pastoral Care played a special song for Nate.

Q is for QUIET CORNER, an alcove where Nate and I enjoy reading.

R is for ROCKING CHAIR, sturdy and comforting.  We’ve found them near the NICU, cardiac floor and oncology clinic.

S is for this SCULPTURE, “Hope and Remembrance,” given to the hospital by the Candlelighters, the Childhood Cancer Foundation of Delaware.  We paused to think about those who have journeyed before us.

T is for THERAPISTS Trish and Lindsay.  With music and art, they transform our day.  You never know what we will create when they stop by our room for therapeutic play.

U is for our UNIT, the BBMT Unit.  The sign is intimidating because there is powerful work taking place on the other side of these doors.

V is for VIEW of Nemours Mansion and Gardens from our room’s window.  We took this photo a few days ago after the season’s first snow.

W is for WELCOME, the warm sign that greets those who visit Nemours.

X is for XYLOPHONE, a very special xylophone.  This toy brought Nate great comfort as he recovered from his first cancer treatment procedure.  When a Child Life specialist learned Nate left it behind in the recovery unit, she tracked it down for him so that he can keep it with him throughout his hospital stay.

Y is for YELLOW MODULE , the outpatient clinic on the first floor, a surprisingly difficult letter to find.

Z is for ZOO, the Brandywine Zoo, which yesterday sent volunteers with some very interesting animals for the hospital children to see.  Here Nate appears to see some similarities between his shoe and Bluebeard, a blue-tongued skink.

It’s time.

I’ve delayed and delayed all day long.  Played far too many losing rounds of Candy Crush and “solved” some scenes on Criminal Case.  Caught up with what feels like every Real Housewives of Insert City.  Fixed the broken handle on my oven.  Cleaned out the bottom of Sam’s closet (didn’t know he owned so many pairs of flip flops or that some of last year’s Easter candy was hidden in an old shoe).  And I’ve texted a few friends about my foul mood today.

I’m so cranky because I have to get everything together to return with Nate to the hospital to begin his fourth round of treatment.  This is now routine.  In fact, most everything is still in the corner of the living room where I dumped the items upon returning home last week — Nate’s bin of toys, his bath tub, my books, the egg crate for the futon in the hospital room, my pillows and far too many bags of stuff I need for the upcoming three weeks to keep my sanity (once unpacked our tiny space looks more like a cozy studio apartment than antiseptic hospital room).  Our clothes are even packed in the large suitcase upstairs.

So truthfully I don’t have much to do but come to terms with the return to the hospital.  That’s never an easy thing to do.  The chemo line, Nate’s nausea afterward, the total loss of privacy, not being at home …

I think today is one of those days where it’s better to not think about the future, even if it is just half a day away.  I’m going to concentrate on the present.

Sam’s just arrived home.  There’s a package of semi-sweet morsels on the counter ready to be mixed with cookie dough and X-box games to be played.

Reality can wait until the morning.  That’s when I’ll lug everything to the car.

Today no doubt was busy for the Delaware State Police.

As they do every day, troopers stopped drunk drivers, rendered aid to stranded motorists and investigated countless crimes ranging from burglaries to homicides.

These troopers also provided protection to Santa and Mrs. Claus, making sure they visited my little boy’s bedside.

Without them, my sons would not have taken a photo together with Santa this year.

The Delaware State Police hosted Winter Fest today at A.I. du Pont Hospital for Children.  The troopers and other volunteers provided games, a photo booth, dinner, gingerbread houses, stuffed animals and lots of holiday cheer.

Most of the events took place in the hospital’s beautiful atrium.  But Delaware’s Finest made sure those children who couldn’t leave their rooms didn’t miss out on seeing Santa.

This afternoon the troopers brought Santa to Nate and Sam.  That meant a lot to us as Nate wasn’t well enough to go to the mall last week when we were home.  I didn’t think I’d be able to get the boys together for a photo this year and would end up taking Sam solo.

Sam was so in awe of Santa and the troopers when they visited that he pulled a Ralphie from The Christmas Story and stammered when Santa asked him what he wanted for Christmas.  Thankfully, our family friend Jenny was also visiting and helped Sam give Santa a portion of his list.

More surprises awaited Nate and Sam.  A few minutes after Santa left, their cousin Laura and aunt Kim arrived for a weekend visit.

While Kim cuddled with Nate, Laura, Jenny and I took Sam to the atrium where he threw a ball with Rudolph, made and ate gingerbread men, spun a dreidle and decorated ornaments for our tree. Sam’s heroes in uniform also brought along friends Rudolph, Olaf, Elmo and Raph.

The Delaware State Police and the volunteers who helped them today gave two little boys a great afternoon.  They also gave the boys’ mom a photo for a space in the family album she thought would be empty.

What do three families stuck in a children’s hospital – let alone the oncology floor – do on Thanksgiving Day?

Throw a parade, of course.

At precisely 1:51 p.m., patients, brothers, sisters, moms, dads, nurses, doctors and friends stepped off on Three East at A.I. du Pont Hospital for Children/Nemours for the inaugural Thanksgiving Day Parade. Balloons, remote control cars, silly string, bubbles, marching band music, signs and even a red wagon float generated lots of laughter and revelry on what otherwise would’ve been a boring afternoon.  We all laughed as we meandered back and forth in disorderly fashion down the hallway.

For me this parade brought a lot of celebration and levity and even tradition on what isn’t an easy day to be away from home. Tradition is a big thing for me.   I’m used to being in the kitchen cooking all morning to prepare for the big feast with the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade on the TV in the background. I love greeting family at my door as they come for dinner. And of course dinner, dessert, wine and football make me so happy.

These past two years my family has gotten used to having to abandon tradition. A year ago, the four of us celebrated quietly at a restaurant as Nate recuperated from open-heart surgery. This year, we have leukemia to contend with. Today we can’t even all be together.   Unfortunately Sam can’t come to the hospital today because he’s not feeling well so Ted is home taking care of him.

Thankfully my dear friend Jenn traveled all the way from Boston to be with us today so I’ve had great company all morning. She’s also the best partner in crime I know.  She was the perfect person to help me get this parade started.  We also are blessed to have two other wonderful families staying on Three East with us this Thanksgiving.  They share our sense of humor.

As it turns out, the Griffiths have so much to be thankful for  — we have each other, a wonderful extended family, the dearest of friends (old and new), the best medical providers and a pretty great life.

I used to dread homework.

Not mine.  Sam’s.

It was a battle every night.  It took the entire first grade and some work over the summer for Sam and I to learn how to work together.  I stopped hovering as much and he matured such that — on most nights — Sam completed his work without either one of us throwing a tantrum.

Given that homework can be an ordeal, this may sound strange: not helping Sam with homework ranks high on my list of things I hate most about Nate’s cancer.  To me it epitomizes how cancer is a family disease.  Homework time kept me up to date on what Sam was learning, gave us something to talk about and helped me develop better parenting skills.

Fortunately Ted and those helping us care for Sam are making sure he gets his homework done.

But I feel cheated and miss the time we spent together.  It hit me Thursday, the night before Sam’s weekly spelling test.  On our nightly call, I asked Sam to spell one of his words for the week.  Before I knew it, Sam was proudly rattling off the entire list to me.  I so wanted to be at home to see the expression on his face as he figured his words out.

Nate and I were discharged Friday after a short admission and spent the weekend at home, returning to the hospital Tuesday morning.  This admission, we are told, is supposed to be the most difficult.  It could be four more weeks before we return home.

Today I had enough of missing out on afternoons with Sam so I picked him up from school and brought him to the hospital.  We finished the homework between lots of snack breaks and video games on Nate’s TV.

The best part of the afternoon was when Sam opened up his book bag and showed me the books he chose at school to read for the week.  In addition to Frog & Toad, Sam picked the first in the Nate the Great detective series by Marjorie Weinman Sharmat.

Sam had fun reading to Nate his brother how Nate the sleuth tries to crack the case of his friend’s missing picture.  I can’t wait until he reads us the next one in the series, but it may be awhile.

“Get your arm back in the car!” I’d yell to no one who could hear me anyway.

You in the sedan, mini-van, SUV, pickup truck or convertible.

With your left arm fully extended out your driver’s side window, fingers spread just enough to the let the wind pass through.  Oh how you used to drive me crazy.  I know.  You were causing me no harm.  I was just a driver like you traveling down the interstate.

My arms were inside.  But there you were, the left arm straight out of the window catching air just like my golden retriever does with her muzzle.  On occasion, your passenger was doing the same thing.  Two arms, now, coming out of the car feeling the breeze.  I can’t even …

Such an innocuous thing.  But this was my road pet peeve.  Some people go berserk following drivers who neglect to turn off directional signals miles after a lane change or exit.  For me, it was drivers who stick arms out car windows.

Well … now I’m one of them.  That’s what spending days in a hospital will do.

I didn’t even know I was doing it, at first.  I left the hospital to run an errand a couple of weeks ago.  It had been 38 hours without fresh air.

Miles away I noticed my windows were down, the sunroof open and my left arm was sticking outside the window.  Straight out.  It felt great.  I needed to touch the air.  I had to feel it between my fingers; gather it in my palm.  At that moment, I stopped judging air-catching drivers.

Today while meeting my goal — going with Nate for a walk — I noticed he needed to touch air.

Nate had not felt the sun on his face or fresh air for more than three weeks.  We were fortunate this week to be discharged from the hospital for a short break before resuming treatment. 

As soon as we got moving, he lifted his arms up.  He clasped and unclasped his hands.  Then he laughed.  Normally he falls asleep pretty quickly on walks.  But today he stayed awake until we returned home.

I couldn’t get enough of the fresh air or the fall colors. As soon as Sam came home, we hopped on the bikes and off we went.

Sometimes I only had one arm on the handlebars.