It’s three months since Peter broke his femur in a devastating fall on the campus of American University. The orthopedic surgeon who put a three-inch rod in Peter’s thigh warned us that many people his age do not survive such a traumatic event. He added that Peter’s having been on the treadmill just hours before he tripped was a good sign because survival depends largely on the patient’s condition before the fall.

We saw his surgeon last week. Peter negotiated the trip from the curb to his office with the help of a cane. Six weeks earlier, I had to push him to his first post-operative checkup in a wheelchair. The doctor was pleased with his progress. The appointment lasted five minutes.

After five weeks in the hospital and six weeks of being confined to our apartment with rehab at home, we are on a good trajectory. We go out for physical therapy now, and last weekend we had pizza with our grandkids (and their parents) in a restaurant.

My amazing husband has rarely complained about his situation unlike his grumpy caretaker (me). He is optimistic. He is determined. He’s also eighty-eight.

I am so proud—and so relieved.