Pastry Thief
Mom checked on Roger around eight that evening and emerged anxiously from the room. She went to her purse and started rooting through it, looking for her wallet and the number to Roger’s oncologist. On the phone, Mom reported to the doctor that his temperature had risen and he couldn’t take a deep breath. The doctor, who’d guided Roger’s lung cancer treatment for the past several months, informed Mom that Roger needed immediate medical attention. Roger’s worsening cough and escalating fever indicated the situation was urgent and he needed to either check himself into a hospital in Chicago or drive straight to Mayo Clinic Hospital St. Marys in Rochester.
While Joe carried their bags back down to their car, Roger shuffled out of the room and headed to the pies he’d passed on before.
“You want some pie now?” I asked, shocked that he was thinking about eating at a time like this.
“Mmm-hmm,” he grunted. “Just a little piece.”
“Are you hungry?” I asked as I cut him a slice of the chocolate bourbon pecan.
“Not really, but I’m not gonna pass up on this — cut me a piece of the other one too,” he said pointing to the pumpkin.
“Roger, you’re going to make yourself sick,” Mom protested.
“Oh Diane, it will be fine — this is exactly what I need,” Roger replied
With Mom shaking her head, Roger shoveled the pie into his mouth, making guttural noises of approval as he ate.
All I could do was smile. This was the Roger I knew and loved. Roger’s penchant for pie was legendary. In his presence, no pastry was safe.
As he devoured his dessert, I wondered, How bad could it really be?
They drove through the night, stopping at the house to drop off Seth and pick up a few sundries, and arrived in the emergency room at St. Marys in the early morning hours. Roger’s medical team diagnosed him with a raging case of pneumonia and admitted him immediately. For the first week he seemed to improve, at least according to daily updates from Mom. He groused constantly, which for Roger, meant all was right with the world. I worried about him plenty, but knew pneumonia wasn’t a life-threatening illness. At least, not for someone as feisty as Roger.
