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The medical team sent my bed and a trapeze contraption—just like what I had used at the hospital. Nurses visited every day; physical therapists came every other day.

Some of the sweetest memories I have are of the kind people who simply spent each day with me while Eva went back to work. When church members heard that she had to return to teaching or lose her job, they decided to do what they could.

Ginny Foster, the senior pastor’s wife, organized a group of people to stay with me each day. Ginny organized what she laughingly called the “Don Patrol”—mostly women from the church, along with a few retired men.

It was about seven hours from the time Eva left in the morning until she returned. My sleep habits depended on when I could fight the pain no more and would pass out. But gradually, a pattern began to emerge. I would generally go to sleep about two or three o’clock in the morning and wake up around ten. The Don Patrol arrived about nine o’clock while I was still asleep. They either prepared lunch for me or brought it with them.

Often I would awake to find a charming woman knitting at the end of my bed. Or perhaps an older man would be reading the Houston Chronicle. He’d lower the newspaper and grin at me, “Good morning. Do you need anything?”

The parade of sweet faces changed every day. Although the volunteers were different, the goals remained the same: Take care of Don and keep him company.

As I lay in bed day after day, I realized how much others had done for us. While I was still hospitalized, friends from the Alvin church had packed up our furniture and moved us to a new house, where I could be on the ground level with no stairs to worry about.

During the day, I would look through the patio window from my “hospital room.” Often I spotted high schoolers Brandon and Matt Mealer and their buddy Chris Alston mowing our lawn. Chris arranged to borrow our van one night and surprise me by taking me to a movie. I don’t even remember what the movie was, but I will never forget his thoughtfulness. Once when our fence blew down during a windstorm, it was back up before we could call anyone to help. Only God knows all the kindnesses shown to us during my recovery.

As I began to stir in my bed each morning, my “keeper” would get up and bring me a toothbrush and a pan to brush my teeth and wash my face. I’d have a glass of juice held to my lips and later a huge lunch ready for me.

After feeding me, washing up, and making sure I was as comfortable as my physical condition would allow, they all asked the same question: “Is there anything else I can get for you before I leave?”

My answer was always the same: “No, thanks.” I would muster what I hoped was my best smile. It probably wasn’t, but they always smiled back.

“It’s all right. I’ll be fine.”

The capacity for sacrifice and service that human beings have for one another knows no bounds. With all our faults, surely God must have meant that the kindnesses shown to me during my injury and recovery were paramount examples of us being created in his image.

Within an hour or so after my daily Don Patrol angel quietly exited, the door would open, and Eva would enter from a long day at school. She always gave me a big smile and kissed me.

“Are you all right?” she would ask.

“I’m fine,” I would say, meaning it.

I couldn’t put my feelings into words then, but the assurance that I had been visited by an angel from the Don Patrol caused my spirit to soar.

For months after I came home, good-hearted members of the Don Patrol transported me back and forth for water therapy, which was done near our home in Alvin. During the first thirteen months, if I wasn’t inside the hospital, I was lying in the hospital bed at the house. For months, I probably wasn’t out of the bed more than five minutes a day except for therapy. Some days I didn’t even get out of bed.

The worst part is that once I was in the hospital bed, I was completely incapacitated. I couldn’t get up or do anything for myself. Without the help of the therapist, I never would have sat up or been