(This is the fifth in a series about my late husband Bill’s experience with cancer in 2015-16.)

A dish filled with candy sat at the check-in desk at the UC Cancer Center in Fort Collins.

I was grateful for the sweet gesture when Bill checked in for his chemo treatments.

Amidst sickness, small, sweet offerings came into our lives.

In October, Bill fractured a bone in his back when he tripped on our staircase.

After a hospitalization, he spent two weeks in a rehabilitation center in Fort Collins.

His room was located in an eight-unit wing, which featured a small dining room where patients ate meals together.

Every morning, I drove to see Bill just as he and several other patients were finishing breakfast.

I found Bill’s table-mates good-naturedly teasing him about ordering a second cup of coffee.

Bill’s kidney transplant doctors told him to limit his coffee to one cup. Generally, he complied.

Except at the rehab table!

When you’re terminally ill, a little mischievous rebellion — a little flaunting of the rules — is good medicine.

One of the patients at Bill’s table was a white-haired woman who sported a generous laugh.

I think her name was Maggie.

When Bill found out that she had an upcoming birthday, he thought a “fun gift” was in order.

At home, I had a pair of “Superwoman” socks I kept stored away for last-minute White Elephant parties.

“These are the perfect gift for Maggie,” I thought.

The socks were red and blue, replete with spangles and gold glitter.

Maggie was thrilled with the gift. Bill reminded her that she was already a Superwoman and that the socks were just a reminder of her powers.

Maggie was “released” from rehab a few days after her birthday. I hope her Superwoman socks offered her a few extra superpowers.

I suppose I should say Maggie was “discharged” from rehab.

But “released” or even “sprung” are better words.

On one hand, rehab is a blessing — a chance to regain strength. Yet, going never seems soon enough.

One of the worst parts of rehab is having to ask for help when you need to go to the bathroom.

Although I was with Bill for most of the day and early evening, the staff didn’t want me to help him walk, even with the use of a “gait belt.”

I don’t blame the staff for their concerns.

Friends tell me that when I walk, I don’t look like I know where I’m going.

“Get your head out of the clouds, and watch where you’re going,” my mom often said.

On the other hand, it was inconvenient not to be able to help Bill walk a few steps to the bathroom.

So, it’s always good to be “sprung” so you can go home.

Our home looks like a Brady Bunch home, a friend once told me.

Our 1967 World Book Encyclopedias still sit in our bookcase, because you can’t even give away encyclopedias.

Our bathroom Formica counters are the Hippy Dippy yellow-flowered ones from that era.

The oven in our kitchen, built into our 1960s cabinet, strikes visitors as somewhat quaint.

Yet, it’s our quaintness — our home.

Even the small sweet spots in a medical facility can never replace home.