Before I start this column I would be amiss if I did not thank the hundreds of readers who have e-mailed with prayers and encouragement during my current illness.

WILMINGTON, Del. - Your kind sentiments have been appreciated and encouraging.

I've learned patience. I've learned how to take a lot of little steps and make them into a bigger one.

I've gained a greater tolerance for Andy Reid's favorite cliche, "Take it one day at a time."

When I arrived at the rehabilitation floor at Wilmington Hospital, my upper extremities had just begun to come back online.

I could move my arms and hands to the point at which I could type, not freely, but with a great deal of effort. I can't tell you how long it took me to write my last column.

I could not raise my arms or move them side-to-side.

Movement in my lower extremities was even more limited.

Except for some minimal shaking of my legs, I wasn't able to do much of anything.

Obviously, I could not walk, but I also could not lift my legs, bend my knees, or raise my backside even an inch into the air (no jokes; I've lost about 40 pounds since I've been in the hospital.)

Most of the instinctive movements that we do without thinking about, I could not do.

My mind would tell my body what to do, but my body would not listen. It was frustrating and depressing.

That was a little more than 2 weeks ago on Nov. 1.

Tuesday, I stood up on my own for the first time in nearly 2 months. I even managed to do a little bit of marching in place. It was a big moment, something everyone was excited about.

The truth is that sometimes we get so caught up in where we want to go that we lose track of how far we've come.

That has been a valuable revelation.

In a little more than a week, I came off dialysis, had a tube removed that had been in my throat for assisted breathing, and went from barely being able to move to marching in place.

Viewed independently, each step seems like a little one. It's not until you look behind that you see how high you have climbed.

Rehabilitation at Wilmington is no joke. I am here to get better, so I can regain the abilities I had before I entered the hospital.

My primary physical therapists are Laura, John and Miguel. In occupational therapy, I work mainly with Renee.

Just like the nurses and nurse technicians I wrote about in my previous column, the therapists here are dedicated professionals who care immensely about their patients. I won't lie; they work me hard, probably harder than I've ever worked before.

They push me a little bit further when I feel as if I have no more to give.

It's kind of like a coach who urges his/her players to work a little harder in practice, knowing that, in the end, they will play and perform better when it counts.

My stakes seem a little higher to me.

Unless you've lost your ability to move freely, I cannot fully explain what the experience is like.

The best word I can find is frustration.

Because of hospital restrictions, I've seen my daughter only four times since September. I miss my wife, my bed, my little dog, just being in my own house. So each time I get a different movement, my spirits are lifted, because I'm closer to going home.

I am not a world-class sprinter, but I know what it feels like to win an Olympic race.

I am not a professional athlete, but I know what that rush from getting a big hit, crossing a goal line or scoring a goal feels like.

Tuesday, I stood up on my own for the first time in nearly 2 months.

That might seem like something small to you, but for me, it was a huge step forward in the rest of my life.

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