Confronting each new day took a strong shot of willpower to ignore the desire to linger in the split universe of beautiful sunshine and better days outside and persuade ourselves to enter the shadows of the hospital and walk the long hallway to face off with another day. Upon entering Matt’s room, we began with social graces. A greeting and a question, “How are you today?” Followed by silence, no indication that soundwaves were vibrating the air or his eardrums, a kiss, a one-way hug, a rundown of our day, the weather, and queries about his day. There were no answers yet—but someday there would. I liked to think the rhythm of familiar voices resonated within and flamed the embers of his life. We wanted him to know he was part of a family, so we maintained the practice of including him in our conversations, and perhaps he heard and took in more than we realized. It was difficult, heartbreaking even, this monolog with a ghost, overlaid by my marauding dialogue of fear and doubt determined to tear down any façade of hopefulness or courage.

We filled the void by reading Harry Potter and commenting about aspects of the book and the corresponding movie series or recalling when his sister and friend were among the groupies outside a local bookstore for the final book release. I remember how excited I was the evening Matt helped to hold the book up as I read. Shortly after that, when handed a get-well card, he pulled it out of the envelope, manipulated it to hold it upright, and scanned it while I read the content. Matt regularly received cards of encouragement, notably a year’s worth from his Aunt Sue and Joan from church. We pinned the many cards to the corkboard—a rainbow of colors and words of immeasurable comfort overflowing with love.

By May, the fortification barricading his brain showed signs of weakening. After weeks of being benched and unengaged, the tides shifted and cognitive function toyed with warming up to take the field. To grab his attention, we introduced childhood memories and previous interests. We encouraged him to draw, write, color, and doodle on a Magna-Doodle and old Etch-a-Sketch. His efforts were similar to a child’s. One memorable day, with paper and a marker, Matt instantly began to scribble—a light bulb moment—a spark of recognition connecting the present to childhood memories and a link to the inter-reaches of his cerebrum and one more crack in the armor of his TBI. He persisted long enough to create four beautiful works of “art” and brought smiles of joy. Naively, his Aunt Debbie thought she could dial it up a notch and brought materials for Matt to make a birthday card for his sister-in-law, an idea that quickly fizzled. Everything was a process of trial and error, failures alongside successes.

What abilities Matt could and could not or would not do didn’t always jive. Uno cards and blocks were used creatively, integrating arm movement, dexterity, and cognitive awareness. If offered a card, he could reach for it, using his left hand, and place it on the correct stack by color. Yet, he might push blocks around instead of stacking them and disregard appeals to put them into a bag. And then, out of the blue, he might help zip the bag closed or place cards in his right hand to hold. On closer inspection, at least in some cases, the difference could be explained by what came automatically and subconsciously compared to consciously and on-demand. Regardless of his questionable cognitive function, it seemed that a loose wire occasionally made contact and fired.

At long last, a hug. Every day, I had leaned over his chair and pulled his left arm around my back to hug me, yet it had laid there like a limp, wet rag. I repeatedly asked him to hug me or pat my back. This time, Matt not only complied but softly rubbed my back. Through this personal touch—because his absent words could not—we mutually affirmed our love in a tangible way, which was a significant breakthrough for Matt. The family was thrilled and religiously collected hugs. Like an electric car plug-in, hugs boosted our energy reserves and conviction to persevere.