Our newly established routines and rhythm of life were out of sync with our collective memories and in danger of severing the ties that bind us if it were all work and no play. Therefore, we sought to create common, everyday moments and strengthen connections, often through simple pleasures like sitting outside in the fall sun, reminiscing, or idly chatting, sharing a glass of Gewurztraminer wine. Yet, one challenge persisted: Matt had lost so much weight that he was always cold. His red Cornell sweatshirt, his go-to attire, was supplemented by a red Saratoga fleece blanket wrapped snugly around him. This blanket was never far away, whether he was exercising, watching TV, or being read to.

Reading to Matt was an early endeavor to distract, entertain, engage, and stimulate his mind. I tapped into his childhood favorite, Bill Nye the Science Guy. We'd sit side by side on the living room couch, all cozy and warm, while I read his book, Unstoppable. One day, out of the blue, Matt latched onto a familiar scientific fact—something like '695 whatchamacallits.' This brief flash of recognition contrasted diametrically with how muddled his brain often was. While I focused on Matt’s STEM (science, technology, engineering, and math) interests, Mike connected with their long-shared love of Sunday comics, particularly Peanuts, Zits, and Calvin and Hobbes. As a child and teenager, Matt used to pore over his extensive collection of Calvin and Hobbes books, and a Zits day-to-day calendar prominently sat on his desk every year—a stocking stuffer tradition that continues today. In addition to Harry Potter, his siblings, Megan and Ryan, gently nudged him to read a few words from a children's book, slowly pronouncing them by syllables if necessary. We soon learned that Matt's ability to read was severely limited by his eyes' inability to converge and focus on the written words. While awaiting the benefits of Vision Therapy, we compensated by using large-print books. By Christmas time, Matt could sit with a familiar storybook propped on a pillow in his lap, turning pages and possibly even managing to read a few words independently.

During the day, Matt enjoyed The Price Is Right, and at night, Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, followed by nightly games with family gathered round. Regardless of what we played, Matt needed help. His ability to play was inconsistent, as if there was an electrical short circuit. To start, we relied on simpler games like Yahtzee, Uno, and an oldie but goodie, the game of Sorry. Over time, we added more challenging ones. Ticket to Ride had been a pre-injury favorite. Now, right from the first turn, Matt was lost simply trying to locate his playing pieces. We tried several strategies to help him find his train cars, including verbal instructions (which were ineffective and took too much time to understand), pointing to the pieces, and eventually, rattling someone else’s train pieces. The auditory sound worked the best, and it would be a very long time before Matt no longer needed this cue. Another popular one, Qwirkle, required matching similar shapes or colors. While it sounds simple, Qwirkle demanded significant mental effort from Matt to scan the playing field and identify potential moves. Each time we introduced a new activity, we experimented with creative strategies. Trial and error helped him identify what resonated best at any given moment, as it wasn’t always the same.

dusted off. Matt practiced "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" and "Old MacDonald Had a Farm"; as with so many activities, ten minutes was enough. As November arrived, Megan began to egg him on to begin rehearsing "Linus and Lucy," starting with just the repetitive lower notes with his left hand. On her next visit, Matt had to play the steady rhythm on the treble clef in tandem with Megan, who provided the melody, and their two hands gradually recreated a familiar magic.

Megan rode in on a wave of fresh air. Her radiant smile and the silent affirmation that we weren't alone lifted our spirits immeasurably. Mike and I quickly grew emotionally dependent on her monthly visits. Traveling four hours each time, she'd spend the weekend with us, helping to ease our burden or, at the very least, providing a much-needed distraction. Yet, beneath her brave front, she was likely bracing herself. First, to absorb the gut punch of seeing this Matt, not the one who had joked with, cared for, and been her hero. Secondly, she could sense our worn-down demeanor and was resolute in boosting our morale and infusing a robust, we-can-do attitude.

In the past, the quality of Matt’s hugs had been brief and lackluster; a gentle squeeze and light pat on the back, and done. Now, Megan would have none of it. She fully enveloped him in a bear hug and demanded the same on her arrival and departure. In time, before her departure, it became a game of huge smiles: Megan trying to avoid Matt’s outstretched arms, and his determined refusal to let her escape his cobra-tight embrace. In jest, they have always made fun of and laughed at each other; now it was nice to sense this playfulness returning. It was always difficult to say goodbye, but Megan’s positive attitude had replenished our reserves and our ability to face the near future, day by day.

As Fall settled around us, we ventured into the community to spice up life. Still reliant on the wheelchair, Matt attended church weekly, an occasional missionary talk, or a potluck supper. In October, Megan joined us to pick juicy Empire and Cortland apples at our go-to spot in nearby Schuylerville, knowing my award-winning pies, or so my father-in-law used to espouse, would be ready for the holidays. We relished the season's first warm, freshly baked cider donuts and a lovely lunch in their small café.

On other occasions, we strolled through the Saratoga Pumpkin Festival, admiring the massive pumpkins on display—the biggest of which weighed 2,018 pounds. Or we meandered through the Farmer's Market, where the highlight was always a fruit smoothie. The first time, Matt and Megan shared and slurped one together. Now, each time we frequented the market, Matt's face would light up, anticipating a smoothie all to himself, and the option of strawberry, blueberry, or orange.

The four of us also visited Sunnyside Farms, where, in past years, our family had found the best selection of pumpkins to carve for Halloween. The inviting ambiance encouraged people to stroll through their pumpkin patch and admire the creative hay bale displays, which featured their annual theme. This year, surprisingly, it was the Peanuts’ characters. Ryan's absence was keenly felt in these moments; the family outings were undeniably different without him. Matt showed only a cursory interest in carving the pumpkin he’d selected or in handing out Halloween candy for trick-or-treaters, perhaps because he couldn't do either well, or because the tasks evoked poignant memories of how they used to be. This fragile sense of self-worth warranted constant affirmation and showers of praise.

© 2025, Sarah Watkins