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Virtual everything had become the norm, including Matt’s piano recital. It was uplifting to hear the right-hand melody flow, with subtle, contrasting shifts in volume. Matt practiced nearly every day and had Tuesday lessons throughout the year, steadily expanding his repertoire. Phil, his teacher, was especially excited to honor our family tradition of welcoming the holidays with the lively tune "Linus and Lucy." Muscle memory and sheer determination helped Matt relearn the piece, bringing us all together to reminisce and celebrate. Compared with his first lesson, his right-wrist position, finger spread, and movement across the keys had improved markedly, as had his tempo, rhythm, and dynamics—a beautiful reflection of his relentless diligence.
That musical rhythm spilled across the living room floor as Matt subtly flirted with his favorite pastime: dancing. Unsure of his potential and perhaps to avoid disappointment, he rehearsed only sporadically. Yet on one proud afternoon, his balance and strength exercises fully paid off, and Matt was beyond thrilled to finally rise onto his right toes. A month afterward, just before Christmas, I caught a glimpse of the old Matt, who had once randomly navigated a solo waltz or foxtrot progression around the house—and now he was doing it again. Watching his body yearn to recover that graceful, sweeping fluidity—the true expression of his heart and soul—hurt mine.
For the Fourth of July weekend in 2020, we traveled to New Hampshire to visit Megan and Ben and celebrate Mike and Matt’s birthdays. Ryan had planned to join us from California, but COVID protocols were the ultimate party pooper and forced a last-minute cancellation. We pivoted to a slate of safe, outdoor activities and embraced the change of pace. We walked through the neighborhood, spent peaceful hours at a private community beach, and treated ourselves to ice cream. Down by the water, Matt kicked off his shoes to walk barefoot in the sand, tossed a Frisbee, and relaxed on the shore while the rest of us waded in. Evenings were spent indoors, under Ben’s patient tutelage, learning the intricate strategy of the board game Wingspan.
The trip’s physical highlight was a 1.6-mile trek across varied, uncertain terrain. Navigating narrow paths, steep inclines, and a minefield of exposed roots and rocks—sometimes along steep drops—Matt handled the trail wonderfully. As fatigue set in toward the end, I stayed close by his side, offering subtle support to keep him steady.
That triumph set the stage for another mountain outing later that fall. In October, we drove to Prospect Mountain in Lake George. Climbing a steep, rugged trail to the summit, Matt tackled a final stretch of thirty steps without a handrail for support. It demanded immense focus and physical grit to crest the summit. Though the sky was overcast, the vibrant autumn canopy below made the effort more than worth it.
If New Hampshire tested his footing, our getaway vacations to our cottage in the Thousand Islands proved just how far Matt’s independence had come.
Memorial Day weekend highlighted a world of difference from the previous year. Matt loaded and unloaded from the boat with minimal supervision, hauling bags up and down a long dock and up steep ramps. He navigated the island’s rocky, uneven terrain without hesitation—though always under what physical therapists’ term "distant supervision." Regardless of confidence, whenever he approached the treacherous cliff overlooking the river, one of us remained close enough to intervene, ensuring he didn't careen down the sloped granite into the rocky shoals below.
By August, the river had become the backdrop for a major milestone. During a weeklong stay bathed in warm sunshine, Matt warily contemplated swimming, vacillating between anticipation and trepidation. It took plenty of coaxing and gentle pleading to get him into the water, but clutching a pool noodle, he made the leap, doggie-paddled out to the swimming rock, and returned. The pride was instant—for weeks afterward, he would animatedly announce to anyone who would listen that he had gone swimming “all by myself!”
Returning later that month for an extended five-night visit, Matt expanded his aquatic toolkit. For the first time since his injury, he took to the water solo in the dinghy, while still enjoying an occasional kayak ride around the bay. He carried his weight around camp—hauling gear, firing up the charcoal grill—true to his longstanding penchant for building fires—and prepping meals alongside me. For downtime, he was content to sit in the warm sun, read, play solitaire, tackle crossword puzzles, or chat with anyone within earshot—whether dockside, sitting in Adirondack chairs overlooking the St. Lawrence River, or over leisurely barbecued dinners. Every night wound down with friendly but competitive games of Sorry!, Qwirkle, and Ticket to Ride.
We capped off the season with a Labor Day holiday retreat. Matt took two memorable kayak outings along the scenic shore—one with Megan and one with me—and later told Mike they were the absolute highlight of his time away. We closed out the summer with a hilarious target-shooting contest led by Uncle Dan. Joyful shouts echoed across the lawn as we launched unpredictable missiles of oversized zucchini, corncobs, and pinecones at a distant target—a sport we declared fully worthy of the Olympics.
Throughout the summer and early fall, the backyard served as our primary arena for physical therapy disguised as play. For Father’s Day in June, Matt presented Mike with a homemade gift certificate promising to practice his golf swing at home and at the driving range, with the intent of sharing a round of Par-3 golf later in the season. Lawn games provided a constant, pleasant distraction. In July, Mike and Matt faced off in a rousing Ladder Golf match, with Matt beaming after pulling off two of three wins. On other afternoons, he refined his coordination by dribbling and kicking a soccer ball, playing catch with scoops, or tossing beanbags in Cornhole.
By late September, our small suburban garden yielded a modest harvest. Matt picked cherry tomatoes and basil, helping me blend several batches of pesto to freeze for the winter ahead. I’ve always cherished cooking with Matt. We’ve always had an effortless rhythm, moving harmoniously around the kitchen and sensing each other's needs without a word. I was overjoyed to feel that familiar, easy dance regaining its momentum.
In October, Matthew and I spent ten days on Long Island with his elderly grandparents. After sixty years in their house, they were downsizing, packing up, and parting with a lifetime of accumulated memories as they prepared to move to an independent living community closer to their daughter, Debbie, and us. We were just one of many waves of extended family arriving to make an overwhelming task manageable, providing the muscle to haul heavy boxes and furniture. Beyond the physical labor, Matt flexed his tech skills to troubleshoot his grandmother’s old desktop computer and wipe the memory before disposal, while I tried to offer quiet moral support as my mother-in-law, Clare, faced the heartbreaking task of deciding the final destination for a lifetime of belongings—mostly on her own.
The steadfast pillar of the Watkins family—Ace, PopPop, retired principal, Lions Club president, and Grand Marshal of city parades—was slowly receding from us under the weight of declining physical and cognitive health. The most moving moments were quiet ones. In a touching display of love and unintended irony, these two men, generations apart, ministered to each other. Matt guided his PopPop through brain-training exercises from his rehabilitation repertoire, and PopPop, in turn, patiently assisted Matt with his vision therapy. Together, with Matt counting reps, they worked through arm and leg exercises side by side. It was a bittersweet grace, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
In fact, this book is dedicated to my father-in-law. He always believed in me and, early in Matt’s recovery, had the vision, planted the seed, and fueled the drive for me to share our journey in hopes of offering light and healing to others—thank you, Dad.
The late autumn and winter holidays brought a serene, beautiful cadence and lingering warmth. Matt took the lead on Thanksgiving meal planning, drafting the menu, compiling the grocery list, and making the cranberry relish in advance. Although only three of us sat at the dinner table, the rest of the family joined via Google Meet for a lively virtual feast. The Christmas season, equally low-key, was free from the usual hustle of crowded stores and holiday gatherings, allowing us to focus more intentionally on Advent. On Christmas, we hosted Mike’s parents for dinner and opened presents—you guessed it—over a video call with the kids. The following night, we gathered around the screen to play Drawful 2, where the goal is to guess what on earth someone drew on their tablet. Laughter filled the room as we all struggled with the digital stylus. Matt kept pace with the rest of us, deciphering our bizarre scribbles and contributing plenty of his wildly funny artwork to the mix.
And lastly, when New Year’s Eve arrived, we traded our traditional outing to Saratoga’s bustling First Night for a quiet, cozy night at home. Together, we cooked scallops, uncorked a bottle of Matt’s 2018 Riesling, and settled in for a night of fun. Looking back on the past months, what had transpired hadn't followed a carefully laid-out roadmap. Yet through it all, Matt shone—deeply present, holding his ground. As midnight approached, we raised our glasses to the hard-won progress beneath our feet, immensely proud, with mounting confidence and optimism for everything 2021 might bring.
© 2026, Sarah Watkins
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