Our Laughing Place (Ian, Tom)

It seems like every time I wake up, I have forgotten how much of Ian has become inaccessible to us. He's every bit as much there as he's always been; it's just his body that's changed. Last night, for possibly the last time, he actually smiled and giggled a little bit.

He tried smiling on Friday morning. I looked at his face, and he seemed to have an expression of exertion, as if he was using all of his strength to do something. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Nothing" he said, "I'm...trying...to...smile...at...you." Each word is strained, as his speech center struggles to activate the necessary muscles. As our conversations grow increasingly one-sided, I'm learning the treasure each word, and let him make them count. That last sentence was priceless for me.

Later that evening, we were talking about food (that is a common topic these days). We were joking with each other that each of us was going to take all of...something. I can't remember what. But what I will remember is that he actually smiled, and laughed a little. For the briefest moment, my little boy was back with me, and we were laughing together.

I can't remember the last time that happened. I'm also afraid that it will be the last time this side of eternity.