Besides his mother’s persistence to treat him like a “normal” kid, laughter seemed to be the one thing that gave longevity to Kevin’s life. Laughter in Kevin’s life was a regular daily occurrence. I’m not talking about a light, simple chuckle. I’m talking about a deep, hard, belly laugh. The kind of laugh where your eyes water, tears flow, and your belly hurts (and you might even have bladder issues). Kevin would have this type of experience at least once a day. Those who don’t know Kevin very well, see tears rolling down his cheeks and believed he was crying. I knew Kevin to laugh hard for 15 to 20 minutes. Often, if you were around him, you would end up caught in the laughter and couldn’t get out.
It was great fun to get caught up in the laughter with Kevin: his teary eyes, his ventilator alarm going off, and even his nose running. While laughing, Kevin would be saying (in-between breaths from his ventilator, “My . . . tummy . . . my . . . tummy . . . hurts . . . whew!” If you didn’t know him well, you would have to believe there was a severe medical emergency happening right before your eyes; the alarms going off, the tears, the chaos and Kevin’s red face. And amidst all the chaos the nurse (me) would have to suction Kevin’s lungs and give him manual breaths with an ambu bag. Often the breath wouldn’t go in to Kevin’s lungs until he calmed down and got control of his laughter. Whew! What a ride and a rush. There was nothing like it in the whole world. I can honestly say that some of the best joys I have experienced in my life have come from laughing with Kevin.
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