The Day the Laughter Paused

Spencer was six.
First grade.
Already skeptical of school because—gasp—they had the nerve to assign homework after making him sit in a classroom all day. He didn’t understand why a kid had to learn subtraction when there were perfectly good LEGOs at home waiting for attention.

And then he caught a cold.
Just a regular, run-of-the-mill cold.
He bounced back in a few days. I didn’t think twice.

Two weeks later, he told me he couldn’t hold a pencil. His fingers, he said, were “turning into claws.”
I’ll be honest: I thought he was making it up to dodge homework. He’d pulled the dramatic act before. So I brushed it off.

Then came the falling.
He stumbled more than usual—but this is also my child. My klutzy, carbon-copy kid. Falling over air was a daily occurrence. Again, I didn’t think much of it.

Until the school called.
He had fallen and couldn’t get up.
The staff had to help him stand.

That’s when my heart dropped.

I picked him up and immediately made a pediatric appointment. During the visit, the doctor didn’t even hesitate. He looked me straight in the eye and said,

“You need to take him to the children’s ER. Right now.”

By the time we got there—just fifteen minutes later—Spencer couldn’t walk. I had to carry him inside.
He was admitted on the spot.

What followed was a blur of fear, guilt, and sleepless nights. I felt horrible for dismissing his early complaints. I thought I’d failed him.

Eight hours into his hospital stay, a pediatric neurologist came in with a hunch. After MRIs, bloodwork, and more pokes than any child should endure, the diagnosis came:

Acute Flaccid Myelitis a/k/a AFM.
A rare, terrifying condition triggered by a common cold virus, where the immune system attacks the spinal cord. To learn more about AFM please check out this link: Acute flaccid myelitis (AFM) - Symptoms & causes - Mayo Clinic There’s no cure—only a rapid response to try and reduce inflammation. His doctors’ chose to treat with high-dose steroids.

Have you ever met a 6-year-old boy on steroids?
Let’s just say: Satan himself would’ve noped out of that hospital room.

And yet… Spencer never complained.
He didn’t whine.
He didn’t ask “Why me?”

He got frustrated during therapy, sure—but he never gave up.
He couldn’t sleep well, so I spent most nights curled beside him in his hospital bed. Holding his hand. Whispering answers to hard questions like,

“Am I going to die?”
“What if I can’t walk again?”

I only left the hospital once—for 30 minutes. I just couldn’t leave him.
He was scared. So I stayed.

Eventually, he was transferred to a children’s rehab hospital in a different city, where the real fight began:
Learning to walk again.
Use his fingers again.
Write. Zip. Snap. Button. Grip.

The therapists were angels. The therapy dogs helped. He had a crush on a sweet third-shift nurse. He made everyone laugh—because of course he did. His sense of humor never left.
Neither did his obsession with joke books. We read every single one in the hospital library. Twice. I still have them memorized.

When he was finally cleared to move around with braced legs, we’d go to the big model train display in the lobby. It became our happy place.

Two months of inpatient therapy.
Two months of hospital chairs, cafeteria coffee, and never letting go of his hand.

…And then… progress. Laughter. Strength.

Spencer was one of the lucky ones. His inflammation didn’t affect his breathing like it does in so many other AFM cases.
He beat it. He recovered.
He got stronger, smarter, sillier.

We thank God every single day for guiding the doctors, the nurses, and his miraculous little body through it.

But recovery didn’t end when we walked out of that hospital.

Even though he was physically healed, Spencer carried something heavier: fear.

For weeks after going back to school, he had severe anxiety. He was terrified he’d fall again or end up back in the hospital.
The mornings were brutal.
Tears.
Clinging.
Him begging not to go.
Me trying to stay strong when all I wanted to do was scoop him up and keep him home forever.

But then—I found something that worked.

In the car, every morning before drop-off, we played:
“What Animal Fart Am I?”

Yes. Really.

It was pure nonsense.
Silly noises. Over-exaggerated sounds. Guessing games filled with laughter.

“Elephant with a stomach bug!”
“Frog that ate Taco Bell!”
“Unicorn with glitter gas!”

He would be giggling so hard, he forgot to be scared.
By the time he got out of the car, he was smiling.
By pick-up? He’d had a good day.

We did that for weeks.
Every. Single. Morning.
And somehow… we survived.

Even now, years later, the anxiety still pops up—especially with doctor visits. He tenses up at checkups. If he gets a cold, he worries it’s something more.
And it took forever to get over his fear of needles.
Can you blame him?

He was six.
He was scared.
And he was brave.

And he still is.

This story doesn’t end in chaos or a prank or a Slim Jim threat.
This one ends with gratitude.