My son, Matthew (I love that phrase), was a giggly, wiggly 12 year old boy, but profoundly mentally and physically disabled.

He couldn’t talk. He couldn’t walk, but his crawl was turbo charged. He laughed and smiled and laughed some more.

His eyes were bluer than sapphires. He had the kind of eyes that danced. He was almost blind, although his eyes were just fine. His problem was in his optic nerve.

As a result, he would feel and taste his way around the world. He received great pleasure from manipulating things with his hands and mouth. He liked to stick his fingers in things, many times to my dismay.

He could play easily in the night; it didn’t matter to him that it was dark. Frequently, he would get up in the night and play. Needless to say, I had many sleepless nights.

One horrible night, all that worked together to get him into a lot of trouble.

He got up and started "playing" with a recliner. (Ordinarily, he could not open it up, but we don’t "see" things the way he does.)

He jimmied the footrest open just enough to stick his head between the footrest and the seat. He either pushed or leaned on the footrest, closing it, trapping his head.

I woke up, for some reason, at 4:30 AM that dark morning and decided to make my rounds. I found him; warm, but limp. I screamed my husband’s name and he hit the floor running, beginning CPR immediately. Brevard Rescue arrived within 3 minutes.

I had been too late. He died.

I was inconsolable. How would I live? What would I do? The kind of crazy love I got from Matthew you can’t have. He was the only one made.

I was lying in bed with my anguish when the telephone rang. "This is Dennis from TransLife(organ procurement). I know this is a very bad time, but may we have your son’s corneas?"

In the middle of breaking in two, I got that grin that comes to my face whenever I’m being clever. "Absolutely", was my response, and I faxed him my consent so fast, it would have made your head spin.

Dennis retrieved my baby’s blues.

My days (and nights) are very lonely now. I don’t hear the laughter any more. I don’t see his miles of smiles. I still cry a lot. But sometimes suddenly, in the middle of breaking in two, I get that grin that comes to my face whenever I’m being clever.

Matthew’s "eyes" can now see. And somewhere, out there, someone’s eyes are dancing.