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Generally my dreams of William have been joyful ones, at least until I wake up and realize I was dreaming. They consist of various versions of “Honey I’m home!” and last only a few seconds until I leap up in shocked surprise and grab him in a bearhug that would crush a car.

But yesterday, as I dozed resting my back, I dreamed that John and I had gone to Disneyland. I’ve never been to a theme park of any kind, and in this dream Disneyland was only about an hour drive from our house. Somehow, John and I got separated in this vast park and I spent hours rolling my manual wheelchair through miles upon miles of rides, restaurants, vendors, through maze-like corridors in beautifully appointed buildings, up ramps and down until my arms could absolutely do no more.

Lost, terrified, helpless, too exhausted to move, I burst into hopeless sobs. A hand grasped my shoulder, and I turned to see William there. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re alright. You’re fine. I’m here. I found you.” And for that second, it was indeed the happiest place on earth.