In May 1995, Christopher Reeve — Superman — fell from a horse and was paralyzed from the neck down. He lay in a hospital bed in Virginia, unable to move, unable to breathe without a ventilator, contemplating whether his life was worth continuing.
Then the door burst open.
A man in surgical scrubs barged in, announcing himself as a Russian proctologist. He had an accent. He had a clipboard. He explained, in complete seriousness, that he needed to conduct an immediate examination.
Reeve, who hadn't laughed since the accident, started laughing. His eyes lit up. Because he knew immediately — it was Robin Williams, his college roommate and closest friend, who had flown from across the country to be the first person to walk through that door.
Reeve wrote later that the moment he started laughing, he knew he wanted to stay. That laughter — absurd, unearned, ridiculous laughter — was the thing that made him decide his life was still his.
Williams visited every year until Reeve died in 2004. He never made a big deal of it. He just showed up.
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