Uncle Chan @chanforboston - Twitter Profile

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Uncle Chan @chanforboston

over 2 years ago

You were born an original Don't die as a copy ~~Mason

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chanforboston retweeted

Stefan Moore ★

@2StefanMoore

4 days ago

In the late ’90s in a hushed San Francisco Children’s hospital, a nurse freezes mid step in the hallway, fighting tears. From inside one of the rooms comes the sound of a little boy, terminally ill, laughing so hard he can barely breathe. She peeks in. There’s Robin Williams, drowning in oversized scrubs, a red clown nose on his face, stethoscope swinging like a jump rope, doing every voice from every cartoon the kid has ever loved. No cameras. No manager hovering. Just Robin, turning a sterile room into pure magic for one small human who’s running out of tomorrows. Fast forward to 2003. Same quiet mission in a different city, a ten year old with leukemia has days, maybe hours, left. His dad has been a rock, no tears, not once, because his boy needs him strong. Robin shows up unannounced. Within minutes he’s conducting an invisible orchestra made of squeaky IV poles, belting an operatic love song to the heart monitor beeps. The dad finally cracks but he’s not crying from pain, he’s crying because, for the first time in months, he’s laughing too. Robin never told a soul about these visits. Not Conan, not Billy Crystal, not the press. When grateful families tried to shout his kindness from the rooftops, he gently shut it down. “That moment was theirs,” he’d say. “Not mine to talk about.” One night in Denver, after a sold out show, he drove an hour each way just to meet a teenage girl whose favorite movie was Aladdin. She knew every Genie line by heart. When Robin burst in & launched into that wild blue whirlwind of a voice, “Ten thousand years will give you such a crick in the neck!” her whole face caught fire with joy. Her mom said later he stayed way past visiting hours, sitting on the edge of the bed, trading stories like old friends, listening more than he performed. Think about what that took. Walking into rooms thick with grief. No script, no director yelling “cut,” no second take. Just a kid who might not wake up tomorrow, parents holding their breath & Robin choosing, every single time to step into the fire & pull out light. He’d sit on the floor eating melted ice pops, hold tiny hands, let kids yank his beard & when it was over, he’d sit alone in his rental car for a long time. Sometimes sobbing. Sometimes just staring at the dashboard until he could drive again. Nurses from Seattle to Miami knew the deal. If Robin was in town doing stand-up, a call might come. “Tell no one,” he’d say. “Especially not me if it ever leaks.” He didn’t save lives in the medical sense but handed out something almost as rare. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour where a dying Child forgot they were dying. Where a parent remembered their kid was still a kid. Where laughter, impossible, ridiculous, defiant laughter, won a round against the darkest opponent there is. That was Robin’s medicine. Not a cure. Just a reminder, fierce & tender, that even when the world is whispering “let go,” there’s still room to feel wildly, beautifully alive & maybe, just maybe, that’s the most healing thing of all. ❤️

2StefanMoore's tweet photo. In the late ’90s in a hushed San Francisco Children’s hospital, a nurse freezes mid step in the hallway, fighting tears. From inside one of the rooms comes the sound of a little boy, terminally ill, laughing so hard he can barely breathe. She peeks in. There’s Robin Williams, drowning in oversized scrubs, a red clown nose on his face, stethoscope swinging like a jump rope, doing every voice from every cartoon the kid has ever loved. No cameras. No manager hovering. Just Robin, turning a sterile room into pure magic for one small human who’s running out of tomorrows.

Fast forward to 2003. Same quiet mission in a different city, a ten year old with leukemia has days, maybe hours, left. His dad has been a rock, no tears, not once, because his boy needs him strong. Robin shows up unannounced. Within minutes he’s conducting an invisible orchestra made of squeaky IV poles, belting an operatic love song to the heart monitor beeps. The dad finally cracks but he’s not crying from pain, he’s crying because, for the first time in months, he’s laughing too.

Robin never told a soul about these visits. Not Conan, not Billy Crystal, not the press. When grateful families tried to shout his kindness from the rooftops, he gently shut it down. “That moment was theirs,” he’d say. “Not mine to talk about.”

One night in Denver, after a sold out show, he drove an hour each way just to meet a teenage girl whose favorite movie was Aladdin. She knew every Genie line by heart. When Robin burst in & launched into that wild blue whirlwind of a voice, “Ten thousand years will give you such a crick in the neck!” her whole face caught fire with joy. Her mom said later he stayed way past visiting hours, sitting on the edge of the bed, trading stories like old friends, listening more than he performed.

Think about what that took. Walking into rooms thick with grief. No script, no director yelling “cut,” no second take. Just a kid who might not wake up tomorrow, parents holding their breath & Robin choosing, every single time to step into the fire & pull out light.

He’d sit on the floor eating melted ice pops, hold tiny hands, let kids yank his beard & when it was over, he’d sit alone in his rental car for a long time. Sometimes sobbing. Sometimes just staring at the dashboard until he could drive again.

Nurses from Seattle to Miami knew the deal. If Robin was in town doing stand-up, a call might come. “Tell no one,” he’d say. “Especially not me if it ever leaks.”

He didn’t save lives in the medical sense but handed out something almost as rare. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour where a dying Child forgot they were dying. Where a parent remembered their kid was still a kid. Where laughter, impossible, ridiculous, defiant laughter, won a round against the darkest opponent there is.

That was Robin’s medicine. Not a cure. Just a reminder, fierce & tender, that even when the world is whispering “let go,” there’s still room to feel wildly, beautifully alive & maybe, just maybe, that’s the most healing thing of all. ❤️

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Uncle Chan @chanforboston

4 days ago

@LunaSeaGirl333 😂

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chanforboston retweeted

Massimo

@Rainmaker1973

4 days ago

Extraordinary artworks.

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Uncle Chan @chanforboston

7 days ago

@hookskat 😂

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Uncle Chan @chanforboston

7 days ago

@hookskat Hmmm... Not really

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Uncle Chan @chanforboston

7 days ago

@gracefulvibin Happy birthday my beautiful friend. Your message is wonderful advice for us all. 🙂💜

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Uncle Chan @chanforboston

8 days ago

@HEPennypack1 They misspelled EGO

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Uncle Chan @chanforboston

9 days ago

@TheExBeliever What about the millions of innocent animals that have been sacrificed needlessly

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Uncle Chan @chanforboston

9 days ago

@nicky_wraps @Songbird70x7 😂

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Uncle Chan @chanforboston

9 days ago

It's called a game of inches...SIGH! @gracefulvibin

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Uncle Chan @chanforboston

12 days ago

@supernova_freak Be safe

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Uncle Chan @chanforboston

13 days ago

@supernova_freak There's no one on earth that I am as happy for as I am you when you touch down in the place that you belong and that refreshes your inner most being. Enjoy your happy place to the fullest my beautiful friend. 🙂💜🐚🐬🌊🏝️🐠

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Uncle Chan @chanforboston

13 days ago

@gracefulvibin 😂☠️

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Uncle Chan @chanforboston

17 days ago

@turtledumplin I'm so very sorry Linda. 💔

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Uncle Chan @chanforboston

20 days ago

@gracefulvibin You'll never know how much your words and kindness ease troubled hearts. The heaviness of this life sometimes weighs me down. Thank you for lightening the load Britt. It's much appreciated.

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