story by MANDY HOWARD | photos courtesy of THE THOMPSON FAMILY
Sitting at his kitchen counter, Mat Thompson of Raleigh recalls how cautious his eldest son was as a child.
“I’d be picking up Carly from tennis practice right down the block, and Zachary would ask, ‘OK, Dad, how many minutes until you are home?’ I’d tell him, ‘Ten minutes.’”
Thompson lifts his hands, showing 10 fingers, just as he’d shown his son.
“Ten minutes?”
“Ten minutes.”
At the predicted time, as Thompson walked up the driveway hand-in-hand with his daughter, he’d see his son’s face pressed to the window, just to make sure.
He pauses and smiles at the memory.
Maybe it’s the tendency all parents have, to recall those moments when we can vividly see our children as their younger selves. Or, maybe it’s the precision of time, how certain it once felt, that makes this memory stand out to Thompson now.
Because ever since he was diagnosed with ALS, time holds new meaning.
He reminds parents to hold onto everyday moments of affection—like hugs—because when time is seen as finite,
even the simplest gestures carry deeper meaning.
ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis) is a progressive neurological disorder that slowly shuts down the body, taking away the ability to walk, talk, and eventually breathe. That is the typical progression; however, Thompson has a rare and aggressive form that attacks speech and swallowing first. And that’s about as much as we know for certain. There is no single test to confirm ALS, no known cause, and, as of this writing, no cure. Diagnosis only comes after weeks or months of eliminating every other possible cause of symptoms. Various tests offer glimmers of hope, followed by disappointment, until the only answer left is the one nobody wants.
Even then, ALS offers no roadmap. Progression varies. Prognosis is uncertain. Time, once taken for granted and easily measurable in 10-minute increments, becomes the most unpredictable thing of all.
And yet, in this fog of uncertainty, Thompson seems to have an aura of calm clarity. He is determined to live every moment he has, and hopes to inspire others to do the same.
Like many involved parents, he coached and was active in his children’s school when they were young. He served as PTA president for three years in a row because, “no one else would do it,” he laughs.
He credits the service-minded instinct to his dad. Active in his community and a member of city council, Thompson’s dad used to stay behind each week after church services as people lined up to ask him questions and seek his advice. “Of course, as a kid, I hated it,” Thompson laughs. But the image stuck with him.
He thought maybe the service he demonstrated would, likewise, help define his legacy. “I used to think about that, my legacy, but I don’t think like that anymore,” he says.
What he cares about now is life and living it fully, intentionally, faithfully. He speaks with pride not about the volunteer checklist (as impressive as it may be), but more about the fact that his teens and their friends feel comfortable coming over anytime. “I’ve always wanted my kids to know we are there for them. But we want our kids’ friends to know we are there for them too.” And when he inspired another dad to pick up the PTA mantle, half the school community was invited for a “passing of the gavel” party in their backyard.
“I hope I make people feel like they belong. Like they are part of the tribe, the team, the family. I never want anyone to feel left out or excluded,” he says.
Within weeks of his diagnosis, Thompson began planning epic and thoughtful birthday celebrations for his wife, Jeana. He embraced trips to see family and friends, and he and his family booked a dream overseas trip for late May.
These are the big “live like you are dying” gestures. But it’s the deeper, quieter shifts where Thompson seems to be finding purpose in this unimaginable pain. “It’s about getting people to be present and connected, in a real, genuine sense,” he says.
Thompson describes how a group of former colleagues, now scattered across different jobs and regions, created a group text after learning about his diagnosis. Every morning, a prayer is sent. Some say “Amen,” others add hearts. It takes less than a minute, but it’s a connection that didn’t exist before. It’s a connection that matters.
He shares how another friend told him she was praying for him. When he said, “I know,” she shook her head.
“No, Mat,” she said, “I had to apologize to God because there are so many times that I told people I would pray for them, or that I was praying for them, and I didn’t. But I really am now. I really am praying for you.”
Thompson remembers simply assuring her, “I know.” He says he can’t fully explain it, but he can genuinely feel those prayers. They give him a sense of peace which, in turn, gives him strength.
That strength allows him to approach his diagnosis with resolute optimism. He often says, “Someone has to be the first to beat this. I believe it can be me.”
It also lets him keep a sense of humor as he works to fight for a cure. For his Raleigh ALS Walk team, he drew on his love of live music and named it MATallica. Their T-shirt is styled like an authentic concert tee, with a list of cities on the back, each representing a chapter in the Thompson family’s story.
Last, the strength allows him to stand tall for his family who, he insists, have it harder than he does. “This is so much harder on Jeana and the kids. Even though I know I don’t really have ‘control,’ it’s at least happening to me. They have no control at all.”
concert tee with cities listed on the back, all meaningful to the family.
To further the point, he expresses sympathy for friends who simply don’t know what to say or do. When asked if there is anything specific people do or say when they learn about his diagnosis, he nods. “People listen more.” Taken alone, the words seem positive, but the sentence hung heavily in the air, laden with lessons learned too late.
Why do we wait? Why does it take a moment of crisis to bring clarity to truths that we already know? Life is precious. Time is fleeting. Showing up matters. Why do we always wait?
Thompson admits that even though the message feels clear and “live” has become his mantra, he still has to make a concerted effort, with self-talk and prayer, to stay present and be in the moment every chance he has to spend with his loved ones, especially his now college-aged children.
No longer the cautious face in the window, Zachary is attending his dream college in Ohio and will graduate next year. And Carly, whom Thompson calls “the toughest of us all,” is finishing her freshman year in Indiana. Both children spread their wings to attend Midwestern schools not far from where their parents began their love story nearly three decades ago.
As for this Father’s Day, Thompson says they’ll likely spend it like they always do: listening to music, grilling out, watching the U.S. Open golf tournament, and being together.
To his fellow fathers, he has this advice: Appreciate the hugs. Because when you truly understand they are numbered, as they are for us all, they mean more.
At Thompson’s most recent appointment, his disease showed no progression. The news is fantastic, but Thompson knows that with ALS, anything can happen. “I understand that things could change next month, next week, or even tomorrow, but I’m going to embrace the time I have.”
While it may be tempting to read this story and try to learn the lessons of a man facing mortality, Thompson hopes that you’ll instead take it as inspiration from a man who is fully, deliberately, and meaningfully living every single day, even if he has to take them 10 minutes at a time.
To learn more about ALS and how to contribute to finding a cure, visit alsnc.org. To support Thompson’s team directly, go to alsnc.org/get-involved/walk-als-nc, select “Donate” under Walk ALS Triangle, and enter the team name MATallica.