To My Brother, with Mucus

Over the last year of mom's illness (ALS), she had constant issues with phlegm.  She couldn't swallow or spit or even cough.  Her throat, mouth, and tongue were completely unresponsive.  We found a suction machine, like what a dentist uses, and set her up with that so she could find some relief from the horrible sense of choking to death.  She'd take the suction wand and cram that thing so far down her throat I thought she was going to accidentally pull her seat cushion through herself backwards.  It was gory.
At times, this activity was more than I could stomach, and I had to look away.  I'm going to spare you the details, except to say this: snot in a straw.  Okay, no more details!
Besides being horribly appalling and uncomfortable to watch, it was awful to see mom struggle with this.  She feared choking, she couldn't clear her throat, she was just so uncomfortable.
She used a device to communicate.  She'd type out a word or sentence, and hit a button and it'd read it back, as best it could.  Usually the device's best was really lousy.  At one point it developed an Indian accent, which left you feeling like you were having a conversation with tech support for Mom v.1.0.
The disease began to take its toll on her hands as well.  Soon she abbreviated her thoughts, using single words to communicate.
Her single word for phlegm build-up, the sensation she was choking, and please get her the suction device was "Mucus."
Mucus.
I began to notice the effect the word had on my brother.  I saw the way his lips pursed, his nose wrinkled.  The churning of his stomach seemed to alter the tilt of Earth on its axis. It bothered him deeply.  I saw him in a new and vulnerable light.  My big brother, the one who always got to do everything before me.  The bigger, smarter, more athletic older brother who, in my younger years, I regarded as completely untouchable.  There he was, a little weak in the knees, a little afraid, and a little grossed out.
I thought, "Paydirt."
Thus began the random acts of mucus.  Sometimes I send him an email -- no subject line, just a word: "mucus."  Sometimes I spell it in all caps, or I enlarge the font.  I send texts to his phone too, just the word Mucus.  On occasion if he doesn't answer when I call, I leave him a voicemail message: mucus.
It's not a constant thing.  Just once in awhile.  It's my way of letting him know that I'm thinking of him and that I appreciate our connection.  Some people use the word "love," I use Mucus.