My Son Zachary

He was born weighing just one pound, 11 ounces. Unlike his twin, he was cheated of oxygen. As Zachary turns 16—an age he will never attain mentally or emotionally—his father wrestles with all that love can't conquer.

IN THE SUMMER of 1998, Debra and her husband, Paul, moved to Haddonfield. Debra and I had actually lived there when the boys were born, so I was familiar with it, its coziness and insulation. It was a safe place and a good place, and the minute they told me they were moving there, I knew the time had come for Zachary to go with them.

I lived on a wonderful block in West Mt. Airy, but like any urban resident, I worried about crime. I also worried about Zachary’S penchant for talking to strangers, so he was restricted to doing little more by himself than walking up and down the street. And as much as I liked Vanguard, with its superb facilities and teachers, it was clear to me that Zachary needed to go to school in the community in which he lived. He needed to be a part of something, not to attend something 20 miles away. If he couldn’t be in the mainstream world, he at least needed to be at a place where he could touch fingers with it.

Haddonfield has been the blessing I thought it would be. Able to freely walk around, Zachary knows every street and avenue as if he named them. He goes to Haddonfield Memorial High and spends most of the school day in a special education classroom run by a gifted teacher named Dave Payne. The class is small—six teenagers—and Zachary is the only boy, which has given him a lesson on what it means to be perpetually nagged and henpecked. He has a peer group, children who struggle and strive and exalt in their love and protection for each other.

Zachary walks to school every morning. He starts alone, but his memory is such that he knows the names of just about every student. He says hello to all of them as if he is running for mayor, and they respond as if they will surely vote for him. He has a life now, a life as full as it can possibly be within a life that will never be full, a life that I, as his father, could not give to him.

I don’t say those words with self-flagellation. He is still an essential part of me. I see him two or three times a week, and when I don’t see him, I talk to him on the phone. The wedge of distance between us is still there, and it will not go away. But I have come to realize that there is a difference between distance and giving up. What I have had to do, what is so painful for any parent to do, is to completely reconfigure my expectations. I have had a long time to make such an adjustment. Sometimes I do it well. And sometimes I don’t do it well, because we all live through our children. They certify us and glorify us and justify us and sanctify us, which is why, when we dream for them, we are also dreaming for ourselves.

After 16 years, I have no illusions. I know Zachary will probably never get married. I know he will never have a child, never drive a car. I know that the outermost limit of his independence, if it can be reached at all, will be in a group home.

But the beauty of Zachary is that just as the brain takes away, it also equips. He is blessed by his unknowing. And so he has dreams. Dreams of becoming a reporter at the Inquirer. Dreams of living on his own. Dreams of getting married. Dreams of having children. And when I ask him if he
thinks he is different from other teenagers, his response reveals a philosopher’s wisdom:

“I don’t think so, because I still look the same.”

He has no conception of what he experienced when he was born, the premature birth and the seven months spent in the hospital. There is no need for him to know, but there was a need for me. That is why I have forged ahead with these words, even though there were a hundred moments when I just wanted to stop. That is why I have let all these memories cling to me once again.

I remember your chest heaving up and down, Zachary. I remember your fingers as tiny as matchsticks. I remember your soundless cries. I remember the look of yearning in those soft and milky eyes. I remember again every moment of where you came from, because it is only in the act of remembrance that I see the bravery and beauty of who you are and forever will be.

Zachary.

My son Zachary.