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.

THERE WERE DAYS when I went to the intensive care nursery with strength and resolve. And there were days when I didn’t think I could take it anymore, worn down by the uncertainty and the lingering sense of alienation. I grew tired of people asking me how I was doing. I grew tired of giving medical updates. At a certain point, everything in that intensive care nursery—the lights that never went off, the blue gowns we had to wear, the monotone hum of the machines, the slightly sweet smell of disinfectant to mask over pain and suffering and dying—began to sicken me. I had hope. I didn’t have hope. I felt euphoria. I felt exhaustion.

Aug. 29 1983

I sometimes think they are destroying him, and it becomes difficult for me to imagine a soul in that little body. This sounds terrible and horrible, but it is inconceivable for me to think that someone could take all that abuse and want to live. I hope Zachary is right and I am wrong. And sometimes, although this is horrible too, I think it may be better for him to die rather than endure all this suffering. Or maybe I think it will be better for me. I want him to live so very much. I love him. But I don’t want him to live in a torture chamber.

Oct. 11, 1983

Zachary was placed back on the ventilator last night, after breathing on his own for nine days. I did not see the tube being placed in, but I did see him afterwards. He was lying on his side, and with his eyes he seemed to be groping for something, as if he was confused, as if he was trying to figure out what went wrong and what had happened.

It was one of the saddest sights I have ever seen, my little son with that infernal rippled tube back in his mouth, his gorgeous face marked across the lip with white tape. He looked so weary and helpless, yearning for relief from the seven hellish and hideous weeks of his life.

“Sometimes I think Zachary will be in there forever,” Deb said tonight. And I agree with her. I hope and pray that this changes. But right now, I cannot conceive of Zachary coming home. I cannot conceive of him ever reaching the stage that Gerry has reached now. I cannot conceive of him as my son. I am deathly afraid that I am losing touch with him, that what little emotional bonding we had is slipping away under a maze of machines and tubes and arterial lines that I thought had gone away forever but have now come back.