had a bit of a wrangle getting ready that morning and she was still grumpy with me, so I was afraid that if I suggested a particular course of action, she would choose the opposite. I stayed quiet. Eventually she did take the horse on a slow trot around the corral, just one loop, and she was perfectly happy. She refused to let anyone else make that leap from experience to meaning on her behalf, and she was absolutely right to be suspicious of our motives. As I rocked Ronan to sleep that night, I thanked her for reminding me, years later, that new, authentic narratives, real stories, were possible to create, to recognize, and finally, to share.
6
How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavored to form? The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate object. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of my dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room.
—
Mary Shelley,
Frankenstein
R onan and I began the first day in February watching the room fill with light as snow crystals melted against the living room window. The blue spruce in front of the house across the street was slowly covered in white, as if it were aging as we stood there. I thought,
Ronan will never be an old man
.
Next month he’ll be one year old, and then he might be two, but will he ever be three?
I tried to imagine Ronan as an old man, sitting in a recliner, a cup of tea in a saucer on a small table, snoozing in front of a Red Sox game, retired and worn out, his life a road he had run well, stretching out full and dark behind him. The image made me want to weep.
What if he had lived to a ripe old age and then gotten some terrible cancer?
I thought in a surreal, hopeful way. In the entire United States, only a dozen or so babies are diagnosed with Tay-Sachs each year. If Ronan would have eventually died of some rare and painful cancer, then maybe Tay-Sachs was a merciful way to go, because he didn’t know what was happening to him and therefore he could not be afraid. This was clearly the logic of the desperate and the bereaved. “Gee,” Ronan said, his single word. I put him in his bouncer. He batted at the blue frog on one side and then took aim at the red bird on the other, like a boxer hitting a slow bag instead of a speed bag, like a mellow DJ spinning tunes. His bouncing was already growing less vigorous, and we needed to pad the front and sides of the seat to keep him from pitching forward. A few months later, the bouncer disappeared, replaced with the swing he used to sleep in as a newborn.
I graded papers as Ronan bounced in slow motion and then I asked him, “Are you ready to start your baby day?” He was; there were textured pillows to touch and hair to pull; there were cloth books to drool on and yoga poses to be done (happy baby). I lifted him from the bouncer and sat him on my stomach. He laughed and lunged at my face. Noses were a particular favorite, although the holes in ears were also appreciated, and lips were an endless source of amusement. Fingers? Amazing. For one long moment he soberly studied me—he was always a philosophical dude—before breaking into a wide, wet smile that was more like a silent laugh. He would have been a great silent film star.
How long will Ronan be able to do happy baby?
I wondered as he struck his pose on the changing table. In less than a year, Ronan would be blind. I could hardly imagine it—the light going out of his eyes but his heart beating on. He would have started having seizures that required medication. That, too, filled me with panic and dread. These images, and
6
How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavored to form? The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate object. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of my dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room.
—
Mary Shelley,
Frankenstein
R onan and I began the first day in February watching the room fill with light as snow crystals melted against the living room window. The blue spruce in front of the house across the street was slowly covered in white, as if it were aging as we stood there. I thought,
Ronan will never be an old man
.
Next month he’ll be one year old, and then he might be two, but will he ever be three?
I tried to imagine Ronan as an old man, sitting in a recliner, a cup of tea in a saucer on a small table, snoozing in front of a Red Sox game, retired and worn out, his life a road he had run well, stretching out full and dark behind him. The image made me want to weep.
What if he had lived to a ripe old age and then gotten some terrible cancer?
I thought in a surreal, hopeful way. In the entire United States, only a dozen or so babies are diagnosed with Tay-Sachs each year. If Ronan would have eventually died of some rare and painful cancer, then maybe Tay-Sachs was a merciful way to go, because he didn’t know what was happening to him and therefore he could not be afraid. This was clearly the logic of the desperate and the bereaved. “Gee,” Ronan said, his single word. I put him in his bouncer. He batted at the blue frog on one side and then took aim at the red bird on the other, like a boxer hitting a slow bag instead of a speed bag, like a mellow DJ spinning tunes. His bouncing was already growing less vigorous, and we needed to pad the front and sides of the seat to keep him from pitching forward. A few months later, the bouncer disappeared, replaced with the swing he used to sleep in as a newborn.
I graded papers as Ronan bounced in slow motion and then I asked him, “Are you ready to start your baby day?” He was; there were textured pillows to touch and hair to pull; there were cloth books to drool on and yoga poses to be done (happy baby). I lifted him from the bouncer and sat him on my stomach. He laughed and lunged at my face. Noses were a particular favorite, although the holes in ears were also appreciated, and lips were an endless source of amusement. Fingers? Amazing. For one long moment he soberly studied me—he was always a philosophical dude—before breaking into a wide, wet smile that was more like a silent laugh. He would have been a great silent film star.
How long will Ronan be able to do happy baby?
I wondered as he struck his pose on the changing table. In less than a year, Ronan would be blind. I could hardly imagine it—the light going out of his eyes but his heart beating on. He would have started having seizures that required medication. That, too, filled me with panic and dread. These images, and
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