Miracle Boy Grows Up Read Online Free

I’m not. I’m not like other handicapped kids!
    In the car, my chair folded and crammed between the front and back seats, Dad driving, Mom tells me more. We always take the car to Dr. Spiro’s because his office is in the Bronx or Queens or someplace like that. “Dr. Spiro is pleased with you. He feels you’re doing fine.”
    “He always says that,” I say, even though it feels good to hear.
    “He sees almost no change from last year, which means your amyotonia may be stabilizing. He says it’s now called spinal muscular atrophy. You’re not losing strength, and you should stay the same your whole life. You know there’s no cure still, but you’re not getting worse.”
    You mean I could have been getting worse? I can’t recall a time when I had more strength than I have today. I’m told I crawled a little as a baby, which I can’t do now, but I figure I was smaller and lighter then. In any case, I don’t remember it. I have no sense of lost capacity. So Mom’s news ripples past me with little impact.
    Mom says we know the worst of it now. She sounds relieved as she says this. From behind the steering wheel Dad adds, “That’s good news,” in case I didn’t understand. If it’s such good news, why was I kept out of the doctor’s office? And what took so long in there? Just grownups’ way of doing things, I guess. I look out the car window. It’s getting dark.
    If the bad guys pulled up alongside our car now and started shooting, I’d crash out through the window and jump on top of their car. I’d reach inside their window and pull out the driver. If the car started to skid off the road I’d jump off just in time. I’d roll on the ground with guns flaring. They’d run and I’d chase. They wouldn’t have a chance. Even if they thought they had me they’d be proved wrong. Just when the bad guys felt I was down and out, I’d shock them by coming up strong and defeating them all, just like I surprise doctors with my strength and intelligence …
    “Of course, you’re not going to get any stronger either,” Mom says then. “There are no treatments for spinal muscular atrophy, none discovered yet anyway, but that’s okay, isn’t it? We’ll keep hoping, but meanwhile we have to get on with our lives.”
    I can’t read her face. There’s a sharp turn at the end of the Triborough Bridge. I know it’s coming. It always makes me tip over sideways in my seat, and I silently brace for the inevitable.
    ***
    I can’t stand or raise my arms up high, but at this point I can use my hands pretty well. I can’t cut my food but I do feed myself. I brush my teeth by mostly holding the toothbrush still and moving my mouth from side to side. I have very weak muscles, that’s all. I have full sensation. My arms and legs are skeletally thin; I have scoliosis, which makes my left shoulder lower than my right, and my belly bulges because I have no abdominal muscles to hold it in. Alec sometimes calls me the Pillsbury Doughboy, poking me in my fattest ripples. It doesn’t hurt much and I laugh. I have complete control over my bathroom functions. I’ll be able to father children, I’m told. And there’s nothing wrong with my head, as Mom and Dad frequently point out. Dad went to Harvard; Mom’s a Wellesley grad. Mental ability is important to them.
    But when I get sick, it’s very hard for me to cough effectively, and since asthma runs in the family there’s always a lot of concern about my breathing. Normally it’s fine.
    I vaguely remember when Mom and I went to Johns Hopkins Hospital for my muscle biopsy, which confirmed the original diagnosis of amyotonia. I was three, and we took the train from New York. Mostly I remember being returned to Mom’s arms after the surgery. I remember shivering and crying. I remember Mom’s blue dress—a welcome contrast to the sickly yellows and pale greens all around—and being enwrapped in its folds. I remember confusion and fear. I remember returning home to