FOR THE FIRST SIX MONTHS of Alexander’s life, I wanted to believe he might get well on his own. I would often lie down on the floor and make faces at him, trying to tease out a smile. Sometimes, after lots of effort, it worked. But mostly, my son was motionless and silent, his eyes focused on nothing in particular.
It was fall 2009, and my wife, Ashley, and I had only just moved into a new home in downtown Calgary, Alberta. We had a vivacious four-year-old daughter named Sloane, a grouchy Siamese cat, and an infant son who was a mystery. Alexander had been born hypotonic—floppy, basically—with an abdominal hernia, a heart murmur, strange folds on his ears, and a V-shaped birthmark in the center of his forehead. The…
