Marisa Bettassa was born in Turin in 1942. Struck by severe spastic tetraparesis, she spent her childhood searching for recovery, always supported with deep love by parents who refused to accept that her condition was incurable. After completing her primary and secondary education privately, she enrolled in the psychology program at the University of Padua's Faculty of Education and graduated in 1982. In 1978 she married Giancarlo Ferrari, also a psychologist, and together they settled in Rimini at the Papa Giovanni XXIII Community, where she still lives thanks to the solidarity of many. Today she works as a psychologist and teacher, primarily within a community of marginalized people.
Reading the brief story of this courageous woman, one is struck by the remarkable nature of certain circumstances. Between 1942, the year of the author's birth, and 1960, disability received almost no public attention, and ways to help those affected were nearly unimaginable. Yet during those years, Marisa spent her early childhood in her home, playing regularly with children her own age. She received her first communion and confirmation in the ordinary way, completed her first cycle of studies privately through her parish. For three consecutive years she underwent intensive physical therapy and gymnastics according to the Doman method, which required nine people working four and a half hours daily. She enrolled in psychology and earned her degree in six years. She became engaged and married the man she loved. She moved to a community where she practices her profession, though not in a conventional setting. How did she manage all this, overcoming difficulties, disappointments, and failures—which she did not escape—as she herself recounts? Certainly she was helped by particularly loving and wise parents, by friends, doctors, priests, and nuns whom she encountered and who guided her through different experiences. But reading her story, one senses that the unstoppable drive to move through life with courage came from within her.
Her acceptance of disability as "a variation of the physical condition commonly considered normal," her firm faith in the value and usefulness of every person regardless of physical or mental appearance—these prevented her from pitying herself too much, from losing heart, from refusing to participate fully in life. Another simple secret accompanies and sustains her: whether healthy or ill, we must try, without unnecessary strain, to reach the goals within our capacity, and be content with them—until a new possibility appears. Her vision of others is particularly interesting: her understanding of the "healthy," of relationships with those able to help someone in difficulty. One must ask for solidarity and help without shame, Marisa insists, because often those who seem indifferent have never faced the condition or necessity of helping someone. They cannot imagine how precious their contribution could be. And so the "healthy" also need us. Through us, through our courageous request for help, they discover their own capacity to give, their own preciousness, almost their indispensability to another—and therefore they feel wanted, sought after, and loved. This may be the greatest gift for someone living a life poor in affection. The children of mothers who give some of their time to those who need it also benefit indirectly, because they begin to understand that their mother is not theirs alone, that they must learn to do things for themselves, that there are other people who ask something of them as well. What Marisa writes about the relationship between parents and a child with disability is also striking—but one cannot say everything here, so I refer you to this short, simple book, which I believe is very important. - M.T.M., 1991
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