The other day we were all celebrating: it was Aunt Roberta's birthday. Pablo, as usual, was the last to find out, because occasions like this stir him up so much he can barely eat.
These are his happiest days—and ours too, really, because we're all together. By now Pablo has his own place in the family; he is loved, respected, accepted for who he is. It was a long road, certainly—a road paved by all of us, but above all by friends who first helped us parents understand that we were not alone in loving and accepting him, who helped us discover the treasures that were always hidden inside him.
I knew only that he depended on me, and that he wanted to live.
I knew only that he depended on me, and that he wanted to live.Sometimes I think back to when it was just the two of us, when there seemed to be no way out: the world outside, and us inside these four walls, carrying our heavy burden. It was as though we didn't exist for anyone else. I would seize on a sunny day to take him shopping, to get out—but I often came home sadder than when I'd left. I'd look around and see so many things that would have been impossible for him and for us to do.
I remember his first day of school. We lived across from a convent school, and all the children walked hand-in-hand with their mothers, wearing pinafores and carrying lunch pails, crowding through the front gate. I watched from behind the window, and he sat in his high chair, waiting for my smile or a song—songs I often sang through tears. So much darkness. So much sadness. I didn't even know why I kept going. I knew only that he depended on me, and that he wanted to live.
Gradually, staying at home wasn't enough anymore. So we sent him to school. A whole new world opened up: he discovered new people and many friends who encouraged him to grow within his abilities. He learned to speak more and more with words instead of gestures, and we parents, following his lead, began to lose our fear of so many imaginary demons.
Little by little our house filled with his friends. At first we were almost bewildered, but happy—because slowly the world didn't seem so hostile as we had believed. I remember a Christmas we spent with my parents, my sisters, their husbands, and the cousins.
At midnight we sang together a song we had learned from friends at Fede e Luce. I told my family about these friends—about how they loved Pablo because they accepted him as he was.
Day by day, Pablo asked for more real attention from my parents; no longer just the usual quick kiss, but genuine conversation. When Aunt Roberta visits us or we visit her, she makes more room for Pablo—telling him stories, asking what he did at school. My parents worked through their own confusion about how to behave with him. Before, it seemed that getting too close would only bring them pain; now they are more open. At the dinner table, my father jokes around, stealing Pablo's favorite potato chips, and Pablo scolds him back for making too much noise eating his soup. And so, after all this time, Pablo has also discovered his grandparents' love.
My nephews and nieces have grown up, and they often spend time with him, giving my husband and me a free evening. I think the moment Pablo treasures most is always when we're all together—at Christmas or for a birthday: sitting around the table, talking, telling stories. He knows he has a place here. He knows that when his turn comes, he will be heard. He will be understood.
by Rita Ozzimo, 1986