I remember the day I walked into their home. In that large living room she sat small and absorbed in her talking book, on a chair specially built for her size, facing a table made to match. Her mother quickly told me the story: premature birth, a year spent in an incubator, endless trips from one hospital to another, one doctor to the next, and eyes that cannot see even shadows.
She explained that only a year ago Silvia had finally accepted being fed by mouth instead of through a feeding tube. She didn't give me special instructions, just asked me to come back one afternoon to know her better—but mainly to help Silvia get used to me. Since she wasn't comfortable with strangers, we would need to go slowly. Silvia's mother and father were balanced and warm people, so it didn't take long for me to feel welcomed. They are attentive with her, but never smothering; they see her problems clearly and objectively, which keeps them watchful and tireless. I admire them greatly, and I think Silvia is truly fortunate.
So they trusted me—with what generosity, I don't know—and soon left us alone to discover each other.
At first I watched to understand how to join her play. Her favorite objects were, and remain, those that make sound, speak, or vibrate—things she can work over and over, moving them from one side of the table to the other with her hands. Anything that doesn't "do anything" becomes a test subject, meant to be hurled to the floor to hear what noise it makes when it lands. Silvia's mother explained that I should encourage her curiosity about the world around her, and could try to teach her how to use everyday objects.
How do I make it understandable to her?
I'll be honest: it's not easy to spark interest in a child who cannot see what surrounds her, who has no mental image of things and therefore no idea what they're for. Of course she's drawn to objects that do something meaningful to her—a toy that makes a sound or vibration when touched, something that gives immediate pleasure. When I'm with Silvia, I wonder how she can understand something I tell her or ask her to do when she doesn't have the same mental picture I do. How do I make it comprehensible to her? For us it's natural to think of something and see its image in our minds. So I try to empty my own experience, because what's obvious to me isn't obvious to her. Everything takes longer with her, but it's moving to see how much progress she's made in just over a year. Now she's more curious. She's learning to walk without leaning so heavily on whoever supports her. And her vocalizations sound more and more like actual words we can understand. She cooperates more during daily activities—eating, washing her hands and face and teeth, changing clothes.
Communication is beginning
Lately she smiles when she hears me arrive, and when I come close to kiss and hug her. She seems to recognize me. She takes my hand, touches it, and makes a little sound that sounds like she's saying something. For a while now she's had the habit of putting her arms around my neck and squeezing tight. Now she does it more willingly and holds on longer. These moments fill me with joy, because I feel that as time passes, something like real communication is taking shape between us. When she walks and moves, she always looks for something to hold on to, to feel secure. Sometimes she loses her balance, but there's always someone there to catch her. I think that on her long journey toward independence, she needs to know she can always count on someone beside her, someone to hold her hand when she needs it. What I've just said sounds obvious, but it isn't anymore—not for me—now that I know I'm part of that small circle of people Silvia can depend on.
Laura Nardini, 2004
