What impact has Sabina had on our lives? Today, with Sabina now fifteen, I would answer that question very differently than I would have when she was smaller. There is no doubt that this painful experience—it would be more accurate to call it a tragedy—of having a severely handicapped daughter has transformed the life, the plans, the way of acting and thinking of our entire family.
As for me, I see my life in three distinct phases.
The first was my encounter with handicap itself. In our case it came gradually—not because I was refusing to accept what was happening, but because Sabina showed no signs of disability at birth.
Awareness came in stages. First, her eyes. Twenty-five days after she was born, doctors said surgery might save them. It didn't. As time passed, I had to accept that her eyesight was gone for good.
Just as I was beginning to come to terms with having a blind daughter, I realized Sabina wasn't responding to the world around her at all. She couldn't straighten her body, sit up, or eat as other children do.
Sabina had no friends. No one came to visit. Those who knew what had happened made excuses to stay away. No one asked how she was doing.
I consulted other specialists. "Don't worry," they said. "A bit of physical therapy and she'll recover." I pinned all my hopes on therapy like it was a magic cure. But therapy brought only false hope and frustration.
Hope for her sight was gone. Hope that she might walk faded slowly. Every other hope was just another source of disappointment piled on top of the last: nothing for her speech, no response to any stimulation, eating on her own—impossible, autonomy—nonexistent, sleep—worse than everything else combined.
That's when I entered the second phase of my life: the darkest one. I had no energy left to fight or take Sabina to more specialists. My life had no purpose. I threw myself into work—it was a distraction, a reason to stay away from home.
Sabina had no friends. No one came to see her. Those who knew our situation made excuses not to visit. No one asked how she was. "How is Sabina? What is Sabina doing?"
Eventually Sabina began attending a center. For me it was just an excuse not to have her at home seven or eight hours a day.
Faith and Light gave all of us a new way of seeing life. Finally Sabina had friends. Finally she was recognized, small as she is, as a human being.
Time passed peacefully during those years—perhaps too peacefully. The further it went, the more I withdrew from my family, my friends, my faith. A kind of fatalism had set in. My will to fight was exhausted, my hopes were dead, Sabina was treated as nothing, and no one cared about her.
I hated society and found a thousand reasons to avoid weddings, baptisms, first communions. My relationship with my wife Olga was a tangle of tension and indifference. Any excuse would do to stay out late, and on Sundays to stay away entirely. Though I had never been passionate about football, I went to every match on Sundays—pure escape. Looking back now, that period was the bleakest because there is nothing worse than having no purpose and no hope in life.
Then, mercifully for Sabina, for Olga, for our son Max, and for me, Faith and Light arrived. How? I'm not sure. I remember it started with a phone call: "Sabina"—and no one had ever called about her before—"is invited to spend a day with the friends of Faith and Light."
I had heard of Faith and Light before, vaguely and uncertainly.
I remember when we passed through the gate of the place where we had been invited, the first person I saw was Guenda. She walked toward Sabina and asked, "How are you, Sabina?" Then she introduced herself to Olga and me. We left Sabina in her care. For the first time since her birth, this was a Sunday without her—and we could leave her knowing she was in good hands.
Read also: Now We Know That Everything Has Meaning by Olga Gammarelli
Two years have passed since that first meeting, and my wife and I are now part of Faith and Light. From that day on, the third phase of my life began. First and foremost, it gave all of us a new way of seeing life. Sabina finally has friends. She is recognized—small as she is—as a human being like any other, with her own limits and something to give. Sabina has received the Eucharist and is a full member of the Christian community. For so many years she had been treated with only pity and condescension—as a misfortune that had befallen our family, something better left unspoken. Even the Church, the official Church, had shown no interest in her. Once a year a priest would visit families during Passiontide to bless the homes. When he saw Sabina, he would murmur, "Poor thing!" or "What a pity!" and move on as if she didn't exist.
Today Sabina is the center of attention and love both at home and outside it.
When we see friends from Faith and Light, they always ask about Sabina first. All of this has changed my relationship with her. Though I always truly loved her, I now realize that I wasn't giving her enough attention—I had set her somewhat apart, and that was because I didn't have the strength or the light that has now shown me Sabina in a different way.
Faith and Light has also transformed my relationship with my wife. My love for her is deeper and more genuine now. Coming home in the evening has become a pleasure. I am calmer, I feel closer to my children, and I can follow their lives better.
Faith and Light has also reconciled me with God. After twelve or thirteen years—I can't remember exactly how long—I returned to the Eucharist, and Sabina and I received it together on her first communion day.
All of this has affected Sabina, and I am convinced that this change in atmosphere—even though she cannot express it—has touched something in her. I notice that her smile, which is the most beautiful thing about her, the greatest gift she can give me, is more open now, more peaceful. And that is because there is more love around her.
- Francesco Gammarelli, 1990
