Rachelle is from Madagascar. Her husband is Canadian. Life has taken them through many countries and many moves. Their son Nicolas is severely handicapped. Nicolas seems unable to learn anything on his own. Everything requires long, patient work: standing upright, putting one foot in front of the other, bringing food to his mouth, even smiling. Fortunately he has a mother who smiles and who is very brave.
I arrived in Rome two years ago with my two children. Michael was two; Nicolas was one. Nicolas has been epileptic since birth and has serious psychomotor delay.
That was why we had to leave Africa, where we had lived for two years.
Despite the sadness that comes with every departure—leaving behind a home, friends, a job—we were eager to experience life in Europe and to give Nicolas every chance to develop normally. Besides, Rome was the cradle of Western civilization, wasn't it? The center of the world, more or less?
I arrived in Rome with my mind full of expectation and hope for our new country. But after the first surge of excitement, I began to fall apart. The first thing I missed was household help. In Africa you could find it easily and cheaply. Here it was the opposite.
The first month was terrible for my morale. I knew no one and had no way to meet people because I spent the entire day at home changing diapers, washing bottles—I used twelve a day—preparing vegetable purees, cleaning, doing laundry. I didn't speak a word of Italian. I knew no one who could help with the children or the house. I had no one to talk to (except maybe the television). All day I spoke in baby words: "poo," "pee," "bottle," "potty." I felt myself sinking slowly but inevitably into mental deficiency. I loved my children immensely, but caring for them twenty-four hours a day was extremely hard. The stress kept me awake at night, and every night I had an asthma attack. Strangely, it happened at the same time Nicolas woke up—around two or three in the morning. I'd wake exhausted and go back to bed even more exhausted, knowing I would wake again at two. When my husband came home from work, I threw myself at him like a prisoner rushing toward an open door. Finally, someone to talk to about the day. Someone to whom I could hand the children for a moment. He came home in the evening, of course, and I had to use the car to shop before the stores closed. We lived outside Rome, far from any shops. Without a car and two small children to carry, life here is simply impossible. After a month of physical and moral loneliness, I found Paola to help with the house and Francesca to help with the children. I could breathe again. Finally, I could go out for a few hours. My first purchase was an Italian language book. My second was an address book. My priorities were clear: learn Italian and make friends.
My settling into Rome was like childbirth: painful, but afterward I forgot all the pain and remembered only the good. In fact, I gave birth to a new self. I lost my mother years ago, but my mother-in-law often said: "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." For me this proved true. I became morally stronger, and as my address book filled up, I felt better in my own skin. In my own skin? Well, maybe if that skin had been lighter, I would have felt better and faster! I don't know. I think so, but I'm not really sure.
The first group to welcome me was a circle of French women married to Italians. One of them had a handicapped child and offered to take me to a rehabilitation center she knew well. With another, I went to a preschool to ask about enrolling Michael, who still couldn't keep himself clean. She knew the director and explained the situation. The center accepted Nicolas. The preschool accepted Michael. Everything began to get better, but I wonder if it would have gone so smoothly if I had gone alone, with only my skin. Again, I don't know.
One day Nicolas became very ill with a high fever that stayed at 40 degrees Celsius for three days. The doctor said I had to take him to the hospital—and because of his epilepsy, he didn't want to take risks. I was frightened and panicked. Right then my husband was in Malawi for three weeks, and I had no other family here. Who would take care of Michael? I nearly broke down in tears. I pulled out my address book and found the name of an Italian doctor I had met in Africa. He agreed to wait for me at the hospital. A friend offered to drive me and the child there and showed me a simple route so I could drive myself next time—I had never driven in the city. The staff at Bambin Gesù Hospital were very kind and very helpful. It's true that at first no one understood why I had to go home every day while the other mothers stayed near their children. But the others had their own mothers bringing food every day and looking after their other children at home. I think the hardest part was driving every day from home to the hospital and back during rush hour. I was terrified by all those cars honking, passing me, turning right or left without warning, or signaling and then not turning at all.
Nicolas left the hospital before Easter, and for me it was a true resurrection. I was born into life again, and so was my son. At the same time, this experience sparked something in me—a kind of inner uprising. This situation could not happen to other mothers: young mothers, foreign, without family, without support. I decided to create a mutual aid association with listening centers in different parts of Rome. We would look after the children and also discuss topics of social interest—mornings where we could have coffee, where mothers could meet, talk about their problems, and share information. I mentioned this idea to other mothers, and they thought it was extraordinary. Now there are five of us. We pooled some money to buy shelves and coat racks. We found someone to watch our children once a week. I organized our first social gathering: a Dutch pediatrician came to speak about infectious diseases in children and infants. At the end of the coffee, some mothers came to thank me, and I felt good. A new adventure was beginning.
Now this adventure is two years old. My children have grown and both go to preschool during the day. For now, my problems are solved. I could hand over my work to someone else, but I feel the project is still fragile. If I left now, everything would have to start over. So I must continue to welcome mothers and children. And tomorrow or next year, maybe I'll need to organize something new for Nicolas. Now there are the others—many others—and I know we can do so much together.
- Rachelle Czerwinski, 1993