His grandparents understood it quickly—before his parents did—that he was not like other children. They had seen enough healthy babies in their lives to know how they moved, how they cried, how they ate. And they had discovered that he did not fit that pattern. They wept, but only alone in their home. They protested, they raged at fate, as one does. But only at first. Then they stopped. Then they loved him. The joy with which they had awaited his birth, the happiness of seeing him for the first time—it was nothing compared to what grew in their hearts as the days passed and his difference became clearer. Without psychologists or the specialized books that were so scarce then, they invented their own way of being close to a child like him, and to his parents. His grandmother was the dreamer, but his grandfather paid attention and learned quickly.
He was small—too small—but they proclaimed with pride: "He's a perfect miniature!"
And so he did not cry, did not scream his hunger or his belly pain, because "he was such a good baby, he didn't want to bother anyone..."
He took his milk only by spoon, falling asleep, refusing to open his mouth... "because he had other things on his mind... who knows what he's thinking about..."
But when the cup was finally empty, or nearly empty, they held a small celebration. Every time. He had been so good, so very good... "and look how hungry he is today..." "starting now, yes, he's really growing..."
And if the meal had taken an hour or an hour and a half, and already they had to prepare for the next one with a breast pump and a kettle, and if his grandfather's arm had gone numb—nothing mattered anymore.
And so the days passed. Other children his age had long been sitting upright, but when he began to look around and reach out his little hands, it was a great celebration. "Well done, well done. Each day a tiny step... slowly, slowly, he'll get there too..." Yes, he received such showers of praise for the smallest gestures that other children—"normal" children—never dreamed of.
"You don't understand," his grandmother would say. "You don't see all that he does..." And all the while she talked to him, talked to him constantly, and songs about the mad hare and the little basket overflowed through her days. When his grandfather came home from teaching, he was always with her, close to him. Together they had created small, simple games that, when he was well, could make him smile. I remember them this way: his grandmother sits in her wicker chair with him on her lap. Small, a little pale, his round head tilted forward. You can see he is content: a little prince on a throne of love. His grandfather—the stern professor—stands in the hallway just outside the room, pulling behind him a stuffed dog (or a little donkey?) on a string that makes a cheerful tinkling sound as it moves. The grandfather pulls the cord, the grandmother coaxes him to look toward the door. He looks, looks intently until in the bright doorway appears his grandfather, followed by the noisy little animal. And he laughs—really laughs—with a small sound of pure joy. He laughs just as his grandfather appears, and even more when the jingling animal pokes its head in. How many times must they have repeated that game to get that result? How many times must she have said "look, look there, here it comes" before he decided to look, to focus, to wait, to play, to laugh? But what celebration that day brought. His grandparents called his mother, the nanny, the available aunts and uncles. And it all happened again when his father came home from work.
A great celebration. His surprised and delighted face, their radiant, triumphant faces, and we two who swallowed our fears and managed to be happy for a few hours...
Then came other days, sad and hard. But now that they are gone, that all three love each other forever in another world, I want to remember them this way—in a moment of great joy, born from a love without limit. And my heart is full of gratitude.
- Maria Teresa Mazzarotto, 1997