Dear mothers and fathers, can we talk among ourselves for a moment? I am a mother like you. One day, a doctor told me bluntly that the newborn girl I held in my arms with pride and joy was handicapped—she was mongoloid. Anyone who has endured this bitter, painful trial cannot help but relive that moment, even if, as time passes and we have other experiences—some of them positive—everything settles, everything finds its proper place. But let me share some of my story with you.
After thirteen years of marriage, our three children were joined by another. My husband and I were both 44. I was astonished and happy to become a mother again; we received the news with great enthusiasm, even though the pregnancy itself proved difficult.
I remember the care, the attention, the waiting: those sweetest moments preparing a brand-new layette, helped by our older children. We made so many plans together, said so many prayers. The children drew pictures that I traced to embroider on pillowcases and sheets. It was a time of light in our whole house.
On May 13, 1953, our Pia was born. We were surrounded by the happy faces of relatives and friends. No doctor or clinic staff said a word. I learned the truth only days later. I cannot describe the pain—physical pain—that I felt. Sustained by a few words of comfort, I took refuge in the chapel. Perhaps it was the last time I wept in utter despair, though I accepted God's will. My husband, too, found the strength to say yes.
I will not dwell on those years and all the effort we made to help our daughter develop—it would take too long. As her physical condition improved, our whole family worked to help her grow in new ways of living.
Teresa is approaching thirty. Embraced with affection and raised with great care by her family, she has achieved nearly complete independence despite her difficulties. She works in the maternity ward of a large hospital.
It was a very slow ascent, but we never lost heart. We watched her move, play, make contact with the small realities around her. We followed her first steps, her first words, the sketches of behavior emerging—an infinity of small things, difficult breakthroughs, in a constant renewal of hope and trust. Teaching her as we taught our other children: Pia had reached school age. At that point, I faced another trial.Opposed, but determined to succeed, I managed to place my daughter in an institution where she could receive proper education from people of high professional standing and utterly dedicated to this mission as a calling. I thought, too, of my other children, who needed a calmer environment. It was a wrench for me, but necessary for the girl and for the family's peace. Before entering the institution, Pia received Confirmation privately from our bishop—the only person who understood, at that moment, what we needed. The following year, properly prepared, she received Holy Communion. Pia was eight years old.
Let me say a few words about her time in the institution. I was convinced that there she would receive the support that would ease her way into society.
I understood that no matter how much love the family offers, it cannot do everything. Indeed, if we focus our attention entirely on the handicapped child, we do not help him develop properly; we can make him a small egoist, and later—when no family member is at his side—a truly unhappy person. Moreover, this temporary separation gives our other children the space to mature calmly and to develop, together with us as parents, a human—but not dramatic—awareness of the situation.
Yet tearing myself from her was tearing something from inside myself, and I understand those parents so reluctant to take this step, because I know it was one of the hardest moments of my life. The suffering, though, was largely compensated by the results. I owe so much to the environment that received her. There was constant collaboration between the institution and our family, in a joyful setting, full of activity, stimulating for the children and for us, in the hours we spent together.
When Pia returned home after five years, we were not entirely unprepared, but we had to continue the work, discover new possibilities, talk with her. So there were new people working with her, life among others, group activities—sports and recreation—trips and more. In short, it is essential to encourage human contact, because we must teach our children to be generous, kind, dignified. When they ask us whether they are sick, we need to answer calmly that not everyone is the same; some can do many things, others cannot; some study, some cannot—but what matters is doing well, and with joy, what we are able to do. I want to emphasize education, especially in light of faith and religious practice, which our children feel deeply. Anyone who has lived close to handicapped children knows how much faith lives in their expression—their special openness to listening, their sensitivity to others' suffering, which they perceive and try to comfort in their own way, always in a way that moves the heart.
For the past ten years, my daughter and I have lived alone. Our other children are married. In the dark hours after my husband's death, I feared she would be shattered for life—he fell right in front of her. When people offered me words of comfort, she, always sitting beside me, would say, "The Lord has called him," and gave courage to me.
Then we began again, day by day, trying always to build something new, grateful to those who extend a hand in friendship and solidarity. We talk in the morning, then each of us follows her own routine. Pia helps with household work at a care home for elderly people, which she calls "her second home." Every morning, always alone, she goes out for errands, takes the bus. I try to make her as independent as possible. It is right that she have her own friendships.
It is right that she learn to choose things for herself, to express her taste for something, but also to ask the shopkeeper—without shame—to help her count coins, which she still struggles with. She must accept this limit without making a tragedy of it.
I feel I must thank the Lord for the path he chose for us, because through it we learned that we are never alone, that many of our brothers and sisters must suffer in countless other ways. We learned to see that, even in the slow maturation that may last a lifetime, even a sorrow like ours can be transformed into a gift.
- A Mother, 1990