I am Francesca's father. She was born post-mature with resulting intellectual disability. When she arrived, I felt an emotion and tenderness beyond words, even as I understood the difficult road that lay ahead.
I was angry at the doctors who had not intervened in time, inexplicably disbelieving that her due date had passed. From that moment on, I have searched ceaselessly for new resources, for renowned specialists, for respected authorities and medical teams, subjecting Francesca to endless examinations and consultations, reaching out everywhere and to anyone with information to share, attending conferences in hopes of finding some answer.
I, a traditional physician, have studied homeopathy and acupuncture to find new paths, leaving no stone unturned. Constantly open to suggestions and new approaches, I have practiced hypnosis and energy healing among other methods, and followed the approaches recommended by both Delacato and Doman of Philadelphia.
My profession requires frequent travel, but whenever I return, I care for Francesca personally, attending to everything. When I am away, I call several times a day so she feels my presence. I play with her in countless ways—with cards, for example. I ask her to pick a specific one, and after brief or longer hesitation, but most often with surprising quickness, she hands it to me, and we continue through the deck. I adapt to every daily situation as circumstances demand.
Small connected moments: in the car, I give her the chance to start the engine, shift gears, press the button to raise or lower a window—all the things she can do safely, for herself and others.
Every hour of every day brings new ways forward, small improvised strategies, unplanned but purposeful. Each moment is an opportunity to call upon all her abilities, all her potential. I give her different tasks and notice that she finds pleasure in feeling valued.
When we are together, I watch her carefully. I wait, often impatient at any hesitation, for her to hold the right card and smile back at me, pleased with my praise and applause. I want her to succeed. I am determined to keep going this way, even with methods that may seem trivial or pointless. I refuse to give up—not out of stubbornness alone, though that is part of who I am, but above all because of the love I bear for Francesca: a bond that grows deeper and more precious with each passing day.
I keep creating space for her to feel like the center of things, drawing out direct and immediate responses in her steady, serious way—handing me, when she sees I'm about to write, a pen and glasses or whatever else she thinks I need in that moment.
I use her attentiveness to give her tasks, watching for any sign of her abilities so I can assess and understand them.
And I talk with her, waiting for her answers, and when they don't come, I offer them myself to help and reassure her.
I admit I am not always so patient, but I want to show her constantly how much I care. My wife and I share every feeling, every detail. We consult each other, we live through the successes and the failures.
She is so vulnerable that I wish I had the power to protect her throughout her whole life.
She is so vulnerable that I wish I had the power to protect her throughout her whole life.I believe that working together, sharing responsibility, and cooperating are essential; walking hand in hand eases this burden, especially for her mother, whose task is far heavier and never-ending.
Together we aim to give Francesca as much as possible, without limits, and she, with her unimaginable sensitivity, offers us at every moment something more, something special, something that touches us: the gift of a new word, an unexpected show of cleverness, a hint of maturity, greater ease and grace in how she moves—all of it a victory for us. Those eyes of hers speak louder than her lips, drawing out immense feelings of joy.
Discovering her great capacity for feeling, her goodness, her innocence makes me afraid of hurting her or confusing her through my own carelessness or impatience: I fear I might cause her harm. She is so vulnerable that I wish I had the power to protect her throughout her whole life.
My role is delicate and fragile, joining me with her mother not to replace her but to walk alongside her through all that comes next, because this task belongs to both of us, and it aims at one essential goal alone: recovery, steady and unceasing progress, so that she might have a better tomorrow.
I could speak endlessly of the moving moments, the demoralizing defeats, the discouragement broken by moments of hope—all of it centered on Francesca. But I will end with a single word that stays with me and never leaves: hope.
— Antonio, 1987