This article is part of a Focus: Profoundly Handicapped Adults, Some Testimonies
Someone asked me what my life is like with Maurizio. It's simple: acceptance and love, nothing more.
Maurizio is a good boy, but profoundly disabled. Sometimes he's restless; he throws tantrums. But because he can't express himself, I don't know if he's in pain I can't identify, and that breaks my heart.
If I look back to those first days after his birth, I'd call it an ordeal. First came the usual joy at having a son, then the sorrows—his refusal to nurse, the congenital cataracts, everything else. I clung to hope that medicine would help. That's why we moved to Rome, thinking a big city would offer more possibilities. Instead, it only isolated us, even from our own family.
At least when Maurizio turned seven, he started school. It did little for him, but it gave me some breathing room.
Then I discovered Faith and Light, and it has given me so much strength to keep going. When they call and say "We're coming to pick up Maurizio," I weep. I never thought my son would have friends—people who would give their time to him. It's a profound joy, and I'm grateful to everyone who has taken his hand, and to those who will. Thank you.
To other parents with children like mine: let's find courage each day. Let's thank God for giving us the strength to bear this, and let's help each other. Since I started reading "Together," I've realized our children are all, in a sense, twins—each profoundly disabled in their own way, but all facing much the same struggles.
A mother from Rome, 1979