But is it always really like that?
I have been reading your magazine with pleasure for many years, along with many other publications about disability. I read letters full of positive feelings, moving accounts from parents of disabled children. I read of their suffering ennobled by deep love for their child, by their total devotion. I am moved, my heart fills with tenderness reading such greatness and nobility in ordinary people transformed by living alongside their own child. I read of their outpouring of love that springs forth when their son or daughter is born. Seen. Embraced despite the difficulties. Loved. Total, immediate acceptance. But is it always really like that? I have never read anything different. Only once did I read of a father's rejection, his rebellion. Are men more honest, or is maternal love simply taken for granted? Or does the mother's sense of guilt—she who literally brought this child into the world—keep her from speaking out about her rebellion toward this so-disappointing creature?
I did not feel that immediate outpouring of love everyone speaks about so widely. No. Not at all. The pain was excruciating. My entire world had collapsed. My whole life ended in that moment. When I saw my little girl, I understood: she felt like a stranger to me. I rejected her. She devastated everyone I held most dear—my son, my husband, my parents. She brought pain to all of them. My despair was complete, and the most horrible thoughts ran through my mind. This is what I felt, and I cannot believe I am a monster because I am convinced that other mothers have experienced these same feelings. But I have never heard another woman brave enough to say it.
Perhaps the dedication and depth of what we feel as we help our poor child to live transforms us so radically that we cannot admit—not even for a single moment—that we did not want her. The children are the first victims of their own condition, and we want to protect them so fiercely that we lie to insist always and without exception that our love has been with them and always will be, even when we are gone.
A Mother
Doing Our Duty, as if It Were Normal
We receive Ombre e Luci with profound gratitude. It witnesses God's love for each of us and the Christian response to the struggles of the most vulnerable among the vulnerable. I say vulnerable because in truth the people most in need of support are often the family members who, trapped by false prejudices and guilt, don't know how to react—and at the same time feel condemned by a society that makes one condition necessary for accepting a child: that the child be "healthy." We still remember with extreme joy the day Michele Maria was born. What we do remember with pain is the reaction of some of the medical and nursing staff to a small anomaly. I still see Maria Sole going into the operating room for the cesarean. An hour passes. Then two. Tension rises. The doctor comes out to tell me there have been complications, that he must urgently stop a hemorrhage, and he asks my consent. Next the anesthesiologist comes out with an ashen face and tells me the baby has an anomaly and asks if I want to see him. When I say yes, he brings Michele Maria with profound detachment, as if carrying an object, not a human being. Then he even asks me if I want to keep him! He was a beautiful blond baby with blue eyes. His right arm was simply incomplete.
He was beautiful. When I said yes, the anesthesiologist relaxed, her expression changing. Thank God Maria Sole's surgery went perfectly. We believe that through the distribution of your magazine, the world's mindset can gradually change—a mindset that exalts physical form as an absolute value. One day will come when doing our duty is recognized as something normal, not as heroism or even as a crime. We consider your magazine an invaluable tool in fighting the good fight for life and for welcome. With profound gratitude,
Luciano and Maria Sole, 2008
Finding Our Way
I am asking for your thoughts on a question that weighs heavily on my heart and my husband's. Of course, it may be something worth posing to your other readers as well, since I'm sure it touches each of us—at least those of us trying to live as Christians.
I have written to you before, and I was pleasantly surprised to find passages from my letter in issue #4 of OL. It made me feel part of the great OL family ("Casting the Seed").
So, as I was saying, my Luca is ten years old. He has developmental delay with autistic traits, but with school support and psychomotor therapy he has made great progress both intellectually and behaviorally.
Now, to the heart of my question: we are wondering whether Luca should receive Holy Communion. We believe it is important, but we don't know if now is the right time or how to prepare him.
We spoke with a priest, but he only told us to think about it—that it is possible, but we'll have to see how to prepare him. For me it was too vague. Unfortunately only my husband spoke with him; perhaps I would have asked more! Another thing we thought of was to ask if there is an office in our Turin diocese that handles these kinds of questions. But we still need to contact them.
In any case, I would very much appreciate your thoughts or to hear how others have dealt with this question. Part of me wants it very much, while another part of me hesitates. I'm afraid of "pushing" Luca, of imposing something that doesn't interest him and that he doesn't understand. And the thought of keeping him still in church...
I hope the Lord will help us find the way forward.
Paola Oliviero Testa, (Chieri TO)