Can you build a community, a public facility, that welcomes adults with serious psychological and intellectual difficulties? The law allows it. Money doesn't seem to be the insurmountable problem. So what's holding us back? The truth is that nothing happens without courageous, determined people. At the Melograno, it took two extraordinary women to light the fire.
September 1996: Roberto moves into the Community—a municipal facility funded by the city, run by the local health authority and the same social workers from the cooperative who had cared for him at home for ten years.
The place is lovely: set within the town center but surrounded by a beautiful tree-filled garden. In the middle stands a pomegranate tree, which gives the house its name.
Everything seems right. I feel fortunate to have found this support. When you've lived thirty-three years with an autistic son, you know exhaustion firsthand. I'm under stress for other reasons too—I've been widowed, I have health problems, other worries weighing on me. So I was saying: I'm grateful. My wish has come true—to see where my son will be living, cared for by people who know him. In my heart I thank those who helped me make this happen.
The community is close to my home, just two bus stops away. Or if you enjoy walking, it's a lovely stroll. I can visit often, spend a few hours in the afternoon, bring ice cream or pastries for all his housemates (as if for a celebration). Maybe I can tidy his room and organize his linen drawer. I won't abandon him.
But it doesn't work out that way. Another difficult test awaits. They tell me not to come. It's better for Roberto if I don't appear there. Later, they say, I can take him home whenever I want. The gate closes. And so mother and son are separated.
The place is lovely: set within the town center but surrounded by a beautiful tree-filled garden. In the middle stands a pomegranate tree, which gives the house its name.
The place is lovely: set within the town center but surrounded by a beautiful tree-filled garden. In the middle stands a pomegranate tree, which gives the house its name.
I'm walking home from the Community, but I don't take the bus. I can't bear for anyone to see me like this—so torn apart. I can't make sense of it all. Perhaps I'm not spiritually prepared. Inside me, everything is confused—feelings, anger, rebellion. I understand my son when he explodes with his emotions. I'm tempted to go back, to bring him home and keep him there for the rest of my life: after that, the other children can manage. (Poor children...).
I suppose you don't die of grief. You keep living despite everything. For several weeks I linger near the Community, I shop at the stores nearby hoping to catch a glimpse of Roberto. And I see him—with his social worker—and he seems calm enough. Thank God for that. If only he could tell me: "Mom, I'm okay, don't worry."
I thought that once my son wasn't with me all the time, I'd feel lighter, relieved. But nothing changed. Why so many trials? I keep questioning myself: did I do right? Did I do wrong? It takes so much strength to say yes to all this suffering—that yes that lets you accept everything: death, separation from your son, and having to leave when you don't want to abandon your other children.
I gathered my courage and left. I went to Venice, my birthplace. There I relived my childhood through memory. I saw the church where I was baptized, confirmed, and married to my Carlo. We lived together for forty years. Then I spent some time in Conegliano with my eldest son, who has three beautiful children. For the first time, I became a grandmother. They helped me forget my troubles with their stories—it was good.
But my heart stays with the son in the house with the pomegranate tree in its garden. I still can't let go of this difficult child, who sometimes seems to understand everything, sometimes exists on the other side of the universe. Sometimes he's a boy, sometimes he sends me messages I can't grasp. Maybe because I never learned to read his indecipherable language, Roberto is a "special" son. Perhaps we love most what we can't understand.
June 1998. Almost two years have passed since Roberto moved into the Community. Three times a month he comes home, and returns the next day. The last visit, he was very peaceful. He wants to be in the kitchen with me while we cook lunch or dinner. He tells me, in his own way, about life at the Community. I believe he's doing well. I've been there three times—on the major holidays, with the other parents, to exchange greetings. I see another mother whose daughter is at the Community. Her daughter's condition is more serious than Roberto's, so she visits often to bring what her daughter needs. I ask her how things are. She tells me they're doing very well, and I believe her.
As time passes, I'm accepting all of this with more peace.
- Lina Cusimano, 1998