As I sit down to write about my son Antonio and his story, I find myself caught between two pulls: the impulse to stick to cold, bare facts—which speak for themselves—and the emotional weight that inevitably rises whenever I touch on something that has carved so deeply into my life. A letter seems like the right form for telling the story of a relationship that was painful at first and fraught with unimaginable difficulties, one that resolved itself in the way I'll describe—because of my fierce determination never to give up, never to leave anything untried, even when hope seemed lost.
A letter that might read like this.
«Dear Antonio, when you were born that distant September in 1957, I was a happy man. I had a son—my first—healthy and beautiful. A tiny, featherless creature who would grow, who would meet all the hopes I already held for him.
At seven months you developed a violent fever. By ten months, you were unrecognizable.
Then began the exhausting round of specialists, until Professor Ungari delivered the devastating diagnosis. You were a spastic child, he said. The world seemed to collapse on me. I didn't understand clearly—I grasped only that something terribly grave had happened to you, Antonio, that something terribly grave had happened to your mother and to me.
What should I do? I thought. Give up? Fold in on myself and weep my whole life? I decided to roll up my sleeves and act, even against every hope.
Someone told me about A.I.A.S.—the Association for Assistance to the Spastic—which had just been founded and had opened an office in Rome on Via degli Scipioni 132. I began bringing you to their clinic, and I offered the Association every help I could give, carving time from my free hours, which I sacrificed entirely to this new commitment. Soon I became the Association's treasurer, and I worked to build it up and expand across the entire country.
Years passed, dear Antonio, but I began to see wonderful results for two reasons: your active and deep participation in the rehabilitation program that was taking shape, and the great technical skill of someone who became, as you know, like a second mother to you. I speak of your therapist Maria Bucuddu, whom neither you nor I could ever forget, and who gave everything she had to your care until 1970.
By ten months you were unrecognizable... Then began the exhausting round of specialists.
By ten months you were unrecognizable... Then began the exhausting round of specialists.And how could we forget Jarka, the therapist who came from Czechoslovakia and treated you for four years at the "Anni Verdi" Association? How could we not remember our dear Tony Gemayel, who carried on the work with such intelligent passion?
So many good and capable people, Antonio, to whom we owe everything.
In twelve years you were reborn. Once you were rigid as a tree, you couldn't speak, you couldn't swallow, you had no control of your muscles. Now you were taking your first steps, eating, speaking, and you could even attend school. I remember that "Anni Verdi" had set up a satellite branch of the Vittoria Colonna Teachers' Institute (what they called a special school). Today people say special schools were a mistake. But it was there, dear Antonio, that you made your slow but real progress. It was there that you earned your teaching diploma in 1976, at nineteen years old, just like your peers—and that gave you such confidence in yourself. That's why I believe in rehabilitation. That's why I made it the purpose of my life. I've seen its positive effects. I'd say I've witnessed them firsthand in you and in dozens of other young people who later entrusted themselves to my care.
Drawing on all the experience I'd built up over those years, in 1977 I founded A.L.M., the Lazio Association for Motor Disabilities, focusing specifically on those with motor impairments—people who have fewer resources than other disabled people to defend themselves against a hostile environment. Later, when we had the means, we opened our center on Via Laurentina 5 to young people with other conditions. But even today, as you know, the vast majority of our residents are those with motor disabilities (73 out of 120).
I decided to roll up my sleeves and act, even against every hope.
I decided to roll up my sleeves and act, even against every hope.Now we can look back and take stock, dear Antonio.
Seeing you now, for your mother and for me, is to have surpassed every expectation. Today you paint, you create art objects in ceramics at our workshop, you write poems, you compose articles for our magazine. You move independently in your little three-wheeled car, you ride the metro, you travel. You've found love with Simona, your life partner.
I watch you constantly and I see you make progress every single day, guided carefully by your therapist Elvira Sabelli.
In a real way, you determined our lives, our calling.
You're full of interests. You cheer for Roma. In short, you participate in life like everyone else. In a real way, you determined our lives, our calling.It's true, Antonio—let me say this. You reached these results because you threw yourself into it wholeheartedly, without question. But also because behind you stood a family that refused to be crushed, that never surrendered, that always chose action over empty complaint. In a real way, you determined our lives, our calling. Your brother Bruno became an excellent physical therapist, and your sister Rita is a nurse at San Giovanni Hospital. We all became involved in healthcare work.
How can I close this short letter, my dearest Antonio? May your experience, may our experience serve as an example to those young people, those parents living an adventure like yours, like ours. Let them know that you must never lose hope, never surrender, never lie down and accept defeat. Instead, engage. Fight. Commit yourself fully. Never hand over to anyone else your own power to fight back against fate.
This, dear Antonio, is my wish for young people like you and for parents who, like me, have found themselves facing struggles like yours.»
—Giuseppe Sorce, 1990