I barely remember my elementary school reader, except for one illustration that dominated the middle of the book across two pages: The Ages of Man. I was fascinated by that transformation, tracing human life from cradle to walking-stick, moving through each stage in turn. It reminded me of a wonderful film we'd watched at school about caterpillars becoming butterflies. But as I grew older, I learned something else: those stages that should accompany all of us don't, in fact, accompany everyone. There are those for whom the "ages of man" are forbidden—trapped from birth to death on flypaper.
Around Mother's Day, a major Italian newspaper ran a piece about mothers of "eternally childlike sons and daughters." I thought back to my childhood reader, and once again—because that newspaper, progressive on so many fronts, is far from alone in this—I was troubled by how people with disabilities are always seen as unchanging, frozen in time.
Beyond the paternalism, calling someone with a disability an "eternal child" denies them the right to grow, to become an adult, to grow old—like everyone else. The needs, desires, and challenges of a person with a disability shift over time. Those changes must be heard.
Decades ago, a British couple's request to physicians caused an outcry: they wanted to halt their severely disabled daughter's physical development. They argued it would make caring for her easier. But others saw in that request a rupture—between lives that would unfold naturally and lives that could be pruned at will. Deeply troubling, yes. But didn't that request (taken to its extreme) expose the logic of the "eternal child"?
Ombre e Luci devoted a special issue last year to aging. We reflected on how, in the eyes of the State, society, and medicine, elderly people with disabilities simply don't exist. Yet we found a handful of remarkable projects, studies, and initiatives moving in the opposite direction. To recognize that Emilio is a man with Down syndrome who has Alzheimer's disease means acknowledging that Emilio, now 67, is a patient with specific needs and rights.
These aren't idle musings. They're about shifting how we see people—so we can change how we treat them.
I remember a phone call from a mother, years ago, full of joy: she was inviting us to dinner because her daughter had "become a young woman." Emanuela doesn't see. She doesn't speak. She doesn't walk. I couldn't understand what we were supposed to celebrate—her already complicated life would now be marked by monthly pain, discomfort, new indignities. I went to that dinner anyway. But before I sat down, something shifted. I realized I'd been focused on Emanuela's disability, while her mother was focused on her daughter's life, which had simply moved into a new stage. Like everyone's does.
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