Describing the thoughts and feelings that surfaced after we learned Alberto had been accepted into a group home should be straightforward. After all, the thoughts and feelings are countless, shifting, recurring. But it's not. It's impossibly difficult. I've started this a thousand times and stopped a thousand times, telling myself each time that I couldn't do it, that I wouldn't. Then I'd try again, because the thoughts and feelings keep coming.
I've always loved to write—to put feelings, ideas, emotions on paper, a piece of myself. Sometimes it's helped me release what I'm carrying inside, that sense of being so full I might burst.
This time it's different. This is far more complex. Not the gravest or most painful thing we've faced, but certainly one of the hardest to confront, to accept, and then to live with. Why? I've asked myself that question many times, and I'm still asking it. Sometimes I think I have an answer. But perhaps part of me still isn't ready to face it head-on—and maybe this is the moment to begin.
More than a year ago, when we learned that the group home "Il Carro" was expanding and opening its doors to new residents, Giacomo and I immediately thought it might be the right opportunity for Alberto's future.
We had tried many times in previous years, exploring the possibility of creating a group home for people with severe psychomotor disabilities like Alberto's. Our experience in the Fede e Luce community had shown us that this kind of structure might be the only acceptable solution for the "after us." But wanting something isn't always enough. Negative responses from families we approached had made us lose hope. When we learned about Il Carro's expansion, we seized the opportunity. In our initial meetings, we presented Alberto's needs and ours with conviction. The waiting felt endless, and at one point we feared the answer would be no. But we remained certain—and still are—that this solution was, for Alberto and his future, "the right and good thing."
That thought came first: Alberto's future. He's an only child, almost thirty-four years old, and we are not young. We don't know what tomorrow holds.
By choice, we kept him with us full-time for as long as we could, and by choice we made sure he was never alone. At minimum, one of us was always with him.
He was seven when we first left him with a babysitter so we could take a walk together. It was mostly anxiety and guilt—and it stayed that way for years.
Only recently has he spent three-week periods at summer programs.
Alberto has always tried to show us that he's only truly comfortable with us, even though we know that most of the time he settles in and does well. But we mustn't forget: he understands far more than he seems to. He's aware of his surroundings and the people in them. He's deeply sensitive. This means, on one hand, something beautiful—a kind of dialogue made of glances, smiles, winks, and sounds. On the other hand, it means difficult moments: his reactions to things he dislikes, things that trouble or confuse him.
The joy of that first kind of communication brings as much anxiety as the second kind causes. Being away from us is a source of real psychological pain for him.
For this reason, I've long made a choice to spare him, as much as possible, anything that could add to the many challenges he already faces.
Even though Giacomo and I have reasoned carefully about the importance of preparing Alberto for his own future while we still have the strength and health to guide him through this change, part of me keeps returning to that decision—and it makes me feel guilty. I tell myself it would be traumatic for him, a real shock, to face such a radical change in life if we were suddenly gone. But that same part of me whispers that if Alberto could decide for himself, could speak, he would almost certainly say no—though afterward he'd likely have crises of various kinds.
I find some comfort in knowing he'll be in a "family" at Il Carro, with loving, warm people who are professionally trained and genuinely devoted to his wellbeing. It's the best solution we could have found. And we can visit him. We can spend time together. We can have him home with us often. But then I remember: he won't be here as he is now, ready to give me that big smile when I come through the door, or to scold me if something isn't right in his eyes. We won't say our evening prayers together, exchanging countless affections, only to greet each other with more love the next morning. Giacomo, though, seems more at peace. He believes it will all go well, without trauma of any kind.
There they are: the alternating thoughts and the feelings. Perhaps they're the same ones every parent knows when a child leaves the nest—except our son, though he's thirty-three years old, is still a child to me. A little older than he was, but not so much.
I bathe him, feed him, dress him as I did when he was small. He doesn't speak, but he loves affection as much as he ever did. Sometimes he has the same gestures he had then.
I will do everything I can to face what's ahead. I hope I'll manage, with God's help and the love of those who care for us.
Grazia Maria Conti Romanini, 2004
