Intense blue eyes, veiled by tears she was holding back; a bright smile with lips trembling slightly. Her hands gently rested on her lap, waiting.
"I'm fine, yes yes, I'm fine!"
We were about to say goodbye after a work meeting. I hesitated before asking what I felt I had to ask: "Is something wrong?"
How many times I've found myself caught in the middle—torn between the fear of intruding on someone's private world and an impulse I couldn't ignore. I know from experience that when we carry anxiety in our hearts, we hope only that someone will understand our silence. We want to speak but fear we won't be understood, that we'll cause useless gossip, that we'll only make things worse…
"Is something wrong?" I whisper, afraid I've imagined it all. "I had a check-up appointment. They said there might be something that could be a sign of an abnormality."
The tears are evident now, quickly brushed away. "My daughter could be upset if I'm worried. I hope they're wrong, but they seem so certain."
Now it's my turn to say something; something that doesn't want to come out. My own eyes cloud over. I embrace her with all the tenderness I can offer. I try to stammer: "Doctors can always be wrong. Let's hope." I ask her the name they've chosen for the baby. Such a beautiful name, full of meaning.
"Now we have to wait. It's not easy. And above all, the baby mustn't suffer because of it."
"And your husband?" Oh, he seems calm and not worried. "You know, he told me: we already love her so much. It just means if something happens, we'll love her even more."
In this year 2003, dedicated to people with disabilities, I've heard many things discussed; mostly technical solutions to improve the quality of life for our children and friends facing difficulties.
I wanted to speak up many times. I chose to stay silent knowing all too well that for those living it, a "special year" means nothing. Those who live it, live it forever, until the end. Many parents and those close to them know this—they face it every day: the frustrations, the weight, the misunderstandings, the hardships. They know that what we've been hoping for all these years is a true revolution from everyone, something that would ease the hardest burden to carry: the label, the definition that marginalizes from birth, the look of pity, the placement in spaces "for them," the neglect of their personhood, in short—the way we treat them as different people. If we all, young and old, approached them and welcomed them by their names, without measuring them against what we think is missing in them compared to us, their lives would be far easier. We would quickly see their worth.
And now we can only wait in trembling hope for the coming of Him to whom we ask, impatiently, to change the hearts and the eyes of all of us.
- Mariangela Bertolini, 2003