For days on end, my mother could think of nothing but Anna Lapper. You may remember her: a few years back, her enormous statue—phocomelic and pregnant—dominated Trafalgar Square and the public conversation. It caused a scandal (it was striking, let's be honest) that a woman with such obvious physical disability would display a swollen belly and the disarming strength of a motherhood that was joyful and powerful regardless.
After my mother broke the humerus of her left arm in an accident, she found herself completely unable to care for my newborn sister. For days, all she could think about was how Anna Lapper, phocomelic and determined, had built her relationship with her own son. Because without the use of your dominant arm, you cannot do anything for a baby. Change a diaper, for instance; bring your infant close to nurse; rock her even for a moment.
Motherhood, as we know, involves a good measure of physicality. But perhaps, my mother reflected, physicality is not only about holding your child in your arms, offering traditional cuddles, gently changing a diaper, or carefully bathing her. Perhaps there is also a physicality of the gaze, of listening, the caress of a word spoken with care, the embrace of a full and genuine smile. Thinking of Anna Lapper gave her strength. It gave her hope. A strength that came also from so many people around us. My newborn sister is lively as a roller coaster—practically never sleeps—so my father needed not only days off work but also help. And beyond caring for the baby, someone had to look after my mother too (I manage on my own by now). So my grandmother came. My aunts came. But also many friends—young and older—and a few men friends. "What a blessing," my mother thought, "not to be alone." Most of these people, my mother and father had met through Fede e Luce, or by way of Fede e Luce. Think about that.
A few weeks later, my mother began physical therapy—far from home. No driving (she couldn't). No buses (for a long time she didn't feel safe). No scooter (obviously!). So she walked. My mother crossed Rome back and forth, that crazy woman. She even took a longer route: why? Because that way, for days and days, she passed the building where Stefano Di Franco lives—our Captain. He's a few floors up now, it's true. But walking past his door was still a way to greet him. And to say thank you to Fede e Luce, that wonderful circle in which I understand less and less who helps whom.
Giulia Galeotti, 2017