Gianni never called them Mom and Dad, never spoke a tender word to them. Yet Valeria and Giulio gave him their entire lives. He came into the world profoundly disabled, with grave limitations that would only worsen over time. But he found a father, a mother, and a sister ready to love him with everything they had.
There were moments of despair. "I used to sit in the park and watch all those wheelchairs," Giulio recalls now, smiling, "and I'd think: why can't I swap mine for one of those?" There were the usual rounds of specialist consultations. After a brief hospitalization at Santa Maria della Pietà in the early 1950s—a stay that brought a definitive diagnosis and no hope for the future—Gianni belonged to his parents, his sister, and his grandfather, who adored him. No institution, no school ever took him in again. No one else ever cared for him, not even for a day. "We didn't like the facilities that existed back then, and honestly, it seemed pointless. We were afraid—afraid of his seizures. He was fine with us, and we were happy to be with him."
But you had to give up so much. Travel, entertainment... friendships.
Valeria smiles. "Yes, we did. We were adventurous before, you know. We loved to travel. Can you imagine—we came to Rome from Istria on our honeymoon for the first time in 1942, during the blackout. At the pensione they'd hide a thin slice of meat under the lettuce. And even after we married, we'd go skiing, dancing... before."
"And then, with Gianni to care for every single day, you couldn't do any of it anymore. None of the things you loved."
"It was our life," she says simply. "We accepted it. We told ourselves: Gianni is our son. He is as he is. We love him, and we will love him forever, exactly as he is."
Giulio doesn't seem to have many regrets, really. "We bought the car just for him, to take him on outings. In summer we'd go to Santa Marinella—we rented a lovely penthouse. We were happy. From the terrace we could enjoy the sea without even going down to the beach, and Gianni loved it so much."
Gianni is present during our conversation. He sits on the sofa next to his father, watching us intently, studying us as if trying to figure out who we are. Now and then, silently, he slips his arm under his father's and stays that way.
It was our life. We accepted it. We told ourselves: Gianni is our son. He is as he is. We love him, and we will love him forever, exactly as he is.
It was our life. We accepted it. We told ourselves: Gianni is our son. He is as he is. We love him, and we will love him forever, exactly as he is.His parents continue to speak about him.
"He's a sweet boy, so affectionate. He thanks us with his eyes for everything we do. He never has accidents. He's been like that since he was little. Even if we sometimes miss his bathroom time, he can control himself. He's good. We're grateful to him for that."
So no regrets, then. What are your fondest memories? The moments that stand out with him?
"His first Communion at Loreto, with friends from Fede e Luce... the bishop came, and then we had a celebration. It was beautiful. And there's another day I still remember as if it were yesterday, though so many years have passed. We used to do the drive back from Fiume in Istria to Rome all in one stretch. It was exhausting, but we were afraid of hotels and restaurants... people's stares. But one time we decided to stop. A friend suggested a little restaurant just past Bologna. We were looking for a corner table. You won't believe it—they seated us at the most beautiful table, right in the center of the room. They welcomed us with such kindness. And the lovely staircase to our room, the red runner, the banister... I remember every detail. We felt so good, and we hadn't expected it at all."
The years have passed. Many years. Gianni is no longer the thin, dark-eyed boy in those early photographs. He's a man now, a bit heavier than he was.
But his eyes are the same—beautiful and dark, innocent eyes. His mother, still straight and elegant, is nearly eighty. His father passed eighty long ago. And M., his beloved sister, who loved Gianni so much—she is gone. She smiles at us from a place of honor above the credenza, blonde and elegant in a photograph, and we hardly dare speak of this grief. But it's Vally who gently reminds us: "An illness. A bad one. Even after surgery she never complained. She didn't want to worry us any more. Gianni would sit by her bed, keep her company."
And now? Dear friends, you must think about what to do when you're no longer able to help him. Even now it's getting harder. What happens when one of you is gone? When neither of you is here anymore?
Vally and Giulio exchange a look, shake their heads, grow serious.
"That's the real difficulty: separating from Gianni, leaving him now, while we're still able to help? Impossible. As long as we can, we want to be the ones caring for him. After that... we'll see."
But no, we press them—you need to start now. It's better to do it while you're still able. You can choose what seems right for him: a facility or a family home. There are different options today. You'll be able to meet the people who will care for him. It's important to help Gianni get used to the new situation gradually, with your help.
Yes, it's all true, they agree. They seem to be on board now, but...
Vally goes quiet. She looks around: her beautiful bright home, the elegant furniture, the paintings, the photographs, the memories—everything Gianni has always known, his whole world. And the three of them together at the table, in front of the television, alone for so many years.
"We'll think about it. We'll think about it. But as long as we can manage on our own, there's no point."
Giulio looks up to the heavens, both discouraged and smiling. "It's always like this," he sighs. "If I work up the courage, she stops everything. If she finds the strength, I hold back. It's too hard. Too hard."
And yet, dear friends, you really must do this—learn about the options, make decisions. It's the last great act of love for Gianni. And he will be grateful to you for it. Deeply grateful.
- Tea Cabras, 2000
New Possibilities for Them
In recent years, large organizations like ANFFAS, Nostra Famiglia, and Sacra Famiglia have created and are planning new forms of residential care for seriously disabled adults. Long-established institutions like Don Guanella, Cottolengo, and San Giovanni di Dio have also rethought their approach to care and restructured their facilities to better respect privacy and create an atmosphere closer to a traditional home. It's worth looking into these options right away. In a future issue, we will provide more detailed information and data.