We always talk about mothers. Everyone understands a mother with a disabled child. Few talk about fathers, and fewer still think much about them.
But perhaps a father of a handicapped child suffers no less.
When two parents are not deeply connected, when the father doesn't engage with the child early on, he risks feeling shut out and helpless.
In Norway, there's a tradition that a son carries on the family name and takes up the weight of inheritance. These patterns run deeper in us than we like to admit.
Whatever success we've managed, despite everything, comes largely—in my view—from the fact that Dag Tore had two parents from the start.
Boys like him, with fragile and uncertain sense of self, need an intimate bond with their father in a special way. Dag Tore can ski. He has stamina in the mountains and the forest; he loves boats and rowing. He can split and saw wood. He learned all of this from his father, beginning in childhood.
His father and I have been able to take turns during the hardest stretches, making it easier not to lose heart. Sharing the same sorrows lightens the burden and deepens care.
But we are only halfway there.
From the book "Mon enfant qui ne parlait pas" (My Son Who Did Not Speak) by Tordis Orjasaeter — Ed. Ceri 1978, pp. 32–33. We hope to see this book soon translated and published in Italian.