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Villa
Maria Concetta
I
am a brother too, and I want to tell you about my experience
with my sister Mimma even if it is a bit different from
yours. My name is Aldo, born in 1940 and Mimma was admitted
to a clinic in 1943, during the war.
Since
my earliest memories I can always recall a tragic and sorrowful
atmosphere in our house. I am the youngest of seven children
and I guessed, from my mother sighs, that a big sorrow was
being hidden to me. I had been told that my elder sister
was ill but nobody seemed to be able to tell me the name
of the disease, a ‘shameful’ disease apparently.
Then, at the age of about twelve or thirteen, after insistent
asking, I was allowed to visit Mimma in the clinic where
she had been admitted. I understood then. The word ‘schizophrenia’,
which I didn’t understand but whose effects I could
see in the flesh, came out.
Mimma
doubted if that tall skinny boy could be her little brother
who was taken away from her, the one that she wasn’t
allowed to meet anymore. She used to either address me with
lovely words or swear words of rejection at me. For years
I remembered I had in mind the strange eyes of those ill
people who were living with her. For years I went over again
and again the memory of the shock I had during our first
meeting. It was around the 1950s and hospitals hadn’t
yet started to use drugs for the treatment of mental conditions.
Mental hospitals used to be basically prisons where ill
people were tortured and treated like criminals. My sister
was living in a private clinic but I’ve heard about
the big public mental hospital in Rome, Santa Maria della
Pieta’. It was considered a place of horror, a real
hell.
I
grew up with a shadow inside me. I used to think everyone
else’s experiences were insignificant, compared to
the big tragedy that was inside me and my family. I rarely
asked anyone to take me to visit my sister, and even less
I thought of going alone. The fact I didn’t have a
driving licence, was perhaps a good excuse not to go and
visit her. I even found excuses with myself not to buy a
car. I have worked since I was very young, so I could have
afforded one if I’d wanted. It was a fight against
consumerism… At the end though I understood what the
problem was and took a decision.
I was then full of good intentions, I wanted to help other
people, I wanted to be a social worker in prisons, maybe
a priest. Nevertheless I knew, deep inside myself, what
my first duty was, the simplest and closest one: being close
to my sister, trying to help her by building up part of
her family around her. Finally (and apparently without making
a formal decision) I started to go and visit her every Sunday
as soon as I got a car. My former partners, my friends and
especially my wife (to whom I am extremely grateful) have
always known that I am definitely not available on Sunday
afternoons. I have been close to my sister. Years ago doctors
said to me “Mimma will become introverted and into
herself, in an autism without love. She will rock backwards
and forwards continuously: this will be her only activity.
Be prepared.”
What
rubbish! We have been speaking everyday on the phone now
for years. I used to bring her dozens of telephone tokens
(I wanted he to be free and call me whenever she wanted
to do so).
I bought her subscriptions to magazines that she used to
read regularly, even following episodes of the same fiction.
I got her a television and a radio, too. Above all, though,
I took her out every Sunday, regularly. I even bought her
loads and loads of old music records and tapes, that she
used to love.
When she was younger, before being admitted to the clinic,
she used to love cinema, theatre, poetry and reading. That’s
why I started to bring her to the cinema, to the theatre
and once even to the Opera House in Rome, where we sat in
the most important box, to see “La Boheme”.
Her joy was mine. We went also to restaurants and bars where
everyone seemed to accept her as a normal person. Besides,
when I was a child I used to play with her wooden box full
of necklaces, earrings and rings, I tried to recreate her
passion and bought this kind of jewellery for her. On top
of that, I managed to buy lots of very fashionable clothes
for her in spite of her big size (due to the medicines she
was taking). I was told by people working at the clinic,
that she used to change clothes as much as three times a
day.
I
could buy all these things for her also because I was her
guardian. I don’t want to write here about the misunderstandings
and pains that I suffered because of the Judge for Guardianship
who even accused me of stealing the money I spent on my
sister. I did my best to make him understand that I was
Mimma’s brother and our siblings agreed with my choices
and that, at the end of the day, Mimma’s “asset”
came from the family… We were always under control
and checks were usually made by those untrustworthy people
from whom we were trying to protect our sister. Sorry if
I haven’t been clear but this subject makes me lose
my temper.
Now Mimma is 80 years old and she can’t see very well.
The optometrist has told us that one of the earlier drugs
she was taking (whose side effects were mainly unknown at
the time of the treatment) have caused a deterioration of
her retina. For this reason she can’t either read
or make a telephone call. At one point she was very ill,
and we thought she was going to die, but luckily it was
just drug poisoning. Now she is well and she has got a nurse
to care and nurture her for a few hours each day. Above
all, with ups and downs, she lives a tranquil life: she
is sweet and lovely.
I can’t say how much I loved being close to Mimma.
I can’t even say how helping other people can also
be selfish (but are other people our “unlucky”
relatives?) because everything is given back to us, a hundred
times over.
Aldo
3rd March 2003
Our experience
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