Over the past quarter-century and more, through my work, I have met all sorts of people: murderers, missionaries, medics, mechanics. Many are simply birds of passage: you meet them, you interact for a period of time, then they’re off life’s radar. Many return, only to disappear again – until the next time. Each, in his and her own way, will leave his or her infinitesimally small mark even though you’re bound to forget most of them in time.
One man, however, I will always remember.
Let’s say his name is Charles – mainly because it isn’t. Charles - who is only semi-literate - earned his crust labouring away in some government department or other, and augmented his meagre takings by working a small patch of agricultural land. When I met him, he was married and had two children. His wife was in hospital – and had been for some time - due to some form of what, two decades ago, used to be called organic brain syndrome. For the unitiated, it’s a set of psychiatric or neurological symptoms such as confusion, anxiety, and depression, or difficulties with memory attention, and concentration, caused by damage to brain. Very often it is not quite curable.
When Charles and his wife had married, almost twenty years previously, there had been no inkling of what was to come. He was strong and gentle; she was pretty and loving. They lived briefly in Canada, then came back to Malta hoping that the symptoms of "depression" Pauline was exhibiting would go away once she was back in her village of birth. Aged three, their first child - a boy - had been diagnosed with autism.
The "depression" worsened, and young Charles had his hands full coping with a sick wife and a child who suffered from a condition few people understood at the time, while having to work to provide for them. Her family "helped" but they too were at a loss as to how best to support Pauline, whose behaviour veered from the difficult to the utterly irrational. Somebody "counselled" them that what Pauline required was the gratification of her maternal instinct: to have another child. So, somewhat against Charles' better judgment, they had their second child - a girl. She, too, was soon diagnosed as autistic.
A lesser man might have given up, but Charles decided that there was only one way forward: total and complete dedication to his family. Life consisted of work and caring for his ailing wife and his two autistic children: bathing them, shopping, cooking and trying to make sure that the children would not harm themselves, or the older child hurt his sister or mother. There were no friends, no hobbies, no social life.
Somehow, for a few years, he coped. Then, heart-broken, he had to accept that his first-born, then aged ten, would have to be admitted to Mount Carmel Hospital. Being relieved of the burden of doing the little she could for their son, he was told, might just enable his wife to get better. In fact her conditioned worsened.
Then, and only then, was the organic origin of Pauline's symptoms discovered. Pauline was suffering from a degenerative condition, and as it worsened the little girl had to be admitted into a home. So the daily schedule changed for Charles: it was work, home to cook for himself and his wife, then a drive to the home to visit his daughter and another drive to hospital to see his son. Every day of the week, rain or shine, he would visit his children then go back home, do the housework, make sure Pauline ate her dinner, then retire to bed ...
Inevitably, the day came when it was not safe for Pauline to remain at home. She, too, had to be admitted to Mount Carmel, and again Charles' routine changed: one and a half hours daily visiting one child, a twenty minute drive to hospital, one and a half hours with the his older child and one and half hours with Pauline. Every day.
His daughter was fairly well looked after in the Church home, while Pauline received excellent treatment at Mount Carmel. His son, on the other hand, was prescribed vast doses of medication in order to calm him down - with the best of intentions no doubt - but the boy became even more withdrawn than ever. He developed a condition which threatened to blind him. The father was at his wits' end, helplessly witnessing his son losing possibly the only faculty nature had left intact.
Then, the Government's services for people with disability were set up. The boy was plucked out of hospital, moved into one of their homes and weaned off most of the medication. He was given professional behavioural therapy in a caring environment. As an adult he is now able to carry out basic functions and is much brighter than he has ever been. The eyesight problem has practically disappeared. The father still visits, but no longer daily – he has been advised it would be counter-productive. So now, Charles devotes more time and energy to his wife and daughter and, the last time I saw him, he must actually have taken a break of some sort from a life dedicated to his children - he was at Saint Vincent de Paule visiting his mother-in-law!
I often ask myself what I would have done had my family been afflicted with the same sort of problems Charles' family was, and still is. Would I have been able to withstand all that misfortune? Would I have had the selflessness to dedicate my life to the degree required? I doubt it. The more I become aware of my own shortcomings, the more I appreciate the greatness of this simple, unassuming and gentle father.
He would be astounded to know what an inspiration he has been, to so many.
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