Having a special child

What makes a child “special”?

Aren’t all children special to their mothers?

Before the accident, I already felt proud to have special children.

The twins are special because they’re so different and yet so similar. They’re opposites that complete each other. Their companionship, their way of teaching us to see life through the eyes of a child again — that makes them special.

And Oliver was special because he was the middle point, the “balance” of our family.

Since the day he was born, there was something about him that stood out: his smile, his gaze, his kindness — everything.

A few months ago, we returned to a “normal life.” We have a routine again, a daily rhythm. We no longer live in emergency mode, surviving out of a suitcase and on high alert. Now we have a home — a new and different one, but a home. The kids go to school, we eat at roughly regular times, I go grocery shopping.

It seems like the emergency stage is behind us, and the chaos of everyday life has taken its place.

But with this new normality came thoughts and observations that there hadn’t been room for before. I never thought about what it would be like to have a child with a disability. My three children were born healthy — and I don’t say that as a comparison or judgment, just as a fact. I never imagined what it means to have a child who lives differently, who is perceived differently by others.

Today that is our reality.

And I wish more people were aware of what that truly means. I’m not talking about pity or awkward stares — I’m talking about awareness, about empathy.

How do you talk to Oliver? How do you talk to us?

There is nothing “wrong” with him. He’s intelligent, curious, attentive — a two-year-old boy with thoughts, emotions, and dreams. Can’t he talk? Not yet. But I know kids without any injury who don’t talk at three years old either.

Can’t he walk? Not for now. We don’t know if he’ll ever walk again, but of course we’re trying with all our strength!

My son is no longer special only in my eyes — now he’s also special in the eyes of the world.

Oliver is a child in a wheelchair, dependent on a ventilator, surrounded by cables and machines. He speaks softly, he can’t move, and at first glance it seems like something is missing, as if something terrible happened.

But that’s only the first impression.

When you take a closer look, you quickly realize: Oliver is happier than many of us. His mind is wiser and clearer than you’d expect from a child, and his soul is free.

I admit it — it’s not an easy image.

I’ve gotten used to it, learned to look beyond the obvious. But people haven’t. They stare, they whisper, sometimes they smile with pity, sometimes with discomfort. And only now am I beginning to notice all of that — now that we go out again, mingle with people, include him once more in society.

It hasn’t been easy for our family and friends either. But they were closer, they lived through the change with us. The love they feel for Oliver and for all of us softens many of those looks.

The world is beginning to know his story, and the affection he receives is one of the reasons we keep going, keep fighting. But that doesn’t change the fact that many still see him differently.

Children ask out loud: “What happened to him?”, “Why does he have so many machines?”, “Why can’t he walk?” — and that’s fine. Kids are curious.

But adults? Shouldn’t we be the ones learning to look beyond?

Isn’t inclusion and equality one of the great themes of our time?

Everywhere we see campaigns — for women’s rights, for diversity, against social inequality.

So why is it still so hard to see beyond appearances?

I’m sure: you can learn more from Oliver in half an hour than in a whole year of theory.

Oliver is life, he is light. He’s living proof that limits exist only in our minds.

For him, they don’t.

Sometimes I wonder how I would act if I were in his place — and honestly, I know I wouldn’t be here. I don’t have his strength. My mind would’ve given up long ago.

But not Oliver. His age, his free spirit, and his big heart allow him to see obstacles not as barriers, but as challenges.

And children love challenges, don’t they?

I don’t know if Oliver remembers his life “before.” He loves watching photos and videos of himself. He laughs, asks to see more. But we don’t know what happens inside his mind. Maybe he remembers, maybe he feels it like a movie. How could he know that he used to do things he (still) can’t do now? And who’s to say he won’t do them again tomorrow? He already learned to walk once — why couldn’t he learn again?

As parents, we’ll never limit any of our three children. Julian and Sebastian know that anything is possible when done with heart and will. And it’s the same with Oliver. We don’t talk about paralysis, or “never,” or negativity in front of him.

Because if Oliver has taught us anything, it’s that nothing is written.

Some may say that having hope is irresponsible. That his injuries are too severe, that his neck vertebrae are broken. Yes, those are facts. But it’s also a fact that no one can explain why he’s still here. So why should we limit him if he’s already broken every limit imaginable?

Our daily life is not what we dreamed of. It’s hard, exhausting, different. But we are five. And that’s all that matters. I don’t even want to imagine where we’d be today if Oliver — in all those times he could’ve left us — actually had.

The responsibility is big: Feeding three kids isn’t the same as feeding two and one through a tube. Paying only for water and electricity isn’t the same as also paying for oxygen, medicines, and medical supplies. Planning just school schedules isn’t the same as coordinating nurses, therapies, and medical appointments.

I have a special child.

Actually, I have three special children.

Each in their own way.

Each with their own light.

All children are special.

Oliver is special beyond his physical disability. You can ask his nurses, his therapists, or any of his doctors: Oliver has a clear way of communicating, even with few words (though he’s talking more and more every day; he recently learned to say “Leopard” — what a difficult and funny word to learn, right?!). Oliver is a noble child; he worries when he sees someone who isn’t feeling well, he’s empathetic, loves animals, loves music, and loves his family. Oliver is the “perfect” patient: he tells us when he needs to be suctioned, and he never lies — even if that means discomfort.

Oliver is special.

Just like Sebastian is special — a child who, though small, has the soul of a giant, of a superhero. He doesn’t know fear, he’s brave and has an engineer’s mind like his dad: he likes to focus on details and is a perfectionist.

Julian is special, he’s the best friend anyone could have — loyal, affectionate, and full of charm.

I’m the mother of three special children. But today, that definition or distinction comes from the outside.

Oliver is “the special one” because of his disability — but he doesn’t know that.

He believes people look at him because he’s handsome — and that’s exactly what we’ve made him believe.

And that’s how it will stay. And it is actually true, isn't it?

His brothers are proud of him and of his fight.

And I’m proud — more than words can ever express — of all three of them.