When you have a child with special needs, you go through an ongoing and inevitable journey. There are no shortcuts or lessons to be learned from others. This journey often involves denial, grief, and the loss of a life that could have been. Time partially heals and forces you to adapt to a different life than the one you had imagined. Like a phoenix, you discover hidden strengths within yourself.
Initially, you hide and feel ashamed, but then you realize there’s no shame in being a parent who becomes a magician, working miracles and bringing the moon for your child. The will to live surpasses everything, an endless struggle. You learn to appreciate the smallest moments of immense happiness that others may consider insignificant. I wouldn’t wish a child with special needs to anyone, not even my enemies. It is a continuous challenge, sometimes exhausting, but never dull.
The constant uncertainty of what the future holds hangs like a cloud. Yet, amidst the difficulties, this child teaches you the true meaning of love, to be proud of every small and big step they take. It’s impossible to explain the overwhelming love they ignite within you. They become your emotional barometer. When they’re good, you’re good. When they struggle and can’t explain the source of their distress, you’re consumed by darkness.
You find yourself creating regular rituals of special quality time with your child, moments you yearn for and cherish. It’s like being in your own bubble, experiencing fleeting moments of pure bliss. In those moments, you know you’ve won, and you feel fortunate. As a father, I’ve been privileged to have my eldest daughter, Dana, and my son-in-law, Ido, stand by me as my own children. They left the nest to build a home in Israel. Dana’s siblings, Yotam and Keren, aged 27 and 28, will always be our babies.
A time to mourn
During times of war, I save lives every day, dedicating long hours to treatments, ensuring oxygen reaches the lungs of bereaved and missing families, and alleviating the unbearable pain of tragic deaths. Anyone who isn’t worried during times of war is out of their mind. They fail to grasp the importance of helping the public survive the challenging period between alarms. And every exhausting working day, I eagerly await those two hours of grace when I pick up my low-functioning autistic children from home for a purposeless nighttime drive. It’s a daily date. In the background, we always have Hebrew songs playing, because that’s what they love. In these moments, they protect me as much as I protect them. Sometimes, there are difficult episodes, but mostly, there are small moments of magic. This is when I recharge and fill myself with positive energy.
Nothing brings me greater happiness. You’ll never understand, and that’s perfectly fine. This column is not written by a doctor or psychiatrist but by a humble father whose thoughts have not wavered for the past few days, as he mourns the loss of Eric Peretz and his daughter Ruth. Ruth is a remarkable 16-year-old girl with special needs, suffering from muscular dystrophy and cerebral palsy, confined to a wheelchair.
(credit: according to Article 27 A of the Copyright Law, SOCIAL MEDIA)
Ruth has difficulty eating normally and relies on stomach feeding. She is disabled and paralyzed. Just like Yotam and Keren, she communicates using only basic words understood by her family, much like us.
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People who knew Eric and Ruth spoke of the joy they found in spending quality time together. But what they loved most was listening to music and dancing.
They went to that tragic party together because it brought Ruth immeasurable happiness. Eric had been taking Ruth to these parties for years because they made her feel good.
Sometimes, they didn’t want to leave the party. It didn’t matter if they were perceived as different while they danced to the music blasting from the speakers. That’s how it feels when you’re truly happy. Thoughts of them never left my mind when they were reported missing. All parents of children with special needs refused to give up hope. It struck our deepest fear—the fear of a parent for a child who cannot care for themselves and relies on adult intervention.
Were they taken to Gaza? How will Ruth survive? How terrified was she amid the terrorists’ gunfire and chaos? Did she even understand what was happening?
The days are dwindling, and time in this dire situation does not bode well. Then, a piece of news arrived, prompting a great and bitter cry, a sensation that the world was coming to an end.
At ten o’clock at night, I found myself in the car with Yotam and Keren, aimlessly driving around. Since that fateful Sabbath, not only had the regular education system ceased, but special education had also come to a halt. The State of Israel, sadly, had failed to adequately protect these institutions from the beginning, adding to the list of scandals regarding evaluations and future planning within the system.
For two weeks now, Yotam and Keren have been left without rehabilitation programs. They are confined to the house, slowly losing their minds.
Tonight, I played them the song “Hey Shekta” in the car, written by Rachel Shapira and composed by Yehuda Polykar. As Ricky Gal’s voice filled the car, the three of us couldn’t hold back our tears. We cried for the father and daughter who only desired happiness and a chance to dance. May their memory be blessed.
Little over two weeks ago, the young women had been scattered across the world, enjoying a beach lifestyle.Having completed their military service the friends had embarked upon a rite of passage for many young Israelis: the post-army backpacking trip.Anat, not her real name, had been in Bali, Indonesia. Her friend, Nurit, again not her real name, had been in Perth, Australia.Their carefree days ended on Oct 7 as they had watched reports of massacres in their homeland after Hamas gunmen […]
