«My name is Luca Atzori and I was a flamingo child»

«My name is Luca Atzori, I was born in England on 11 November 2010.

From my surname you will understand that I have Sardinian origins because my father was born in Sant'Antioco, his name is Antonello, but here in Birmingham they can't pronounce it, and therefore for everyone it is "Tony". My mother, on the other hand, is called Zoe, she is English, she is a teacher and takes care of children with autism spectrum problems and disabilities. They are two special parents, who also gave me two sisters: Ella, older than me, is 15 years old. And then there's Francesca, 8.

Mom and dad met in 2005, and three years later they got married in Sant'Antioco.

In November 2010 I arrived, the pregnancy was regular, everything was in order, as the doctors said. A healthy, strong baby.

The following summer we went on holiday to Sardinia. My father's aunt picked me up, I was a bit chubby to be honest, and said “That's strange, something's wrong. Luca doesn't react well to stimuli." And he knew about children, because he had had several children. My parents didn't give much weight to these words, however, when they returned home, they started thinking about giving me some visits.

I was only one year old when one day I felt sick. I'm not sure what kind of illness it was, but the ambulance people told my mother that it could be an epileptic fit. My father arrived at that moment. I didn't understand, I saw the concern in their eyes, but the doctors reassured them. Afterwards there were other episodes: back and forth from the hospital for several months. Many many tests to understand what I had.

Until a doctor ordered a particular procedure: a biopsy, they took a part of the muscle from my leg. That's when he knew for sure: I was suffering from Tay Sachs syndrome. It is a genetic disease, very rare and hereditary, which affects the nerves and prevents any development. My father is a carrier of it and – a more unique than rare case – my mother too, but they only discovered all this after the tests. At that time there were only two cases in England: me and another child.

That's why I didn't speak, I didn't crawl, over time I even lost my sight.

The diagnosis shocked the entire family. I have heard that children with my disease are usually not born, a miscarriage stops their heart, or they die at just a few months old. This is why it is rare, there are very few living cases.

As the weeks went by I got worse and worse. An institute, Acorns Children's Hospice, helped us a lot. They put a small room at our disposal and the many specialized operators took care of me. They cuddled me, bathed me, even took me to the paddling pools. Eating had become a problem for me, they had to feed me with a tube. My parents could stay as long as they wanted, my mother read me lots of fairy tales, and in the evening if I was well they took me home.

I've seen them cry, sometimes they still do so now. Even if they try to move forward, there is no going back that far. My father then had a wonderful idea, dedicated to me: since during the lockdown he couldn't work either as a garden maintenance worker and designer or as a manager in restaurants, he turned into a pizza chef, like when he was in Sardinia. He made pizzas at home and then sold them to neighbors. And evidently he's good because he's got his own place, it's called “Your Flamingo”. Inside he has furnished it with many references to Sardinia, there is even a Gianfranco Zola shirt.

Flamingo in English means flamingo, that's what they called me. Because flamingos apparently have my illness too. In that pizzeria today, part of the profits are donated to the Acorns Children's Hospice, the one that cared for me with such dedication.

Do you know what my father does? He also wrote it on the menu: for every pizza sold he donates 22 cents. And it's not a random number: I was born on 11/11 and died on 2/2. I would have liked to play, learn to walk, go to nursery, to nursery, and then to school, to the park with my friends. Instead, on February 2, 2013, I was in my father's arms when I said goodbye to him forever. They tell my little sisters that I have become a star. They come to visit me at the cemetery, they bring me a flower, at home there are my games and my photos. They talk about me, and I wish they would now do it with a smile because their generosity can help other children.

Solidarity, doing good for others are values that my parents now teach to my sisters. I watch them from up here."