A year ago I met Tolya. This five-year-old boy lived in an infant box. He barely fit in his tiny bed and, to have more freedom, he stuck his legs through the bars. He could not be transferred to a box for older children: the doctors believed that he needed bars to prevent him from falling. And there are bars on the beds only in boxes for “babies”.

So, almost a year passed behind bars. He even liked it - he didn’t know any other life.
Cerebral palsy and blindness are for life. He was born this way. At first it seems that it is impossible to live like this. And then you see how he struggles, every day. With metal bed bars that prevent him from being free. With an inexperienced nurse who spoon feeds him too quickly. With bathing in the bathroom, which he hates because it seems like a whole world full of dangers and is so different from a tiny bed.

At first I thought that he was completely motionless, and I was afraid to turn him over - his arms and legs seemed so thin and fragile.

Then the nurses asked him to give him a bath. He was afraid of the world around him and felt protected only in his bed. But when he screamed and struggled in my arms, I realized that there was a lot of strength in this sick child. And abilities too. He understood everything I said and caught intonations. He even sang along, without words, to the beat. He especially loved the children's song “Past the White Apple of the Moon...”. As soon as a familiar tune was heard, he began to swing his legs behind bars and smiled slyly.

We are used to each other. He happily walked into his arms. This is important: at first he did not let anyone near him, and when they took him out of bed, he screamed loudly and indignantly.
I got so used to him that I suddenly realized that I only go to the hospital to see him. Having put on a robe, mask and gloves, I first ran to the third box. After changing him and feeding him, she went to other children, but in the evening she returned again and sat until he fell asleep.

“They found him at home, he was lying there alone and screaming at the top of his lungs,” the older sister once explained. - So he was “seized.” Mom never came"

We are used to each other. He happily walked into his arms. This is important: at first he did not let anyone near him, and when they took him out of bed, he screamed loudly and indignantly.

I got so used to him that I suddenly realized that I only go to the hospital to see him. Having put on a robe, mask and gloves, I first ran to the third box. After changing him and feeding him, she went to other children, but in the evening she returned again and sat until he fell asleep.

When I went on business trips, I missed this Sunday sick day and Tolya.
Once I asked a nurse why he had been in the hospital for so long and was not transferred to an orphanage. Still, the conditions in the hospital are not the same, and there are no teachers for people like him. And we need to work with him. He could even learn to sit in bed: this is not a case of cerebral palsy when the child is doomed to immobility. It seems to me that he could have spoken. Because he heard me well and made sounds.

“You don’t even know what will happen to him in the nursing home,” said the nurse. - He will lie alone in his bed. At least you go here. And you won't be able to lift it. It’s too late - it should have been done since birth.
Then I found out that Tolina’s mother was registered somewhere (either drugs or alcohol) and her license was temporarily revoked. There seems to be a father, but either he is not his own, or, as they say here, he is asocial.

“They found him at home, he was lying there alone and screaming at the top of his lungs,” the older sister once explained. - So he was “seized.” Mom never came." “Seized” is the favorite word of our social authorities. There are many “seized” children in our hospital. But Tolya is special. He was the only one who stayed here for almost a year. Then I found out that my mother tried to get him back - she sought restoration of his rights.

“Seized” is the favorite word of our social authorities. There are many “seized” children in our hospital. But Tolya is special. He was the only one who stayed here for almost a year.

And then Tolya was “taken away” from us. I came to the hospital - the bed was empty. The nurse snapped: “Mom took it because of the money, she lives on his allowance.”

She, however, knows better, and behind the apparent cynicism there are many years of thinking about these small destinies.
I wanted to visit him, but the hospital has strict rules: you can’t give out other people’s addresses. I did ask once, but the nurse, barely looking at me, said: “They brought him here three times, they will bring him the fourth time - he won’t stay at home.”

Two months have passed, and the bed is still empty - although new children are brought in every week. I tell myself that everything is fine with him, that the family is calm. The mother knows that he likes to be fed slowly. He knows that he loves to sing without words - and then easily falls asleep. And that you only need to bathe if there is a diaper on the bottom of the bathtub. Maybe she even knows that he likes "Past the White Apple Moon" now.
I understand that a home is always better than no home. That the hospital is not a good place. But every time I start my day there with the third box. I guess I'm still waiting for him.

Past the white apple moon