The elevator

Italian

With a loud thump the large duffle bag struck the pavement.

The young woman dragging it was studying the buttons on the control panel
when the sliding doors separated and the elevator opened. An old woman using
crutches exited, followed by an elderly man who smiled broadly with straight
white teeth.

The young woman stepped aside, exchanging the bright smile of the man, then lifted the bag and entered the cabin where she carelessly dumped the bag on the floor. Pushing the button for the third floor and waiting for the door to close, she thought about how slow hospital elevators always were.

As the doors began to slide shut, a woman's hand appeared from the outside. “Wait a minute...”  a voice on the other side said. The sliding doors opened and a girl appeared,
breathless.  She had neither hair nor eyebrows, and her face was a grayish color.  She
wore a gym suit, but it was easy to see the girl's thinness.

She was breathing heavily after her race. “Thank-you! It's the third time I've tried. When it's possible to return home, who knows why it is always rushed. I am going to the third floor.”
“Me too.” replied the girl with the duffle bag.

Leaving the ground floor, and the pale sun of the Spring morning, the elevator began its
slow rise to the Oncology Center.  But, just after the first floor, there was a shake and the elevator halted. The internal light blinked a few times then turned off completely.

“Oh, God. It's stopped!” exclaimed the girl with the bag.

“Yes, it seems so, and there isn't even an emergency light...”

Moments of darkness and silence...

The girl with the bag searched her pockets and pulled out her mobile phone, and the whiteness of its display gave a spectral atmosphere to the cabin. “There's no signal!” she exclaimed after wandering for a few instants in the four angles of the small space, trying to find a connection.

Then, directing that weak torch toward the elevator buttons, and finding the red symbol of the emergency bell, she pushed it hard, insistently.

The electric tone of an alarm echoed in the entry halls of all the hospital, even though inside the dark cocoon of the cabin they could barely hear it.

The girl with the bag tried to be reassuring: “That's the alarm. Now they'll come to liberate us.”

The other one replied “I was doing the last trip up and down, before going home. My phone is in the car and my husband is waiting for me there. I hope that they can get us out of here fast, because I have no way to advise him and...”

She was interrupted by a metallic voice coming from the control panel: “We've received your call and are working to unblock the elevator. Are you ok?”
“Yes, but we're in the dark” answered the girl with the bag.
“Maybe the emergency batteries are not charged” said the voice, “How many of you are in there?”
“Two, she responded. “The husband of one of us is waiting in the parking lot.”
“It won't take too much time and the elevator is secure. Just wait.”

“OK, but hurry!” answered the girl, taking on the role of speaker for her companion
in mis-adventure.

She turned on the display of her telephone and pointed it downward.
“My bag is full of clothes, so it's comfortable. Let's sit on it.”

The two women sat down close to each other on the gigantic duffle bag and leaned against the metal walls of the cabin.

“My name is Chiara” the girl with the bag introduced herself.  “I'm Alessia” replied the girl who had lost her hair.
“I'm going up to Hematology” explained Chiara, “because yesterday they told me that I have Leukemia.”

Alessia hesitated a moment then began to speak: “I'm so sorry. I am recovering from an acute Leukemia. I had a bone marrow transplant a little over a month ago, and now I'm returning home. Or at least I hope so.” She concluded with a tight smile. Her expression was tired and listless, but she tried not to appear in too much difficulty.

Again, the display of the cell phone switched off.  “You can turn it off if you like, added Alessia.

Inside that temporary obscurity, the two young women began to talk and compare experiences. Curiously, the darkness eliminated most of the normal barriers typical between two people who don't know each other.

“How did you discover that you had Leukemia?” asked Chiara.

“One night I fainted” answered Alessia.  “I had never fainted before, in my entire life. I had pneumonia and could not recover. Fainting was a sure signal that there was a problem, that things were not going well. So, the next day my husband brought me to the Emergency Room.  They did a blood test then admitted me immediately. And you?”

Chiara answered: “For several days I felt weak and had trouble even standing up. I had blood tests and, considering the results, this morning in the Emergency Room they told me that I have Leukemia and need to be admitted. I raced home to pack this bag. I live alone. I couldn't suddenly remain here.

Chiara was full of doubts and questions; she had no idea what was going to happen in her life in the coming days.  “What's it like to stay in the hospital? I've never been in one, except to visit a friend who'd had an accident, two years ago.”

“At first I felt horrible” said Alessia. “The infection in my lungs provoked a high fever. I understood little of what was happening around me. Then, with time I got to know the doctors and nurses. I promise you that they are special people. I have a wonderful friendship with some of them. The therapies are long and difficult. I won't hide that from you. But, if you are able to maintain your optimism you can handle anything.”

“Alessia” said Chiara, “I'm a positive person, even if I usually create confusion. I live on impulses and generally I lose” she smiled. “So much that I live alone. But I certainly don't lack optimism!”

“Hey, they'll often tell you that with the right attitude the medications function better” replied Alessia, who was mentally revisiting the most difficult phases of her recovery “and you'll discover how true that is.”

Waiting inside the elevator was becoming longer than predicted. But, it wasn't so unpleasant now. That time of great confidence and sharing was good for both of the girls, and eliminated part of their accumulated tensions. For one of them it was about the anxiety of returning home, and for the other for the entry into a new phase of her life, one which was totally unfamiliar to her.

“Did you ever lose hope?” asked Chiara with a hint of worry about the possibility of an affirmative reply.

“I had some very difficult moments” answered Alessia.  “I asked myself how I ever could have overcome them. But, I never thought that I wouldn't make it.” Alessia's voice softened,
“Stefano, my husband, was always next to me. He was a formidable support. I have to say that without him it would have been imposs...” Alessia hesitated, thinking of Chaira and the fact that she was alone. She was afraid of being offensive. “Chiara, excuse me. I didn't mean that...”

“Don't worry” the other girl interrupted. “Having a loved one next to you is undoubtedly a great help and comfort. I often think of my Mother, who has been my Guardian Angel for the last three years.  She'll know how to protect me from up there.”

That young person created a feeling of tenderness for the way in which she knew how to turn her world into something positive. Alessia thought that Chiara could never imagine what she'd have to affront there, in the near future. But she realized that Chiara's optimism would be an enormous help.

Once more, the metallic voice of the technician was heard. “We're ready. Now, we'll make the elevator return to the ground floor, then we'll open the doors.”

And, with a jolt, the elevator began to descend.
Alessia turned on the display of the telephone. Chiara's eyes were bright and they exchanged glances of understanding.

They helped each other to get up from the duffle bag and waited for a few minutes, then the sliding doors of the elevator finally began to open and the light of day struck the two girls, who blinked and covered their eyes with their hands against the brightness.

Timidly, they took a few steps to exit the cabin and found the technician welcoming them, along with two nurses, who assured themselves that the two girls were fine.

Alessia asked to borrow Chiara's cell phone.

“Stefano. It's me. I was blocked in the elevator, but now the technician has freed it. Yes, I'm ok. I still have to go upstairs. Wait for me. As soon as I finish, I'll be there. OK. Ciao. Bye.”

She returned the phone to Chiara and turned to her: “Chiara, I promised myself that I would never again return to this hospital if it was not necessary. However, if you'll allow me to be your friend, I'll come to visit you every moment that I can.”

Chiara, slightly embarrassed, said “I... but certainly!”

Both of them smiled and hugged. In that tight embrace they found fear and comfort, anxiety and serenity, darkness and light, pain and joy. And the reciprocal desire to do something good for each other.

It was the beginning of a grand new friendship.

Downward

Italian

Falling, falling...
The flight is disorderly.  I struggle, but can't find anything to grasp, and I fall...
There is no light; I see nothing, or perhaps something has blinded me.
There is no sound; I hear nothing, or perhaps something has deafened me.

I don't know what I left behind, and don't know where I'll end up.
Downward, head first.
My eyes open, searching for a signal. There is none: only dark and the precipice.
In my contortions, the flight now finds me face down,  further, always further downward.

The sensation that I am going to crash is strong.  I imagine my body in slow motion, one piece at a time making contact with the ground. First my elbow, then my wrist, and the shoulder. Then the head, followed by my pelvis. Finally, legs.
The noise of the bones breaking: a cruel crackling that I hear loud inside me.
Then, the taste of blood in my mouth. Hot rivers which flow from my nose and ears...
A sense of dizziness  fills my head... the eyelidslower... abandonment...

I  shake myself! I am still here, and I'm still falling, or at least this is what I believe...

There is a great sense of solitude. I tighten my fists until they hurt; I have  to prove to myself that I'm still alive, that I exist.
With my fists tightened until they shake, I open my mouth and begin to scream.
Yes! I can hear my own voice. And feel the pain in my hands tortured by my contracted nerves.

I am a tense and screaming figure, falling dizzily in the darkest black.

Or, better,  in obscurity. Perhaps there is a vague reverberation of light, a slight, diffused, blurry glimmer in the distance... a horizon which is slightly less dark.

A clear line becomes silhouetted in the distance, from left to right. Intense, ever more intense.
Then it becomes larger and rises into a ray of light invading my vision and blinding me.

A sound I recognize  comes closer and fills my ears... it is my voice and I am screaming.



My forehead is sweaty. I am waiting until my eyes become accustomed to the light, which, after all, is not so bright.  In fact, it is just a diffused blue-ish gleam.

My voice's echo disappears... I turn my head... I am laying down and the bed is that of the transplant unit. The gleam is only the night light. I am alone.

The sheets are pushed away  and tubes stick out of my chest, then, after a brief  journey, they arrive at a trestle on the left.

I was dreaming, it seems, dreaming of falling and this is not surprising, considering what is happening to me. The reality of that dream is striking.
Once more I can feel that dismay and the terrible loneliness.

It's time to get out of bed. My bladder is urgent again. What hour is it?
Three-fifteen in the morning. Only forty minutes have passed since the last time.

I throw my legs down, and find myself balancing, seated on the edge of the bed.
Touching my bare feet on the ground, I search for my slippers and at the same time detach the needle from the pump feeding it, which is operating with a battery.

I get up, and with a tired step drag myself towards the bathroom.  I have to use vinyl gloves... ah, here's the box of them.

Hurrying, because the pressure on my bladder is ever more urgent.
Finally, I take the container and can free myself from that pressure.

Two hundred. I have to remember that.
Forgetting the measurement has already happened...

Flush. Take the gloves off. I wash my hands and... there is my face in the mirror.
I have no hair. My eyes are dark and sunken and my expression is gray and tired.
My shoulders are small and boney. I wonder if I'll ever be the same as  before.

I wash my hands, push the trestle next to the bed, then I put the feed back in place.

On a small table I find a piece of paper and a pen, and I write the new quantity at the end of a long column... 200.
Finally, I return to bed, taking care that the tubes don't become folded.

Turning towards the pillow, as always I repeat to myself out loud: “I can do it. I can do it. I can do it!”

Then I close my eyes. Always there,  I feel like a soldier standing at attention, waiting for who knows what event to happen.
The bone marrow transplant has already been done.
In fact, all I have to do now is wait and hope.
I have to drag myself ahead in the minutes, in the hours, the days...
I must. I must...



… and I collapsed.  I felt into a deep and desperate sleep.
A necessary, indispensable sleep. Even knowing that in half an hour I had to get up and repeat the entire process again.

Occasionally I have this dream.
Starting with the dream within a dream: that free falling flight, from the unknown to the unknown.

If I have to find sense in it all, I believe that it comes from the fact that fear is part of life. It's impossible to exclude it.
But however it might surround us, there always will be the moment in which we stand up and do what must be done.
How tired or afraid we are doesn't matter all.

Never being afraid isn't courage. It is unconsciousness.
Courage is going ahead, despite the fear.

15 meters

Italian

Too  many times, by now, I have found myself at the bottom of the well, and had to climb back  up.

The first time was the worst. I didn't even know that I could go so far down and then emerge again.

The second was difficult too, and I attached my hopes to the fact that I'd already made it once.

The times afterward were easier, because I was already familiar with  the road.

But, I still can't get used to it.
Down there, I  feel cold and solitary. I realize that to rise again I have only my own strength to count on.

Ironically, my path now travels through a cycle of hyperbaric oxygen therapy.
Now I make this trips, to the bottom and back again, twice a day...

At the pressure of 15 meters below sea level I can feel every breath of oxygen introducing new life, and that my every molecule receives a part.

With all this oxygen inside, my body has to rise again. Lighter, healthier, stronger.

This is the meaning: the darkest, most profound abyss is where evil is defeated and new hope drags me to the surface.

Boldness

Italian

He was one of the great ones.
The cigarette always in his hand.
He loved to talk about himself.
And saw everything from on-high.

He dressed elegantly.
Appreciated fine cooking.
He didn't turn his nose up at BBQ.
And drank only the best wine.

He had a luxury car.
And a motorcycle in the Summer.
Sporty just right.
With always a careful eye towards his look.

He did give in to vices.
And had tattoos on his claves.
He was worried about baldness.
And always had new sun glasses.

But suddenly he discovered that he was human.
He found that he wasn't made of steel.
Something broke.
He became speechless.

He began rethinking his life,
at the stupidity of his gestures.
He was sorry for his idiocy.
His pride vanished.

"What can I do, doctor?
I'm thinking of my son, my baby, my wife...
I had such a stupid life!
Is there a remedy? A way to make my future brighter?
... please, where did I put my lighter?"

Who says so?

Italian

Who says that warriors do not exist?
There are a multitude of warriors!

Who says that warriors are all men?
There are many women warriors.

Who says that warriors are organized in brigades?
Solitary warriors do exist.

Who says that warriors wear suits of armour?
I know warriors who are shoeless and covered only by their underwear.

Who says that warriors fight in open fields?
The bravest warriors combat from their hospital bed.

Who says that warriors confront the enemy with bare hands?
The strongest warriors are those who fight an adversary inside themselves.

Narcissistic personality disorder

Italian

(source: Wikipedia)

Narcissistic personality disorder is a disturbance which has, as it's principle symptom, a deficit in the ability to feel empathy towards other individuals. This pathology is characterized by a specific perception of self as being “great”. It includes an exaggerated sentiment of ones' own importance and an idealization of self.
In other words, it is a love of self, which from a clinical point of view is based on falsity.  There is also difficulty in making a connection of affection towards another human being.
The person demonstrates a sort of profound egoism of which he or she is not usually aware.  The consequences of this disorder are usually sufficient to create suffering, social discomfort, and significant problems with relationships and affection.

According to the criteria DSM-4 (Diagnostic and Statistic Manual for Mental Disturbances), the diagnosis requires that at least five of the following symptoms are present to create a pervasive pattern which tends to remain constant in different situations and relationships:

• Has an exaggerated sense of self and of ones' own importance
• Is occupied by fantasies of unlimited success, power, impact on others, beauty, or idealized love
• Believes to be “special” and unique, to be understood only by “special” people, and is excessively occupied in searching for closeness with high status people in one or more environments
• Desires and/or asks for excessive admiration compared to that which is normal or related to his/her real value
• Has a strong opinion of his own rights and abilities; has an unrealistic conviction that others should satisfy his expectations
• Takes advantage of others, to reach his own goals
• Lacks empathy; does not realize (does not recognize) and does not consider the sentiments of others to be important; does not want to identify self with their desires
• Frequently feels envy and is generally convinced that others are envious of him/her
• Has a predatory way of expressing affection (unbalanced affective relationships with only a small personal commitment); desires to receive more than what he gives, and that the others are more involved than he is in the relationship.

Two years ago

Italian

There are two years of distance from that day, yet every detail is forever carved in my memory...

The door opens and Matteo appears. I recognize his eyes, despite the fact that the rest of his face is covered by a green mask.
There is silence inside that room in the  Bone Marrow Transplant Unit, and Matteo, to reduce the tension, jokes: "Hey, look what I have here for you!"

With two hands, he holds a large bag of blood, swollen and stiff.
I lift myself in the bed of the hospital then I fold the pillow after punching it: it's full of hair I've lost from the chemotherapy.
My movements are uncertain. I am very thin and weak, but I know what's about to happen and this thought gives me energy.

I already know how it feels to be a leukemia patient, but I would be curious to know the state of mind of a nurse who is about to transfuse  bone marrow, with all the symbolism contained in that gesture...

Matteo comes closer to the pole for the transfusion, creating a bit of space between the hanging bags, and adding this new dark red bundle.
My brother is in that bag.

The ordinary questions follow, to be sure that this is the right blood.
A few more seconds for preparing the conduit, and the moment arrives.
"I am ready to begin the transfusion. It is 5 pm on Tuesday May 17, 2011... Good luck!"

The transfusion commences and proceeds, slowly but constantly. Through the window the orange light of the setting sun filters into the room.

The day dies, the night arrives: an inevitable passage to a new dawn.

Losing your life

Italian

The real danger of losing your life does not occur in the hospital.
In the hospital if possible you are given back your life.

Instead, it's here outside where you risk to lose your life.
Life flows ahead and if you do not live it you will waste it.

A new house

Italian

I turn the handle and the door opens.
The room seems to be empty. A ficus plant, immobile and with shiny leaves, welcomes me.
I sit down on a dark chair placed in front of a low crystal table.
It is holding a few magazines with crumpled edges.
Behind the light colored curtains with vertical folds a Spring sun is doing battle with a layer of clouds, alternating light and shade.
The silence is broken by the light tick tock of a wall clock announcing 9:15 in the morning.
On the door of the studio there is a nameplate: "Elisa Levi, Psychologist".
Elisa is a good doctor, and I appreciate her simple but efficient ways.
She always goes directly to the point of the matter.

A sudden noise, and the entryway door opens.
It's Elisa, out of breath and carrying a heavy work bag in one hand, while she talks on a cell phone which is sitting in the hollow of her shoulder.
"Hello. Yes, I've just arrived in this minute..."
With a smile and a wink she says hello, then with an upraised hand signal meaning "Just a minute" she disappears inside her studio.

Silence falls. I am again alone.
The tick tock of the clock again... it is 9:20.

An electronic sound invades that temporary quiet: the downstairs doorbell.
Behind the door of the studio, nothing moves. Elisa must still be on the telephone, I think...
The bell rings again, so I rise and walk to the video phone near the door.

The video image from downstairs is that of a boy with glasses, and he seems to stare directly into my eyes.
After a moment's hesitation I pick up the receiver and hear the voice of the boy: "Elisa, it's Luca. I apologize for being late, but I fell off the motor scooter..." I push the open button and hang up.
Anxiously, I open the door and wait for the approaching sound of footsteps on the stairs.

Shortly after, on the other side of the landing, in counter light, I can see the face of a boy with a helmet hanging on his arm.
He is limping slightly, and massaging his elbow, while his lowered gaze studies his legs, maybe searching for a tear in the fabric of his pants.

"I was the person who answered the video phone. Elisa is talking on the telephone. Are you ok?" I ask.
After hearing my unexpected voice, he hesitates, then answers "I think so.
My knee and elbow hurt, but I think I'm fine."

I help him to walk, place the helmet on the table, and lead him to one of the chairs. He takes a deep breath to reduce the tension, and pauses.
Fortunately, the boy doesn't seem to be badly hurt.

When he rouses himself, he comments "I have an appointment at 9:15. What time is it now?"
"It's... 9:25. Strange. I have an appointment at 9:15 too. Did Elisa make a mistake?"

"I don't know... I am here because I can't sleep" Luca replies. "And you?"
"In a certain sense, I am here for the same reason." I answer him.

I don't know why I didn't tell him about my illness, because usually I have no problem talking about it.
Perhaps I was fearful of getting into one of those absurd conversations where the winner is the one who feels worse...

"The earthquake... you know... ", he continues.
"Ah, certainly, I understand." is my reply.

... yes, the earthquake.
Here in Emilia the earthquake was a terrible event and psychologically devastating.

Luca continues... "After the first tremors I stopped sleeping peacefully.
The quake caught me while I was sleeping, as it did to everybody: it happened in the middle of the night. "

Nodding, I listen attentively. The memories of those terrible moments return easily, as though they are hiding under a thin layer of dark water, covering a still pond. These weren't my memories of the earthquake, though. Instead they were my memories of my illness, beginning at the moment when the doctor, coming to my bedside in the hospital, told me that I had leukemia.
Like an earthquake in the night, that tragedy caught me in the fullness of life.
I was 42 years old; I was healthy and strong, when that unexpected boulder rolled over me.

Luca goes on: "I recall that when I realized, in the dark, that this was a bad quake, only one question rang in my head: why? Why? But, there was no explanation. Earthquakes arrive like this, unexpected, with no reason, without a signal.
And the myth about the animals who become agitated before a tremor always seemed like a fairy tale to me..."

Yes, I remember that question "Why?" so well. “Why did I become sick with such a serious illness? What did I do wrong? There was never a sign, a signal, a detail which hinted that I was falling into such a deep hole. I knew nothing about leukemia, and doubts tore me apart. 

Luca again: "My house, my things... it was all moving. Everything was agitated. I felt small and impotent in an angry world with its anger all around me. My house, my security had been transformed into a mortal danger for my survival."

Ah, yes... Realizing that a part of ourselves has turned against us is terrible. My body, the home of my soul, was staggering, putting me in danger of losing my life. There, inside, I had no exit, and had to find a weight bearing wall, then remain attached to it until the devastation ended.

Luca paused. His memories were becoming stronger: "My home was seriously compromised. We should have demolished it. That was such a difficulty time. It was impossible for me to remain lucid in front of the thought of destroying it all, even those few things which seemed to have been saved."

During the period of my transplant, in the preparation phase, aplasia of bone marrow was deliberately provoked. Chemotherapy and Radiotherapy destroyed the elements which made up the sick marrow, and in this way induced the conditions for inserting new marrow, and for reconstruction of the blood.
My physical condition collapsed because of these treatments. It was the demolition of my house, so that a new home could be constructed on the foundation of the older one.

Luca's gaze wanders all over the room as he spoke, as though he is watching an invisible film. He gestures in the air, to give a shape to his memories. He points a clenched fist: "The nights were always terrible. Closing my eyes, hoping that there would not be another quake, was impossible. Finally, exhaustion would win."

The room of the UTM, the hospital's Bone Marrow Transplant Unit, is small. Its silence is broken by the mechanical sound of the pumps used for the infusions. There, we are all alone with ourselves and we must find the courage to go ahead.
I remember always making the conscious decision to sleep, hoping that I would wake up some hours later. There was never that certainty but, anyway, it had to be enough to keep on hoping.

Luca settles into the chair and massages his aching knee. The tone of his voice is not so serious now: "The wonderful thing about reconstruction is that we are not alone. Many people came to help: the civilian protection, firemen, relatives, friends... even generous people we do not know. Everyone collaborates, to reach a common goal. For sure, the situation was serious, but the spirit of brotherhood and solidarity was strong."

My thoughts move to those who were close to me in the hospital. People who were professionals, for sure, but who always gave something more, which was personal and human.
Doctors, nurses, tireless professionals, who worked side by side for the same objective. There were also relatives and my closest friends... always there and always discreet.
My wife, like a dutiful soldier, was constantly next to me, providing trust and hope, when hope was difficult to find. My companion in the hospital room, with whom I shared both good and bad moments, highs and lows.
My brother. He is so different from me, but he revealed himself to be the best possible donor. His bone marrow is now also mine.

A brief silence... Luca is serious now. It's clear that one of his thoughts is disturbing him: "When I walk along the streets, passing in front of homes, some of them destroyed, others damaged, others propped up, the knot in my throat tightens. I think about the people who are living in fear and discomfort. I think of those who lost everything. It's impossible for me to travel the streets of my home town without thinking of them. And the profound sense of melancholy renews itself."

Ah, yes. Re-living your own terrible experiences, even only in memories, creates anxiety. When I pass the hospital, it's impossible for me not to think of those who find themselves there for work, or because they are recovering. At night, above all, the lights in the windows of the hospital remind me that somebody is there, inside, somebody who is fighting against his own monsters. And I imagine those good souls who are working their shifts, far from their own families, offering all the medical and human aid that they can.

Luca breathes deeply and smiles: "Fortunately, the new houses are strong and beautiful. Mine too. I can't exclude that there will be another earthquake, or that this house will collapse. But, at least now I know that things which have been destroyed can be rebuilt."

Perhaps, I meditate, the meaning of it all is this. We shouldn't think about never becoming ill. Instead, what we can hope is that there exists a way to rebuild. Maybe after demolishing what was remaining of the earlier existence, before the illness. Perhaps after reaching the limits of survival, in the most extreme physical conditions. But in the end, regenerating yourself, getting up, living again.

The door of the studio opens and Elisa's smiling face presents itself: "Sorry about being late. I had a difficult phone call. I see that you've become friends. What did you talk about?"

"We spoke about the earthquake and other disasters" I reply, adding: "Elisa, you scheduled both our appointments at the same time, were you wrong?"
She answers, "I don't know. What do you think? Was I wrong?"
I realized that, maybe... Luca was not there by accident. I smile...

Luca's words accompanied me with memories from the beginning and to the end of my experience. The parallel between the illness and the earthquake seemed incredibly pertinent and meaningful. I lived, step by step, my experience in his, even though they were apparently so different.

Now, an image appears, like lightening.

My new life is my new home.
My new home is my new life.

Standing in line at the post office

Italian

My wife and I are at the post office.
We take a number and sit down, waiting for our turn.

I look around:  post offices have changed. Years ago they were sad places, illuminated with neon lights. You waiting standing up in a line, with the bills to pay held in your hand. For pensioners, those long waits were a way to meet friends and socialize.
Instead for children, it was a time of boredom. Their mothers had to hold their hands tight and the children, after brief smiles at the people near then, protested and began moving to free themselves from their mothers' grasp.
And the employees... they did a job which was obsessively repetitive, with printers buzzing rhythmically and the hammering tone of the postal stamp,  always two hits at a time.
At the counter, there used to be a glass anti-theft barrier, and it was difficult to understand words through the small opening.
Leaving the post office was always a relief: you returned to daylight and to your own commitments...

Where I am now is completely different from all that. The ceiling is clean and the numerous lamps emit a clear lovely light. I am surrounded by shelves offering books for sale.  A bit towards the side, there is a sort of bazaar with a woman who's selling small paper goods, key chains and stuffed animals for children.  There is music in the background and a diffused sensation of serenity, despite the fact that it's Saturday and the employees are working at a lively rhythm.
Now there's an efficient system for managing the wait, with the number being served clearly visible above the counters.  I have my own ticket in hand, and distractedly I fiddle with it,  taking care not to ruin it too much.

The mind, while waiting, can take unpredictable paths, and I find myself thinking of my time in the hospital, of my illness.  Perhaps I still consider it an unexpected good fortune to be able to conduct a normal life after what I passed though.  Waiting in a post office is equal to having full liberty to use my time, and even to waste time, waiting in a line for my turn to come.
The contrast to those memories of when I hung onto life minute by minute is a strong one and makes me reflect...
I am lost in these thoughts when my wife whispers in my ear." Look. There's the professor."

I turn and observe a coat at my shoulders. Plus a dark beard. Yes, it's Luppi, doctor Luppi, the Director of Hematology.
Rising, I extend my hand: "Professor, hello... I'm... ah, I'm  your patient."  He, without batting an eye replies "Of course. I remember. Good morning.  How are you doing?"
And, in the wave of emotions of my thoughts I would reply "I am doing so well that  I'm waiting in line at the post office!” My first fear is to be taken for a madman, so I try to invent a  less original answer, "I am fine, thanks to you."
Then, in seconds, we have a brief exchange of glances full of intended meaning:

- Your condition of good health is the result of our work, we doctors and nurses, but above all a result of your own commitment.
- I did everything I could, but  you  organized and conducted a team of motivated and willing people. Without them I could never have done so much. 

- Things don't always go for the best for our patients, but you seem to have taken the right direction. 
-  You know, I live every day as a gift now.  It's a package I open every morning to arrive at the evening. And I will never again say that  I was unfortunate.

We say good-bye. "It's been a pleasure to see you again." "The pleasure has been mine, professor."

... I smile distractedly, thinking again of their morning patient visits,  with the usual group of doctors surrounding the professor,  in front of my bed. They whispered among themselves.
I tried to hear them, but could never capture the sense of their discourses. One of them always spoke to me, describing in comprehensible terms the situation and the therapies planned.
Finally, after the good-by, a last exchange of glances.

- You will make it...
- I will make it!

The gesture

Italian

Now is the moment. Enough!
Compromises, stories. Enough!
Too much time keeping silent.
Too many things suffocated.

Now, change is a reality.
And it doesn't matter what people think.
My arms hold you tight.
Your arms are wrapped around my waist.

Our parallel steps
push us ahead.
Our faint thoughts
have become conviction.

It's not late. No, it's early.
It's not finished: we are beginning again.
A life for a gesture.
A gesture for life.

The first flight

Italian

Everything now is silence and stillness.
And you sleep but do not breathe.
The love of your life is beside you.
He kisses you and whispers his farewell.

The air moves and elevates you.
A new light reaches you.
Your eyes come alive.
White wings unfold.

A beat of wings and you already fly.
Another one and you rise again.
We below and you up.
Goodbye my friend.

The leap

Italian

The sun was setting. I was on the walkway of track number 2, at the train station in Modena. A few words were exchanged with my parents, as we waited for the train. Near us, my friend Paolo chatted with his own folks.

Our hair was cut very short, and for a casual observer we were soldiers returning to the barracks. Instead, we were cadets of the 130° Course for  Fixed Term Officers at the Transportation and Supplies School in the military city of Cecchingnola, Rome,  but now temporarily in Piacenza, at the Lusignani base, the Center for Armament Specialist Training, for a detailed artillery course.

The short distance between Piacenza and Modena allowed those of us from Modena  to flee from the barracks late in the afternoon, about 6 pm, with time to reach our families, then re-enter by the required 10 pm. It was an obstacle course, but we were happy to do it, and do it often, just to pass an hour with our families.

It was the end of May, 1988, and we were 19 years old.  The course in Rome lasted five months and was terribly difficult. We did our best, though, and were already at the end of the third month. Lieutenants Salvatore Spinosa and Guido Manfron accompanied us to Piacenza. Spinosa was precise, correct and very kind. Instead, Manfron, was extremely severe, excessively picky, and constantly angry.

Discipline, punctuality, precision, cleanliness. These were the fundamental principles of our school. Always at the maximum, never holding back. The obsessive application of these concepts conditioned all our actions, from  wake-up at 6:30 am to silence at 11:30 pm.

Before leaving for Piacenza, our little detachment heard... again...  the complete list of rules  about respecting the hours, and how to act as guests of another base. To be sure that we understood our responsibility, the officer added that any lack of observance of these rules would be severely punished. And, that there would be particular attention paid to hours, meaning that  any late arrival in the evening would mean expulsion from the Course.

So, with these premises, there we were... exchanging the last quick words with our parents, on the walkway next to track number 2 in the Modena station.

The loudspeakers mumbled something and an instant later a long train stopped in front of us.
A goodbye to our parents, and we opened the door to the train car, then found our seats, waiting for the departure. Both of us were carrying small bags with a few changes of clothes.
There was just a moment to exchange a couple of words when the train, with a lurch, began to move. I noticed that the departure of the train wasn't preceded by the whistle of the conductor, but didn't think it was important.

A few minutes later a controller entered the car. There were two other people in addition to Paolo and I: an elegant gentleman about 40 who was reading a book, and another younger man who was looking out the window and observing the late sunset.

We all prepared to show our tickets. But, when the controller came to Paolo and I his face assumed a strange expression. Paolo and I looked at each other quizzically, our tickets were valid.

"These tickets are for Piacenza" said the controller.
"Yes, we're going to Piacenza" I replied.
"But this train doesn't stop at Piacenza!" he exclaimed.

An instant of silent panic followed.

"... but why doesn't it stop at Piacenza?" asked Paolo.
"Because this is the Intercity Rome-Milan. The stops are Florence, Bologna and Milan, without intermediate stops." explained the controller.

"But, we got on in Modena. The train stopped in Modena!" we protested incredulously.
"The stop in Modena was a technical halt, not provided for in the schedule" explained the controller.

"But it stopped on track 2 at the same time as the train for Piacenza. For us, this was our train!" said Paolo, transmitting anxiety. "If we go all the way to Milan, we'll never have time to return to Piacenza by 10 pm. We'll be expelled from our Course for officer cadets!"

"I am sorry... I have to write a report and ask you to pay for the ticket until Milan" said the controller... and I ask you to show me your identity documents, just in case you decide to pull the emergency brake."

We had no words left... we were lost...

The elegant gentleman put down his book, and pulled a train schedule from his bag,  rapidly searching the pages.  Meanwhile, the other man took his eyes from the window, to follow the events... definitely more interesting than the window.

"We arrive in Milan at 10:45. Then, there's a train at 11 from Milan to Piacenza, which arrives at 11:50" read the elegant man.

"Thank  you for the research, but when we get to Milan we'll have already lost the Course" I replied.  "Even if we take a taxi we'll arrive late... we must be idiots!"

Outside, lights began to blink in the windows. They were the lights of a station, Reggio Emilia. The signs, the walls and the columns of the station.  They flew by rapidly and in a few seconds we were again moving through the darkness of the Emilia countryside.
We had to invent something, and quickly. We couldn't throw away three months of sacrifices in such a way.

I gave a long desperate glance at the red handle of the emergency brake. I understood that if I stopped the train, I'd pay a high price, and in any case would be expelled from the Course.

The man next to the window spoke, "But isn't it possible to ask the machinist to make a brief stop in Piacenza?"
"I doubt it" I conceded with a tight smile. "We are on a train and not a bus with a button for requesting stops."

An unreal silence reigned. The train raced ahead.  Alternatives did not seem to exist to the fact that we'd be in Milan and could return to Piacenza only abundantly outside our maximum time limits.

These were different times. Today, we probably would have called one of our colleagues with a mobile phone, and told him about our being late. We would have asked him to find a way to cover up our late arrival. But, none of that was possible. Cell phones were far in the future.

More lights, another station, Parma. Once more cement and posters flashed past the window, as if the train was accelerating.  Then again we found ourselves in the darkness of open spaces.

What a horrible nightmare! There was no escape and above all there was no time to think. By now it was 9:20, and soon we'd be past Piacenza... the point of no return!

The elegant gentleman energetically closed his train schedule, and violently smashed it against the seat, attracting our attention.  "I have traveled this route for years" he said, "so I know that before the Piacenza station there is a long right curve where the train is obliged to slow down. There is something you might do..."

At first I didn't understand where he was going with his thought. We could hardly get off a train in movement... however, the rest of his idea wasn't necessary.... a small new flame of hope had been lit.
"But how can we do it?" protested Paolo.  "The train will slow down, but it won't stop. We'll be torn apart!"

"Paolo" I replied "we have no choice. If we go to Milan, bye bye Course.  If we pull the emergency brake, we'll be reported, and will lose the Course anyway.  When the train goes slower, that will be our last occasion. We have to try. Lets decide only at the last second. But, for now, let's get prepared. We don't have much time."

So, as though we were  part of a well drilled team, we all stood and passed through the car, to the closest door. In that narrow, noisy and unstable space, a boy with sculptured biceps was smoking a cigarette. He stood aside to let us pass, but was surprised to see us stop and begin pulling at the closed door in front of him.
There was an ominous vibration and the loss of stability in our legs announced that the train was beginning to brake. We all held onto metal tubes, hoping not to fall.

The yellow handle of the door was refusing to unblock and we saw the notice "It is forbidden to open the door until the train is completely stopped" written is four languages.

The boy who was smoking noticed the urgency of our movements and, wordlessly, took the yellow handle and began to pull as hard as he could.

There was a metallic sound and finally the door began to open. A small set of footboards began to lower from the car and, at the same time, a turbine of air entered the small area, raising dust everywhere. The din of the metallic wheels rotating on the tracks and the screeching of the brakes were deafening. The five of us were struggling to open the door,  designed so well to remain closed while the train was in motion. The train began to incline slightly to the opposite side from the opening door. This was the beginning of the curve preceding the station of Piacenza. There was no more time to lose!

"Paolo, I am getting off" I hollered above the noise. And, making space among the people who were fighting to open the door, I held my bag of clothes under my left arm, with my hand tight on the cold handle next to the door.

I hesitated a second while my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Outside, I saw a clear sky, stars, and the countryside, with roads in the distance. I turned towards the head of the train and found myself facing into the wind. My eyes, struck by the moving air,  filled with tears. I did what was possible to fix my vision without using my hands.

The wheels of the train rotated at high velocity, and below them was the gravel typical of train tracks. At regular distances apart, markers passed quickly, along with the metal poles for the electric structures feeding power to the tracks.

Figuring out the right moment to jump without hitting one of the many obstacles passing by in the dark cold air was so difficult.

The brakes continued to work and the train began to slow, but the velocity was still high, and I could not say how long the slowing would continue. Finally, I decided that I'd jump at the end of the slowdown, or certainly at the end of the long curve.

Suddenly, the screeching stopped. The brakes were no longer in function. The train was moving freely and we had the immediate sensation that a new acceleration was beginning.

I could wait no longer. Looking above me towards the right, at the inside of the car I shouted "Thanks to you all!"

I tossed the bag of clothes to the ground, and it instantly disappeared from my sight. Then,  calculating the rhythm of the passing poles I leapt into the empty space between two of them.

The memory of what happened next still gives me chills. Instinctively, I tried to place my feet on the gravel and run. But the falling momentum was too fast. I began to roll around  next to the train. I distinctly recall the image of iron wheels racing to my right like mad cleavers, as I rolled desperately trying not to end up under them.

Then, the hill which was next to the tracks came to my aid, pushing me towards the outside of the curve. Meter after meter, I began to feel grass and stones under me. Was anything broken? No, it didn't seem so.

"Paolo... Hurry!" I screamed. His bag of clothes was launched into the emptiness, and an instant later he too jumped. I couldn't see him, because the train was still curving and my vision was limited to a couple of cars ahead.

For a couple of seconds I tried to regain my senses. Confused, I began searching for my bag of clothes. Just as I found it, the last train car flashed by, dragging noise and lights behind it. I stood in the darkness, grasping my bag, and with ringing ears, ignoring the fate of... my friend!

Finally,  I shouted, and ran... "Paolo! Paolo!"
A brief distance away he hollered an answered "Alfonso... here. I'm ok.. and you?"
"We did it! We did it! I'm ok too!" I replied, running towards him.
"We did it!" was his reply.

Looking around a few moments later, we found ourselves next the tracks, in the darkness before the Piacenza station.  A cement fence indicated the area reserved for train traffic.  Beyond the fence, there was a large cement construction, a warehouse which seemed to be empty, with an ample courtyard, also deserted.

In the silence of the evening it was possible to hear the passing of cars along a road which evidently ran behind that anonymous building.

We couldn't walk along the train tracks. It was too dangerous and too hard to justify to somebody who might notice us at the station. Seeing the two of us arrive on foot, instead of in a train, would certainly have created questions.

So, we decided to jump the fence in order to reach the road, and then to search for transportation to take us to our destination. It was 9:30 pm.

With our hearts in our throats for what we had just done, Paolo and I cross the large quiet space, to the end of the building. Everything seemed calm and our heartbeats slowly returned to normal.  We did not speak. Both of us were still in shock about the events. We thought about the risks we had taken.

We were not considering what we might encounter when we turned the corner of the warehouse and...  beams of light struck us! They were the headlights of a car pointing in our direction. It was impossible to see clearly, because of the brightness of the bothersome lights. We continued to walk in silence, side by side, without obvious hesitation, faking security.

Getting closer to the car we noticed a closed bar with red and white stripes and, next to it, a rather heavy man who moved with a swaying motion. Looking up on the wall of the building we read "Customs" and our hearts began to thump again. "By a miracle we managed not to get killed and now we're going to be arrested!" I thought.

In a low voice, I whispered "Don't stop, Paolo. Let's just leave here as though it was a normal event."

Coming closer to the car, we saw that it was of the night security service. The guard, the heavy man, was concentrated on controlling the entryway of the Customs area. He saw us arrive and stopped, turning his head to follow our passage. As though we were following a written script, we arrived near him and said politely "Good Evening". With a mix of surprise and boredom, he replied "Good Evening."

A few steps more and we'd be outside, on the sidewalk. Done!

We walked... lengthened our stride... gradually... first only slightly then more... until we finally ran... running and laughing. Liberation! We ran without thinking too much of our direction and at the intersections we turned haphazardly... until we stumbled on a bus stop. There we stopped to gather our breath, shocked to be alive and... free. We had escaped once more!

It was 9:45 pm. We were on time, in fact there were 5 minutes to wait before the first bus. Paolo stuck a cigarette in his mouth, but hesitated before lighting it. He offered me the pack. Differently from him, I had never smoked, but decided that the moment deserved an exception. With trembling fingers I smoked the only cigarette of my life.

With all these years of distance, I re-live this adventure from time to time. Closing my eyes, I find myself on the footboards of that train, alone and aware that I was about to take a potentially fatal risk, but determined not to back down. Again I can feel the cold of metal on my fingers, tightly gripping the handle of that door, and the vibrations of the train under my shoes. I feel the air which whips my face in the deafening noise of the brakes which struggle to control that wild ride.

Until the moment... in an instant which seems suspended forever in the air... I make the leap! And, in an unreal silence I find myself, again, with open arms, flying between death and life.

White night

Italian

An abundant blanket of immaculate new snow covers the fields and forests of this cold night.
The white shawl, like a soft bed spread, shrouds and hides the earth and the plants.

Silence reigns everywhere, and the full moon is like a lighthouse, illuminating the scene with its clear gleam.  The air is still, nearly absent, and the profound black sky is bright with millions of far-away stars.

At the edge of the forest, at the foot of a robust tree, a hare uses rapid but patient gestures to search for a bit of food in the snow.
His long ears, like attentive sentinels, register the silence of the forest.  And the large eyes rapidly glance all around, scrutinizing the immobile details surrounding him.

A few jumps on the snow and the path of light footprints creates new tracks.

There, among the bushes, is a nut.  The hare carefully moves closer to it, and begins to circle the shell, taking care not to make noise.

Suddenly, a new perfume invades his nostrils. The hare raises his head and throws a look at the white field which separates him from a hill.  In the distance, at the edge, he notices the origin of a soft whiff of clear smoke, floating straight towards the sky, without disturbance.

First a brief minute of reflection, then the hare decides to cross the snow-covered field.
His quick paws move like mechanical springs.  Small white puffs of snow rise up with every step. He makes a brief stop halfway across, his body still and his ears vigilant. Now, his eyes perceive a vague glow, warmer than that of the moon, white, reflected by the snow.

His race begins again. The base of that line of smoke is near.

The trail of footprints that begins from the forest and crosses the adjacent cleaning now heads towards a covered woodshed where the hare stops to catch his breath, studying the new environment.

The aroma which guided him until now is intense... a mix of burning wood and cookies in an oven.

The yellow light of a window projects an irregular trapezoid shape on the snow.
Sounds of plates and human voices, muted by the walls, reach the outside of the house, a small wood and stone refuge.

A short distance away, there is a frozen fountain, carved from a tree trunk.  The high part of the fountain presents a small elevated horizontal space With measured, expert jumps, the animal reaches this platform and stands still, glazing in the direction of the window.

A woman is setting a beautifully decorated table, while a man refreshes the fire with new wood.   At one angle of the table a small girl with curly blond hair is using brightly colored pencils to draw on a sheet of white paper.  To the side, a large green tree is full of ribbons and bright, shiny decorations.

The hare feels an intense sensation, as though there is imminent danger.  Turning slightly, his glance returns to the girl and he notices that she is staring at him.  The first fear leaves space for  reciprocal surprise. Then the girl lowers her eyes and moves. She gets down from the chair and disappears from the view of the hare, who waits for her return to the empty place at the table.

After what seems like long moments of waiting, the door to the house opens, slowly and silently.  The curious hare scrutinizes the blade of light which enlarges, anxiously fighting with the instinct of self-preservation which impels him to flee.

The figure of the girl appears, moving slowly, and she lowers her body to place something at the entryway.

The hare is immobile on the fountain and observes with great interest. When his eyes are accustomed to the light filtering through the door, the animal understands that there are carrots near the entry. The child gathers one and sweetly holds it towards the hare.
There is another moment of hesitation, then he leaps down from the fountain.

The girl understands his intentions and smiles. She puts the carrot next to the others and slowly backs away. She is kneeling and has her arms crossed on her knees, smiling broadly and satisfied about her success.

The hare, finishing the first carrot, passes to the second.

Inside, as the woman sets the table, she senses the chill air which glides into the room, bending the flame of the candles and creating a strong draft in the chimney of the fireplace.

"Maya, what are you doing at the door?" she asks in a raised voice without distracting herself from the table.

The hare holds still for a second, then dashes away, passing the fountain, near the woodshed, then across the white field, finally disappearing into the forest, among the heavy snow covered branches of the trees.

The girl, still at the door, stands up.  After following that forced retreat, she waits a moment, expecting something else to happen. With a sound, a large nearby evergreen drops snow from its branches, raising a white cloud from the small avalanche. Then, everything returns silent.

The child lingers, observing the remains of the carrots at the entry.  Her Mother reaches her and places a hand on her shoulder.  "What is it, Maya?"... and she responds "Nothing Mom. Now, I'll close the door."

Maya is happy for the small gesture.  She was able to help a poor hungry frightened being. They had never met before, yet the hare felt that he could trust her. His trust was rewarded.

It is midnight Christmas Eve.
The family unites to celebrate birth and the sentiments of brotherhood and sharing. In Maya's heart there is an angle with a few carrots and a hare who jumps closer in the white night...