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!