Acceptance

Italian

In all my memories of the illness, the worst personal violation was not about the therapies and their collateral effects, though horrible, and which in some cases remain now, four years later.

I was then in one of the moments of “super work”, with sleepless nights, non existent lunches, and with eyes which begged for pity after too many hours in front of the computer.
In the middle of it all, my immune system went into “tilt”.

With no advance warning, I found myself is a strange unknown place, full of white sheets, nurses wearing greenish face masks, exams, blood tests... endless silences in the shadows of lowered window shades and the always annoying neon lights.

Before then, I'd rarely seen a hospital from the inside. I'd visited someone from time to time, but only for half an hour. This time was different. The sick person in the bed was me. The gazes of the doctors had a different expression than what I'd noticed before. Their look vacillated between professional detachment and human contact.

I felt that I was disturbing them... that I was taking the place of someone who really had a serious problem.
I had no idea what was wrong, and could not have imagined it at all.
My thoughts were about work, and the thousands of things still to accomplish.
How would I get to the weekend if I could not move from there?

The diagnosis felt like a lethal blow: leukemia.

I knew nothing about the illness. I knew nothing about the hospital. I knew nothing at all.
Yet, there I was, with a fever which was elevated to the point where both my head and my eyes became foggy.
I continued to think about when I could return to the office and take care of my own things…
That thought was a last grasp of normality in the midst of a whirlpool of bad news dragging me downward.

Having to let go of that grasp was the moment of my worst violation.
I realized that this was not going to be brief, that instead it was destined to be long and painful.
That work had to wait. That my life had to wait.
That even my existence was no longer a sure thing.

From healthy to seriously ill.
From living to surviving.

How I struggled to accept that new condition.

The awareness that there was another world, beyond what I had known.
It was made of pain, small steps, hope, therapies and prayers.
In this world, the time passes slowly and there are long hours to simply think.

Despite it all, the mind remains lucid in this world. After bolting away like a wild horse, the mind calms and convinces you that this is, after all, a new challenge, a difficult test, and a large obstacle to overcome.
The difficult phase will be long, and you will want to cry. But, you can cry while walking and while moving forward.

Affronting a monster, especially an unexpected one, is never easy.
Yet, from the moment in which you change your visual you enter into the right mentality.
From that moment, you can consider yourself ready for the fight.

And to win.

The fourth year

Italian

March 17 of four years ago marked the lowest point of my descending curve...
Eaten away by the leukemia, crushed by the weight of the chemotherapy and flattened by a cycle of radiotherapy.

I was isolated in the Bone Marrow Transplant Unit of the hospital, sunk deep into the bed with three electro-mechanical pumps continuously administering fluids via a vein catheter inserted into my chest.

Four years ago today, I had just finished (once again!) losing all my hair, and at a weight of 55 kg I had never been so thin.

I knew that a few hours earlier my brother, judged a compatible marrow donor, had been subjected to a painful (and generous) withdrawal of marrow blood from the bone of his iliac crest.

So, I was waiting for the arrival in my room, at any moment, of the life-saving serum to substitute my own bone marrow, which had been devastated by the therapies.

The afternoon was calm and despite the closed window, I could feel the warmth of the sun. It would soon be June and finally, unless there were surprises, I would be able to leave the hospital and go home.

A face appeared on the other side of the glass door; two blue eyes scrutinized me for a long instant. Everyone in that department wore hygienic masks, but I was accustomed to recognize them by observing their bodies and their movements.

The nurse with the sky in his eyes was Matteo. He cautiously opened the door and entered, holding a dark red bundle in the fold of his elbow, the way newborn babies are carried.

He walked over to me, controlling every detail on the label of the bone marrow blood bag, and asked for confirmation of my personal information.

Matteo then hung the bag on the pole for infusions, connected it and in the instant before beginning the delicate process told me to have positive, hopeful thoughts.

My mind raced... the visions of the bathroom at home after I had fainted, the entry into the oncology emergency room, the dramatic moment when I found out about my leukemia, the injections of chemotherapy which beat me down, the slow recovery, with a daily count of white blood cells, the smile of the doctor who told me about the verified compatibility of my brother as a bone marrow donor, the wonderful people I have met and to whom I want to demonstrate that their faith and esteem was totally reciprocated...

The transfusion commenced under the watchful eye of Matteo, who regulated the velocity of the flow. Then, when everything had been completed and verified, Matteo left me alone.

The rhythm of those red drops falling from the bag into the tube leading to my body nearly hypnotized me. One drop. Two drops... one after another.

My gaze drifted to the sky beyond the window glass...

This is the same sky I see today, four years later, with the same firm conviction that I can overcome the latest test. Today as then.

During this time many things have changed, including my hips, which, because of the therapies, crumbled. After innumerable attempts to recover, they have just been replaced with pieces of titanium and ceramic.

However, the will with which I remain tenaciously attached to life has not changed. Births are celebrated with birthdays, and my re-birth, after the bone marrow transplant on May 17, 2011, is celebrated today.

Today, I share the joys of this meaningful day with... my brother to whom I will be eternally grateful for his gesture and generosity, my wife who has always stood at my side, my entire family, the doctors and nurses I have had the privilege of encountering, special friends who pick me up when I fall and those who follow me affectionately.

There is also a thought for the friends I have lost, and from whom I received a formidable lesson in dignity, and to all those who are still fighting against the disease.

Let's raise the glass and toast to life, so ephemeral and so very beautiful!

November 24

Italian

I  could barely stand on my feet. My wife was next to me, talking to the nurse at the reception desk of the Emergency Room.
He took a piece of paper and began to write the necessary information: first name, surname, birth date and year....

After the paperwork, I was assigned  a “green code” for  low degree of emergency, and I was told to enter the ward. They placed me on a bed and before leaving me alone, pulled a curtain around the area.

The wait seemed to be endless. I listened to the voices around me, signaling a continuous passage. There weren't many voices, so I was able to follow some of their conversations, talking about their work shifts for New Years Eve and day. It was November 24, and soon it would be Christmas.

Slowly my eyes closed and I began to sleep.

Somebody shook my shoulders to awaken me; the ceiling lights seemed blinding.

“We need to do a chest X-Ray” announced a nurse with a slight southern accent. That was the voice which had complained about receiving the worst shift for the holidays.

“I don't know if I can stand up” was my reply.
“Look, I'll get you a wheel chair” answered the nurse, pulling an old chair with plastic seat coverings next to the bed.
He helped me to climb into the chair and then began pushing it forward with a rapid pace.

We passed through empty corridors until reaching the Radiology ward. The nurse put me on one side of the hallway, in front of a closed door, and told me to wait, waving as he departed.

In that deserted corridor the only sound was the vague buzz of the neon lights. Straight lines on the pavement drew my sight far down the hall, to the most distant points. And against the walls, half way up, my eyes met the guard rails.

I wasn't exactly tired, but was strangely short of breath, panting.
Always. Short. Of breath. Shorter…

I tried to raise my eyes to the ceiling because it seemed that the light itself was weakening.
A dark blanket descended, while a myriad of brilliant stars began to dance in my eyes.

Right away I knew that I was fainting.

My seated position was not the best to avoid fainting; holding my head low was very important. Lay down, I told myself, even better with raised legs. I was afraid of falling on the floor, afraid of hitting my head or breaking a bone.

I lifted my feet and placed the heals on the guard rails.
Seated in the chair, at a lower level than the rails, my legs were effectively positioned higher than my body and I hoped that it was enough. Then I searched for ways to place my head lower, leaning backwards  along with my body.

With one hand I tried to pull the brake of the wheelchair, which was tending to slide backwards.  This way,  I tightly held the metal spokes of the wheels  and squeezed my hands shut to block the chair.  I remained like this,  motionless, for long minutes, with my teeth clenched from the effort.

Slowly, the obscure veil of darkness lifted, and clear images appeared in front of me.  There was the face of a doctor who had opened the door, staring with a surprised expression because of my odd position.  He said “Come on,  you can enter now. It's your turn.”

There have never been truer words.
It certainly was my turn.

The X-Ray showed a large inflammation on my left lung. I had a serious case of pneumonia.

A doctor tried to draw blood from an artery in my arm; it was painful as she made various maneuvers with her needle to locate the artery.
Since that day, the maneuver of digging inside me to withdraw something has been repeated… and repeated… just in different forms.

The results of that test were much worse than pneumonia.
My immune system was completely out of control.
Yes, I had a serious infection  in my lungs; above all, though, I had leukemia!

They said to my wife: “The situation is desperate and we don't know if he'll make it.”

Like the flight of an eagle... here's what has happened since then.

The pneumonia was cured, thanks to antibiotics and long days of “lung gymnastics” with a hateful breathing machine.
Then I passed to the most frightening illness.
First, there were cycles of chemotherapy, to prepare me for a bone marrow transplant, and a few days before the transplant I affronted radiotherapy.

My brother, with a magnificent gesture, saved my life with his bone marrow donation.

My illness, to my great good fortune, has not reappeared.

However, something happened. These therapies always have collateral effects, and in my case they provoked two Osteonecroses which literally grated the head of the femur in both my hips.

Two years after the transplant I began to walk with crutches.
The orthopedic doctors told me immediately that there was no alternative: I needed to  have a double hip replacement.

I would not give up and tried everything humanly possible: acupuncture, hyperbaric chamber, magnetic therapy, physiotherapy, manipulation, osteopathy…
After a year and a half there was some improvement, but not enough.

I've prepared myself to have the operation, which will take place in the days surrounding November 24, that fateful anniversary, four years later.
Still another time,  they are going to dig inside me to remove something which no longer functions.

Yes, I know that I don't have the right to demand that my experience as a patient finishes with this, or that I'll be guaranteed serenity for the rest of my life.

But I can no longer tolerate the idea of casually affronting new tests, in the name of the fact that I was strong once and overcame the worst.

If it can't be avoided, I will do it. Because it needs to be done.

–
At the end of a tunnel he feared he would never leave, the voyager headed down the open road.
Nature, which plummeted him with wind and rain, seemed now to be mild and beautiful. 

I can do it!

Italian

I was dragging my tired legs down along the corridor. Up and down.
My right hand was closed around the pole holding bags and bottles for the infusions.
That pole on wheels was my inseparable companion during the thousand passages from one set of windows to another, between Hematology and Oncology.

I observed the relatives who entered, deep in thought about their loved ones.
They walked quickly, and gave me just a glance as they breathlessly passed me with my mask, my legs, my thin arms, the pole, the hanging bags, and the pump functioning with a battery.

They walked around me, being careful not to make me trip and then proceeded down the tracks of their own thoughts.

I can still see them sit down with a gesture that is discreet yet lively, on the edge of a chair in the reception area.
There, they slip into shoe covers and put the face mask on, sometimes with difficulty.

There's a dose or two of disinfectant for their hands, then they stand and walk awkwardly, because of the shoe covers, towards the hospital patients' rooms.

With their knuckles, they give three light taps on the door, smile tentatively, and then disappear over the threshold, leaving me alone in the corridor, with my brief uncertain steps.

Then, while a clock on the wall counts the seconds, I repeat my stroll and return, before the pump sounds, blipping to tell me that its battery is expiring.

I missed my liberty!
I wanted to get out of there, but above all I wanted to once again decide what to do:
go to work, sit in traffic, receive phone calls from friends, joke...

I wanted to laugh, the way I laughed when life was a given and I didn't constantly think that it could slip away like a handful of salt.

I remember that sensation so well.
A long wait, suspended.
Like finding yourself in front of a traffic light and waiting for the green which never comes.

If I think about them now, I smile; but those months profoundly marked me.

When I finished my walks around, I stood next to the bed and with a final effort econnected the plug of the battery charger to the pump, to interrupt its insistent blip blip blip.
Then I laid my head on the pillow.
Closing my eyes, I kept repeating to myself: “I can do it. I can do it.”

These are the words which accompanied my dreams, and they still do so.
They remind me that every obstacle can be overcome, as long as I am patient and ready to fight when it's necessary.

I'll never stop being that thin wobbly figure in the hospital corridor, not even now that I've retaken my life.

Now, as then, I know that life can present difficult trials.
But now, as then, I know: I can do it!

The third year

Italian

And so, today is my third year anniversary.

Three years ago, while I observed, full of hope, a wonderful nurse hung a sack on a hospital trestle, next to many other sacks hanging top down.

There was an amazing amount of love and spirit of sacrifice inside that blood red package. It was my brother's bone marrow.

Three years ago, my leukemia was washed away with the most noble fluid which courses in a body, along with a deep cleansing by chemo and radio therapies.

Since then, to my great good fortune, this tremendous illness has not reappeared.
Many other things have happened though!

Comforted by those who had the same reaction before me, I have changed how I look at life.

I was able to meet people whose friendship is a particular source of pride and to whom my thoughts of profound gratitude are frequently directed.

I also had to learn how to manage the ignorance of those who misinterpret the story of a survivor, and see it as exhibitionism, instead of a way to help others when saying “I did it and so can you!”

I came to realize that those people are not able to even slightly understand the point to which a life can be turned upside down, from one day to another. Yesterday healthy, today destroyed, tomorrow... perhaps tomorrow will never be!

Those who make judgements from nothing should be avoided. They live in a bubble of blessed ignorance, and it would be better for them to continue their lives without knowing nothing of all of this.

Dear friends and acquaintances have been lost because of illnesses like mine. I've seen them affront and accept their destiny with a dignity that is impossible to describe. Now, while thinking of them, it is difficult to breathe because of the lump in my throat.

I have learned that escaping once might not be sufficient, and that a relapse is always a concrete risk. The night becomes very long indeed if one begins to think about things like that.

I've been struck in the face by the fact that every medicine, every therapy, in addition to the desired effects, always provokes undesired ones.  In my preceding “healthy” life of unawareness these rarely went beyond stomach acid or a sense of weakness.
But, the therapies I am referring to can create violent reactions on the skin, disfunctions of the circulatory system, can inhibit or alter taste, smell and hearing... And can destroy bones: I'm paying my tribute with my hips, one of which is seriously compromised since a year.

Thus, I've come into contact with a new condition, that of a crutches user. It's interesting to
note how these colored sticks can scare adults and make children curious... (and how often when I place them against a wall they immediately fall to the ground).

I've met a crowd of people who, for all sorts of reasons, are already in the water at 7:30 in the morning, to do their physiotherapy.

I've faced the cynicism of certain orthopedic doctors, who praise patients for the efforts made while concluding that sooner or later they'll have to operate.

I've understood that there is another way! We have to search for it alone, though,  because it is helpful for only a few.

Then, there is the hyperbaric chamber, with its many fans and detractors.
“It's completely useless.”
“It can be miraculous.”
“It can't hurt you, so why don't you try? Then, we'll see...”
My experience has been that the progress is very evident.  I need much more, however,
and don't know if I can obtain it with this.

These three years haven't been easy.
The comments like “think how much you've overcome; this part is nothing” by now have completely filled my head until they exit from my ears.
As if, for a survivor of an airplane crash, alive by a miracle,  it was enough to have escaped death. Would he be content to remain tied to a wheelchair for the rest of his life?

I've cut my safety belts. Along with some of those fortunate ones such as me, we've left the site of the tragedy and returned to our homes. I am living my life hoping for the best possible quality, without constantly thinking that, for a hair, I am not in hyperspace.

I owe this to my family and myself.

Now, a thought, full of emotion, to the fine souls who are watching me... to those who struggle and find themselves at the half-way point... to the professionals and to the people whose humanity makes this possible...

Raise the glass: three years of Life 2.0!

Hearts of water

Italian

The car lurched to a halt at the traffic light. Marco's mother was concentrated on finding the switch for the rear window windshield wiper.

The rain was coming down in driving sheets of water, while the brushes on the front made the car sway with their every swipe back and forth.

In the back seat, Marco, wrapped in his warm jacket, watched his mother's movements with a certain amusement. It was impossible for her to find that switch!

“Mom, try to turn that lever on the right of the steering wheel” he finally suggested. Marco
was only 12 years old, but he was sharp and awake.

“Found it!” his mother finally exclaimed.

Marco turned his gaze towards the window where drops of rainwater slid like a bobsled
down a ski slope. He enjoyed observing the distorted images of the world, as seen through those bubbles of water.

Suddenly another car stopped in the next lane.

The woman driving seemed intent on explaining something complicated, and as she did so, she continued to stare at the red traffic light in front of her.

The window was foggy with water, but he could see the face of a young girl in the back seat. She looked bored and with her finger was outlining a flower on the steam inside back window.

When the girl's gaze met Marco's, a small smile broke out her face. She had green eyes and light colored hair gathered in a braid.

Marco felt a jolt of surprise when he realized a moment later that she was still staring at him.

Feeling slightly embarrassed, he smiled back and, trying to appear nonchalant, waved timidly at the girl. She stopped tracing the incomplete flower on the window and waved back at him. Then, in an unmarked part of the window, she began to trace a new line with her finger.

It wasn't a design; instead it seemed to be letters of the alphabet. They were strange, though, and hesitant. Marco realized that she was trying to write from right to left, like in a mirror's reflection, so that he could read it on the other side of the window.

“Lara”. It was her name: Lara.

Marco shook his head and breathed on his window to make it foggy and wrote “Marco” with trembling letters.

He didn't quite realize that he'd used his left hand to write backwards, even though he wasn't left handed.

Lara smiled again, less shyly and Marco exchanged the glance, raising his eyebrows.

Lara's finger moved to a still foggy part of the window and began to draw a curve...
maybe a half moon... no, there was a narrow point at the bottom... a heart.
It was definitely a heart.

Marco felt a flash of warmth in his chest and his mouth dropped open in total disbelief.

Lara laughed and pointed her damp finger in the direction of Marco's nose.

He forced himself to recover from his emotions and, still using his left hand, drew the most beautiful heart ever on his own window. It was precise and well-proportioned, rounded and symmetrical.

Lara half closed her eyes and and bend her head sideways. To Marco, that gesture was endlessly beautiful. There was a silent tranquility everywhere and it seemed that even the rain did not want to disturb them.

Marco felt only the warmth that emanated from  his heart  rose to  his throat, until it
flooded into his cheeks and ears...

There was a murmur and the two cars began to move at the same time. Lara's turned,
driving away. Marco only had time to see  the girl's head, which turned, attempting in vain to have one last look, and then losing contact forever.

He turned to the heart he had drawn on the window. A few drops of humidity were flowing down, like tears...

He wasn't sad though. Marco was glad to have felt that intense new sensation.

“Mom” he asked, “What is love?”

The tree

Italian

A tree looks dark in the backlighting. By chance, the image passes in front of me.
I stop and look again, observing...

A robust trunk, pending, seems to struggle while supporting its branches, which are first heavy, then light and thin. A tight web of nerves, like little streams of indian ink, escaping...

There are no leaves; it must be Winter. On the surface, great knots of roots wind around, serpent-like, before disappearing into the ground, which they so tenaciously grasp.

Gusts of wind design waves on the sea of exhausted grasses surrounding the motionless tree.

Sunset shows on the blue sky. Further ahead, where it is already evening, the first stars are rising.

A whitish line of clouds  intersects the pattern of the branches, like an old badly healed wound.

The horizon is clear and seems that it's trying to slice the trunk, which is pushed by the wind always to the same side.

This tree stands out in the smallness of the elements... the only subject without color, but alive, in a cold and hostile world moving towards darkness.

The tree resists and holds the weight of every branch, gradually thicker and stronger,
until the bent trunk which refuses to break.

It will last still another night, patiently and mutely waiting for the arrival of dawn, and later the Spring, when life awakens and Creation once more finds peace with God.

Midnight

Italian

Going outside, I breathe in the cold night air.
Darkness and silence enter my eyes and my ears.
Far into the night, time advances.
My today is yesterday and tomorrow is today...

A point of light passes, wavering in the dark sky.
How far am I from my world?
Will I ever return there?
I circle around, opening my arms.

Here I am, in equilibrium on the edge of life.
It's midnight, and the middle of my time.
I look back, then ahead.
What was yesterday? What will tomorrow be?

The climb

Italian

In front of that wall of brown earth, the off-the-road vehicle stopped.

It arrived there after its wild race on a smooth track with breath taking curves.

Now, though, there was a difficult vertical climb ahead.

The motor rumbled on at the lowest gear, while it was difficult for the stop lights to be seen in the dust clouds which rose up from the rear wheels.

A short jumping sound was the only sign of shifting the gear.

Soon after, the cylinders began to spin with a loud whirl and a powerful growl rose up from the engine.

With a violent leap, movement, rapid and convinced, began again.

The tires clawed at the track of dry earth, while the vehicle inclined dangerously backward until reaching an un-natural nearly vertical slope.

Near the windshield, the muffler was open and a dense black smoke exited from it, while the roar of the motor got louder, continuing on for kilometers.

Hunks of dirt and stones flew away under the wheels as they made rapid half turns, spinning uselessly while trying to grub the road.

The water in the radiator rose until it created steam, and two threatening mustaches of white smoke appeared on top of the front cooling grill.

The first half of the climb was over.

It was not a given, though, that the rest of the climb would be successful.

If possible, the incline increased, and the danger of a destructive backward roll became hellishly serious.

Then, the movement halted. For seconds, the wheels spun in nothingness, and the auto began to tip to one side, beginning a rotation which, if completed, would lead to the inevitable rolling down to the beginning of the long climb.

With a skillful correction of the wheels, however, the straight line upward was recovered.

The tire treads clawed the earth, finding a web of tree roots to desperately hang onto, and the jeep again began to hoist its weight towards the peak, which seemed to be near: a horizon of earth under a clear blue sky.

Just a few meters more of this exhausting climb, with the motor whirling and gasping, with the first wheel finally passing over the top, then the second one right after it.

With a cat-like leap, the vehicle turned half in the air before finding itself horizontal again on a newly flat terrain.

The whirling tires began to slow, but the motor remained active to circulate the cooling, and steam, making a hissing sound, continued to exit from the radiator cap.

The last pieces of rock rolled down the dug up incline, forming puffs of dust...

Done! Irregular rumbling of the lowest gear by now seemed like a muffled laugh, the car's motor enjoying its successful efforts.

It could have seemed impossible. There were instants when everything appeared to be useless.

Courage and persistence, though, won over it all.

A round

Italian

Nice room, although maybe a bit too small.
I put my things away; there aren't very many.
Pulling the table closer, I adjust the light.

My friends say HI when I call them.
Here's dinner... well, ok...
I turn on the TV, but there's not much to see.

It's evening and dark outside.
A few people stop to visit... great.
I am tired and want to sleep.

Morning already! Blood is drawn, medical visits...
Here's the bag... the chemo.
I feel ok... for now.

I'd think of something else, but what?
The infusion flows downward... and so do I.
There's a strand of hair on the pillow.

Closing my eyes, I sleep.
I open them, and was not sleeping.
The chemo has finished.

Dinner, here's the tray.
I'm not hungry; maybe later though.
Now, there is a knot in my stomach.

I look outside, where it's already dark.
My heart beats, and everything is silent.
The machine is slowing down...

I am thin and hairless.
My skin is gray.
Moving exhausts me.

Immobile.
Silent.
I am.

I...

...

Dawn.
Light.
Eyes.

I move a finger.
And close a fist.
Then turn on my side.

It's day outside: there's the sun.
Slowly, I move the sheets.
And stretch my arms and legs. I'm awake.

I'm not hungry, but have to eat...
I try a cookie... then put it down.
My heart beat is accelerating, I can hear it.

Pushing, I sit up.
Using my arms to support me.
My head is a heavy weight.

My legs are thin, and I stare at them.
I'm still here.
I fight and won't give up.

I never imagined having so much strength, and I admit that.
I well remember my condition.
But now it has passed.

They've returned for a visit... great.
Dinner? Well, not yet.
I turn on the TV... then turn it off.

Night time, and I sleep.
I fall, precipitating... but it was a dream.
Awake again... it's dawn.

Today I can do it!
I arise and drag myself to the mirror.
I barely recognize myself.

They pass by with some tea; perhaps I can hold it down. I try.
Taking the telephone, I say hello to friends.
Here I am again world, still here.

Lunch today... yes.
I raise the bed until I am seated upright.
I breathe deeply.

It's not finished, no it's not.
One step has been taken.
Now for another!

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!