[ad_1]
My November began with a prayer for the idiotic denier that I had been for a while at the beginning of history: Covid. At 85 years old and two invaded lungs means a death sentence, and I think that’s why the terrible intensive therapy was spared me. Five hospitalizations, the canonical days (22) of, say, the letter from the health authority: I am cured, perhaps because I never, but never really, smoked and did so much sport just to get to know him better and better, after having been a journalist sports from birth or a little later. At the same time, to write about horse racing it would have been better to have been a horse, I remember well that I once said this to Luciano Moggi, when we were talking among ourselves.
The hospitalization decided by my first daughter, my great family doctor. Knowing me well, he realized that something inside me was going crazy. With me in his car he looked for a hospital, we were driving through Turin, in Maria Vittoria, close to where I am, too much chaos, we go to the Asanteria Martini. They caught me in the emergency room. Warned of my lack of oxygen, they put me on the stretcher next to a very old man (at least visible), immobile, mute, very intubated, from time to time the two tubes for the nose moved from his nose to the mine. LThe first night was horror: few staff in the emergency room attacked, very few traumatized, let’s say classics, massive invasion of us by Covid, on stretchers but sometimes also on the floor to litter. And yelling and groaning, staff moving out of dedication – all sealed in plastic coveralls, torture – but as if swept away by the super-emergency tsunami. The mask on top of the nose, always! Just one bathroom for a damn two hundred. Neither lock nor water, a lot of disinfectant liquid, yes.
I crawled on my belly like marines in training, if I tried to walk I ran the risk of slipping a foot on someone’s belly. Nobody to play with the smartphone, look a little. Two càmice doctors just recognized me as a journalist, they told me they were there to help but they didn’t know what to do. Worst night of my life – trivial, easy to say, but that’s it. Horror more than terror. Food? I do not remember. The day and night after a slight relief of attendance, some real food, the bathroom is always a drama. My old companion of oxygen stripped to be washed by a strong and moving big boy, his legs (legs?) Reduced to animal bones, long ox shins, no skin life, no blood, just a terrifying grove. I will never forget. They took him away, dead, I think. Third day and closing of emergencies. Invention and let’s say miraculous preparation of a hospital on the first floor, Covid 1, true but little imagination. Stretcher, space for two, half a paradise, bathroom and toilet and water, lots of water. Cortisone, heparin with stomach bites to make myself. Food with lots of blessed porridges.
Two days and two floors above, Covid 3 hospital, the story (Piero Chiara?) “The whistle in the nose” came to mind, in the film Tognazzi always rises slowly, his strange illness improves and improves until he dies . My three wonderful children and also several relatives, the positive ones (like my children) without drama, with a controllable and controlled course, they even made me have newspapers. Trump y Toro, better than bread and even truffles. Two more days and by ambulance, mysterious address, to Villa Pia, another newborn Covid hospital, right on the road to Mongreno, where I lived after the war ended., my big Covid room was born under the curve where I stopped every day to rest, seven and a half kilometers on foot back and forth to go to the school below in Sassi. Staff always hyper-sealed in plastic, newly hired men and women, great commitment and constant courtesy, but they told me they didn’t know how to put the toilet paper in the bathroom bin, if I did a little.
In the living room to watch television (yes, televisoneeee, enin) with Muhammad, a Moroccan made Italian, thirty years younger than me, three children, he became friends. Wonderful person, he asked me to help him avoid alcohol and pork. Excellent food also with chicken, meatballs, tortillas, cheese, an amatriciana ate without me having time to tell her what maybe bacon is. A week and then, always by ambulance, to my house in easy and absolute isolation until the communication that tells me about the miracle, and my question to Nanni Moretti: if I don’t die, do I look bad? I did it, horrible, I’m putting it in a kind of book, I can’t wait to talk to my eight grandchildren.
[ad_2]
