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On November 3, the swab tested positive for Covid 19. He had had a cold for a week and had lost his taste and smell. On November 6, he was transferred to the emergency room in San Martino because his saturation had collapsed. During the short stay, they did not oxygenate him, because the oxygen had been depleted by too many accesses.
He spent 12 hours in a chair in a room full of patients even worse than him. They did a blood test, an X-ray and then decided that it was definitely not so bad, despite a series of asterisks close to the test that even Pinco Palla, a Wikipedia doctor, would have twisted his nose. They said maybe there was mild respiratory failure from the X-ray, but nothing serious. They sent him home at 8:00 p.m., at 8:30 p.m. he had a 40-year fever and could no longer breathe. They took him again, this time to another hospital.
On December 3, that is, the day that is now nearing its end, he died, alone, in an intensive care room at the Galliera Hospital in Genoa after more than two weeks of resuscitation and as many weeks of hospitalization (always alone) under a helmet. cpap that made the same noise, when we tried to speak, of a Russian atomic submarine, with a beep. As soon as he entered, a computed tomography scan was performed, which ruled: bilateral interstitial bronchopneumonia with 70% of the lungs involved.
The last time I heard him, at 3:30 p.m. on the day he ended up in intensive care, we talked (laboriously) about Trump not accepting the electoral verdict (this inexplicably worried him a lot) but especially from Preziosi. that Genoa had not sold. He reminded me that on Sunday at 6 pm we would play against Udinese a decisive match for salvation (lost, of course).
My father was a father sometimes distracted, but always present. We listened to each other every holy day at 8pm (which is exactly when he was about to start eating, he didn’t even have a webcam on him). Two words, just to remind us that we were always there, even from a distance. We have done many things together, perhaps more than many other parents and children. We share joys and much pain, perhaps more than many other parents and children. I don’t regret it, he didn’t have them either, I’m sure.
My father was a doctor (ok, psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, let’s pretend he was also a real doctor, let’s go) prepared and attentive. He put his work above all else. Without knowing him he hated each of his patients, because faceless and voiceless, sometimes he seemed to count more than me and my sister. But as I got older I also realized that this was a fundamental part of his life, just like my sister and I. My father was an exceptional forensic psychiatrist, perhaps one of the best in Italy. He never wanted to be the center of attention. Aside from “A Day at the Prosecutor’s Office,” where he had no other choice, he never ended up on television, despite the close courtship of several talk show prima donnas. He said if you go on TV, you don’t follow patients. Either you are a soubrette or you are a doctor, a clinician. Today this speech is more valid than ever.
My father was a loving and lucky husband.. He loved two women with everything himself. My mother, who died prematurely, and then in the last 19 years has been fortunate to find another person with whom to share all aspects of her life.
My father was a proud grandfather. He wasn’t that capable, let’s face it. A little distracted if you will, certainly not the grandfather who played for hours with his grandson or grandchildren, but Beatrice, Leonardo and Ginevra were the light that made his eyes shine. For all three of them he had a kind of blind adoration, the same one he disputed with his father when my grandfather spoke of me or my sister. The law of retaliation.
My father was so many other things that I didn’t even know. Perhaps friends, colleagues, people who cared for you in other ways, know it even better than I do. My father would still be alive and probably, despite his bad shape and large waist, would have been for the next 20 years if he hadn’t been there and hadn’t caught Covid.
Because my father said he was careful, but he received patients. He was wearing a mask, but went to court. In short, he couldn’t stay home, he had things to do, people to see. My father is gone, but there are still people who complain that Christmas will do it herself. Because they can’t go to a restaurant, because they can’t put on their skis, because everything is a scam, a health dictatorship orchestrated, among other things, by whom. Well, think that in 2021 you will do all these things with your loved ones again. My father can’t anymore. We can no longer do it.
I write to you, and if you want to share it, also for this. Because a little suffering today (if suffering can be called distancing for a limited time from loved ones, observing the minimum precautions, the idea that it is a year, a particular period), it can save you a great deal of suffering tomorrow. I don’t wish anyone a month like ours. A descent into hell with no grip to hold onto. The inability to see, greet, hug your loved one. Waiting for a phone call to wait for some improvement. Bury him knowing him in a sack as a soldier at war (ironically, he had not even done military service), perhaps dressed in the dirty pajamas in which he died.
I have no anger, I have no grudge. I don’t even feel like an unfortunate person, nor can I say that my father was. He even managed to finish reading the book his son and daughter-in-law wrote. We have had so much, we have given so much. Dad did not believe in God, as much in Freud, but he always said (paraphrasing Epicurus): “I am not afraid of death, because where I am there she is not there and where she is there is no me.” Today it is gone, and death has left us a little over.
But even if only one person reads these linesFrom today on she will be a little more careful, she will realize, perhaps knowing me directly, that this disease exists and hits hard, she is ruthless with a certain category of people, well, his death will have done more than fill a box with a useless statistic.
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