A cough, then she sits up in bed. "Yes, I do": perhaps that's all there is to life; in that formula whispered by Paolo, terminally ill, from Room G of the hospice on Via Jenner. A sort of limbo, where you'd expect to find only death and resignation, but instead, in those corridors that smell of goodness, dignity and resilience chase each other. As if life could move beyond; beyond a diagnosis that forces you into a finite existence. "Everything changes, your order of priorities, your perception of time. You realize you can no longer put it off like you always have. Like we all do. You start living day by day." She, Constanta, struggles to hold back the tears. She sobs. "I don't know when the last one will come, but I know that when it does, I'll be at peace because I've achieved my greatest wish: to marry her." And as he says this, he squeezes her hand tighter.
The window
A timid sun, discreetly creeping through the second-floor window of the Local Health Authority (ASL) building: the realm of palliative care; the medicine of the soul for bodies impervious to treatment. And perhaps it's a coincidence, but its rays seem to shine straight on the wedding rings the newlyweds proudly display, as if they were their most precious treasure. A material symbol of the eternal love between Constanta Fatu, 57, of Romanian origin, and Paolo Pretta, a widower from Cagliari, three years older and suffering from a lung tumor: rare and in such a position that it's inoperable. The merciless verdict, which leaves no chance, arrived after a journey through hospitals and doctors begging for answers to that breath that grew shorter every day. "In January, in a hospital in Bucharest where we were spending Christmas, they told me what had been clear to me for some time. I was too sick to have the “simple” emphysema with chronic bronchitis they talked about at length.” Another cough, and then another. “Cancer.”
The shock
Terminal, without treatment. No surgery, not even chemotherapy: "I haven't shed a tear, but obviously when they shove the naked truth in your face and you realize there's no way out, you feel strange, different." He takes a breath. "Stunned, maybe that's the state of mind you feel." He says he's a strong believer, and that even his relationship with faith, when you're sentenced to life in prison without bars or punishment to serve, takes on a different form. Like everything else. "I could be angry with God, maybe ask why me: none of that. I pray, even more if possible. For my wife, for those who will remain after me and will bear the burden of my absence." On the nightstand, next to the bed, he has the blessed rosary. Next to it is the bottle of still water and the bouquet of white flowers that tell of a marriage without an altar but celebrated twice: a civil and a religious ceremony. Both there, in Room G, embraced by the sun. With doctors, nurses, and volunteers: special guests and daily witnesses to what happens at the hospice. It's a mix between a residence with ochre-colored walls and a sort of silent, faceless peacemaker who seems to settle all the unfinished business with life. As if finding the missing piece of the puzzle.
