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!
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