A hospital ward is like a ship corridor. The sea seems calm, but you stagger standing up and wait for the end of the crossing in silence. This is how a father recounted one of the most difficult moments of his life: that of his daughter Beatrice’s surgery for cancer, just 15 months old. Meanwhile, the mind wandered, looking for similarities, metaphors, assonances, then reported in this story, simple and true, capable of transporting the reader into that suspended time of waiting and hope. Last year, this essay – which we are publishing – received the first prize in the #afiancodelcoraggio competition, the initiative conceived by Roche and dedicated to men who take care of those who are facing cancer. On the occasion of the closing of the sixth call, we publish the entire short film inspired by the story of Beatrice and her parents. To participate in the next edition of the prize, you can send your writing by March 15 at the link https://afiancodelcoraggio.it/come-candidarsi/.
Like on a ship
“It’s like being on a ship, Livorno-Olbia, with that background buzz that makes it hard to tell whether it’s the engines or the air conditioners. “Dear passengers are advised that the catering service is open on deck 7” and then follows the translation into improbable English. It feels like being in a cabin, but then you open your eyes and you’re in the hospital corridor, with that Livorno-Olbia ship noise. Every now and then a door opens and someone walks by, instead of the saltiness you feel the unease. Because from that door Beatrice entered on a stretcher with a tumor on her. I don’t know when she put it on her, but it is known that children should never be left alone for a moment. Let alone my daughter who is just over a year old, exactly 15 months old.
Beatrice is so small that she doesn’t realize it yet, she doesn’t know she’s in the hospital and maybe she wouldn’t even notice the ship. 15 months. What do you want to understand at 15 months? Now the cleaners come by, like on a ship. I close my eyes and wonder how long this journey will last, the sea seems calm, the calm after the storm that arrived when the word tumor was heard. And it changes your mood, it almost seems made on purpose. Cancer. Humor. One more letter, in excess, a bit like a tumor is, something too much, excessive, intrusive. Less would be enough, one less letter.
The sea seems calm, this hospital doesn’t sway, but if I stand up I stagger. The door opens again and this time Silvia, my wife, comes out. She was inside to accompany Beatrice to the operating room. We look at each other and remain silent, because what do you mean? I’m not telling you this tumor-mood thing, it’s not the case, it wouldn’t even be to defuse, but to pass the time. The time of this trip in this fake ship on this fake crossing.
Beatrice is under the knife and she will make the real journey, even if she doesn’t know it, she commands the ship, Silvia and I are the passengers. I hope to hear the announcement that everything is fine, that everything is going well, that everything will be fine, but this time for real, not like with Covid, that everything was supposed to go well and instead it’s just all gone, where and how I don’t know.
I’m waiting for Beatrice to make the announcement, punctuated by her giggles, by her cheerfulness of someone who at 15 months contrasts lightness with the heaviness of life. I wait for Beatrice who says on the intercom “We are arriving at the port, thank you for choosing Beatrice Lines and enjoy your stay”. Now all that remains is to wait. And we wait. And I wait for the mood to go back to being months ago, without that T too many. Beatrice get that tumor off your back, it doesn’t even fit you well, your mom says so too. Come on Beatrice, come on”.