Hope is not usually a word in isolation, rather it is joined to emotions and events, however great or small. It was late October 2004, my last year living in Southern Italy as the contract ended in December.
An ordinary morning, get the kids to school and then off to work. Drying myself off after a shower, I began sweating with indigestion and heartburn. First thoughts; I haven’t had breakfast. I haven’t eaten any food. Sometimes, the body knows before the conscious mind. I half-staggered to the bed. I was trying to stay calm. My wife was doing her best but she didn’t speak Italian. It was my ten year old daughter who rushed downstairs to our friends in the flat below, ringing the bell and yelling in fluent Italian that papa needed a doctor.
Breathe, sweat, hope for help, Breathe, sweat, hope…
There was a commotion, a chattering of voices and, suddenly, I was surrounded by medics and equipment. I was stabilised. Hope was being restored. Perhaps unwisely, I was calmly told I had less than twenty minutes to live if the ambulance hadn’t been called. Hope replaced by fresh fear. How bad was it?
Initially, I was taken by ambulance to a hospital in a nearby town, on my own, the family left behind. Whatever they gave me seemed to work. Hope returned. Maybe the information was premature. Soon I would be home.
The doctor saw me. Thoughts dashed in seconds. I needed an operation and had to be transferred to a big hospital in the city of Bari, grateful that my Italian was pretty good. An hour later, I was in a ward, waiting for when they could "fit me in." Those three words evoke either hope or despair. I chose the former, believing again that I would survive.
There are moments that can only exist in beautiful, exciting, and chaotic places like Italy. A caricature from a film walked towards me. A man, dressed in a white, buttoned jacket, with a warm towel impeccably folded over one arm and a dish in the other.
'Signor Inglese, Mister, I barber.'
'Puoi parlare con me in Italiano.'
'Ah.' He smiled, relieved I could speak Italian. 'I have to shave you.'
Knowing little of medical procedure, lying on a bed waiting for an operation, what else could I do? Look confused and nod. He told me and indicated for me to take my hospital pyjamas and pants down. This had nothing to do with glam hairstyle photo opportunity. He wanted to shave my lower hair. Hope was definitely replaced by fear after the lather was applied and he produced a cut-throat razor, the tool beloved of true Italian barbers that brings a gleam of reverence to their eyes. I stared at the ceiling, trying not to move a muscle. He was quick, so quick it somehow made the experience worse.
'Relax,' he said, offended by the merest idea that somehow I would think he might make a mistake and my vast exhalation of held breath. 'Four Euro’s.' I stared.
'It’s my job. Four euro’s please.' I had my lunch money for work. He walked away looking at his whose next list.
Some hours later I was down in the operating theatre. Italy is a country of contrasts. It was space age. An operating table on its own in the middle of the room and floor-to-ceiling glass panels, behind which sat several specialists. Hope, tinged with the what if’s was lapping like waves on an incoming tide. That the medical staff would know what they were doing. That all would be successful. That I would be back with my family and make a full recovery.
Two technicians arrived, one with a microphone for speaking to the specialists. The only thing missing was dramatic thriller/action/spy movie music. It was stents they explained, gave some details of the procedure and left the fact that it was a local anaesthetic until last. I probably looked whiter than a vampire who had never seen the sun.
'Non preoccupare – don’t worry.'
Don’t worry!
They pointed to a large TV screen, incongruously on the ceiling. 'Volete guardare l'operazione o una partita di calcio? – Do you want the see the operation or a game of football?'
Like any sane person, though I should have known better, I chose football. They asked me about teams in Serie A. Then they argued about what match they would put on until I told them who I supported and was glared at. 'I like both your teams too,' I said in a pleading cringeworthy voice.
They told me it wouldn’t hurt. They lied. It didn’t when the anaesthetic kicked in judging by what the one technician must have been pulling and pushing whilst asking me if I could feel anything. The needle that put the anaesthetic in most certainly did. I spent several seconds like an electrocuted cat from a Tom and Jerry cartoon, a little voice from the consultant in the ward whispering in my head – ‘Stay calm and don’t get stressed!'
It was over. All had gone well and I was back in the ward for observation. Try to relax and don’t move your legs for four hours. The "wouldn’t go away itch" began behind one knee about ten seconds later. Mental pleads of hope that it would go away were mixed with pages worth of expletives, English and Italian!
I was moved to a four-person room. I was hopeful now, almost relaxed. Ten days recovery and I could then be discharged.
It was the early hours of the morning. Two nurses talking quietly in the corridor, snatched parts of the conversation reaching me. I was a miracle, apparently. However, a much younger man had been bought in, I think they said a professional footballer. He had died. I had lived.
I’m still here. From then, I have had one constant, unshakable hope. To take something good from every single day.