Sorry if you riparlo of me. Today I “celebrate” fourteen consecutive days in bed, together with the ungrateful guest who lives inside me. Thus begins the editorial by director Massimo Giannini on Print of today. A tiptoe start, to talk about the virus not as a commentator, not as an expert, but as a patient. A 58-year-old patient who also infected his mother, ninety-year-old, with cancer, for whom there is no home service that can support her. Giannini has also been in intensive care for five days: when he entered this ward, there were sixteen of them, mostly over sixty; now there are 54 of them, mostly 50/55 years old.
The story in intensive care
His clean story, as a reporter knows how to do. He writes that connected to the oxygen tubes, to the vital signs sensors, to the oximeter, with an arterial access to the left arm and a venous access to the right one. The description serves to say something else: Covid treacherous, silent, but it does its job: it never stops and has only one purpose: to reproduce, reproduce, reproduce. Better if in young, fresh, dynamic organisms.
We forgot everything
Giannini soon gets to the point. We forgot everything. The coffins of Bergamo, the old dying and lonely in the RSA, the symbolic photos of those warriors in the ward overwhelmed by sacrifice, the murals with the doctor holding sick Italy in her arms, the anthem from the balconies. Possible? Possible. And to the barrel discharge game he replies: I don’t complain, I don’t cry. I just want a little seriousness. The seriousness that all Italians ask for. Because thirty-six thousand deaths (36,474 as of yesterday) were not in vain.
October 18, 2020 (change October 18, 2020 | 17:32)
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