Mom and Dad


It’s already 6 months, Dad. 6 months have already passed. It’s absurd, it’s really absurd the way in which time shortens our perceptions, the way in which it erases the moments and summarizes them in a few images, the way in which it seems to me that a lifetime has passed and at the same time that it was only yesterday. That you gone away too.

I sit down to throw up some thoughts. Although this time I have less desire, but I owe it to Dad as I did with Mom. If I thought I could convey something of this situation that would improve people, I had to change my mind. They forget everyone quickly, whatever the impact may have had.

A year and a half is enough to change your life. It takes a lot less, actually. 10 days with Mum, 10 months with Dad.

A month after the loss of Mom (November 2016), the analysis of Dad started to report an altered value: the white blood cells. They should be maximum 10,000, they were 80,000. Within a few months they almost reached 200,000. It was a leukemia, a chronic lymphatic. A strong shock is also mentioned among its causes. Simona and I have always had a precise theory: being the white blood cells the defense of the organism from infections, it’s as if Dad’s immune system has reacted to the attack of life putting all its defenses in the field. Defenses that have slowly suffocated him.
After a few months when the situation got worse, he started using an experimental drug, and everything seemed to improve much faster than the doctors predicted. Too fast. The process has sped up. With chronic lymphatics you can cohabitated also all your life, it doesn’t necessarily become lymphoma, it doesn’t necessarily have to be Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma (more aggressive than Hodgkin’s), it doesn’t necessarily have to become Richter’s Syndrome. Game over.
All this could have happened in 5, 6 or more years, instead 7 months seemed obviously enough to make us breathe a moment and start again.
It was early January when Dad’s lymphatic glands had swollen to the point that he didn’t seem to have a neck. And so in the whole body. The situation at home was increasingly disastrous, he couldn’t walk well, he was without strength, he didn’t sleep, he had different and continuous pains, we didn’t know how to help him, there was no drug he could, just start chemotherapy. The admission was delayed because there were no spot. We tried the first aid route in February.
Five hours of waiting on a stretcher, a night in the lobby, then a week in General Medicine (where they did nothing useful for the disease), and finally in Hematology. Here we were waiting for an medical examination from the Policlinico and one from Bologna to be sure about the nature of his illness and provide with chemo. The exams have strangely taken a month to arrive, much more than they should. And it was Richter’s Syndrome, the doctors told us trying to leave in us some hope anyway.
But on Wikipedia the explanation is very lapidary: “the therapy is based on chemotherapy, even if the positive response is rare. The prognosis is nefarious: the average survival, despite treatment, doesn’t exceed 8 months”.
This meant arriving in August, if everything went well. But you couldn’t even get to the next day and I have never stopped being aware of it. Every morning I arrived at the hospital or went downstairs to check how you were, afraid you hadn’t passed the night. The heart in the throat, the terror in the eyes but never in the voice.

He never knew this prognosis, he always believed that it was only lymphoma and that he will recovered. He looked at the other patients in the ward and asked why they all seemed to be better than him. We managed to give him enough confidence that he would improve but he had to be patient. It wasn’t easy to see him suffer and tell him not to complain but to remain positive.
Around us no one seemed to want to understand what we were trying to say: that he wouldn’t be healed.

He returned home a few days after chemo, with all the side effects of the first and the next two. A period of stop in our life has begun for me and Simona. We stopped doing anything but the usefulness for Dad, besides trying to work for me and study for Simona as best as possible, even during hospital hours, during the night, at times of the day when he rested, in the car, whatever the situation was without excuses for little concentration.
Our days were marked by continuous visits to the attending physician, pharmacy, hospital, ASL, assistance, nurses, doctors, in addition to daily tasks such as grocery, bank, accountant, two houses, washing machines, cooking… things we did before in four, now we were two to carry on everything, and Dad wasn’t easy to satisfy at times. We discovered an extremely fearful and hypochondriac man, at times incoherent, despite being a doctor, despite his experiences. Us two had to be mother, daughters, nurses. We had the moral support of many, but at the end of the day we were alone with Dad’s fevers, his terror of being to die at every tachycardia, the new and continuous pains, the rush to pharmacies on duty open at night, the help to drag the intravenous feeding bag, the daily quarrels to make him eat. Sometimes he forgot to be a man and a doctor and was a child again. We also had to be strict, we didn’t have to go along with his own whim, otherwise he would have leaned too much and let himself go.

After the first three chemo, several blood transfusions, complications of infections, comparisons with different doctors, new tests, it was understood that the disease had learned to react to chemo. And that Dad also had other serious problems urgent operations but it was not possible in his condition. The only thing that still worked well, he said a bit joking, was the heart, “at least have left my profession”. He was a cardiologist.
He had begun to swell again and this time he had reached the point where he couldn’t swallow or breathe. Still that there were no places in Naples in the hospital. First aid again. Transferred to Hematology and new stronger chemo. It seemed to work, but the side effects were heavy. He stayed in the hospital for three weeks to be able to resume the values a little. This meant for us two to come and go every day from the hospital, get in the car and drive 100km to Naples, spend the day next to him, sometimes even at night, help him in everything, keep him company even with silence.

There are so many empathic relationships living diligently hospital departments, with other patients. And you realize how people begin to wonder about life and its importance only when they start losing it. Why? Why do you forget the miracle of every single new day? Why do you let every little problem obscure all the wonders that accompany our lives in the background? Wake up, be able to breathe, smile, eat, have someone close by, have a place in the world, a goal, a life of memories, the strength to move, the appetite, have rested, a coat against the cold, the train taken on time, no pain… how many endless joys we have in playback for every single moment and we decide not to notice them because we are blindly spoiled to have all this habitually, because we are convinced that happiness is something else, far away, because we only complain and never make the decision to get up and learn or see the positives.
We two have never lost a smile, even at the second funeral in a year and a half. We didn’t lose a smile even when we saw Dad suffering on a stretcher of a crowded corridor and knowing that time had run out and that he too knew it but to his expressions “I feel like dying” we answered “Nope! It’s a moment that will pass and you’ll be better, trust us”. It wasn’t a lie.
We haven’t lost the good mood in any of the dark tunnels of these months, with the smile we wiped the tears of those who cried for us but was full of remorse and guilt for themselves. We fake a normal life, we didn’t find any excuse to stop work or study, because complaining and stopping are two landslides too deep, we didn’t have time to fall, not even to close our eyes.
It’s difficult to explain what life is like in these situations, to do continuous physical and psychological assistance every day, while you try to remain whole, understanding what was happening and what would happen afterwards, that the loss of Mom was just the beginning of a radical change of life, of the legal and bureaucratic problems that would come later, of remaining orphans at 22 and 24 age; it’s difficult to explain the hours spent in the hospital with good humor always in the foreground, the waitings for weekly checks, for monthly analyzes, phone calls to many doctors, in line at pharmacies even more than once a day or waiting by the doctor caring, or how much strength it takes to resist the sight of needles and blood or drip for me that I used to faint in the blood samples; it’s difficult to explain the immense gratitude to the sight of a nurse with the blood transfusion, or to the possibility of detaching even an hour to go to the grocery store, for those who came and managed to make Dad laugh and distract him, for withdrawals and medications made in homes; it’s difficult to try all this for those who have never been in a similar situation.
Simona and I have developed a visceral intolerance for all people who complain and don’t react, who stagnate in their problems for pure masochism.

Life runs forward and you have to train to keep up with it.

The fourth was also the last chemo. We had to bring him home one evening even if he wasn’t in conditions, but they needed places in the hospital.
Thus began the most complicated period, lasting a month and a half of suffering for Dad, which I often found myself hoping for his suffering to cease as soon as possible.
He had swollen, couldn’t eat and couldn’t even feed intravenously. He couldn’t stay at home, couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t do anything alone and we two alone couldn’t support him enough.
We managed to have him admitted to a nearby hospital with the hope of making another chemo. The same hospital where Mom had been, the same room and bed. How to ask us to relive everything again, ironically.
But Daddy was too grave… too grave to intervene but also to leave it like that.
When we realized that they were just waiting for him to died, we tried the last card and organized an ambulance for Naples, hoping for more help.
On a stretcher in a corridor of emergency medicine from 6 pm to 11 pm, when they finally gave us a chair to sit down. Simona stayed at the night with him in that corridor, without sleeping for a moment, I should have done the next one, but there was not time. The doctors made us understand that it was more grave than we had imagined. He suffered a lot from various pains, the values were all low. On the morning of July 13th I arrived at the hospital next to Simona, he was panting a lot, he was conscious but couldn’t speak. He was suffering.
For each breath a little more restrained I had a lump in my throat, but in the meantime I hoped that all these suffering were enough for you and that everything stopped early. By 3 pm they forced us out. We waited an hour and a half during which I tried in every way to make Simona laugh and to chat as if everything was normal. We ate and joked.
We came back on that he was in a coma and the doctor with no tact explained that any instant could have been the last one. You waited for us, Dad.
Even in that half hour I tried to laugh with Simona, and while I was praying, the same way I prayed for Mom: let yourself go and don’t think about us, we’ll make it, you deserve to be well. Go with Mom.

At 5:00 pm you opened your eyes to look at us and blew out all the air you had. You stopped.
Not a tear, all my love for Simona is enough. I ran to look for a nurse, and then I continued to say anything that could make Simona laugh.

I still have the impulse to take the phone to update you, or the thought of having to go down to check how you are. Then a cold shower reminds me that you’re not there anymore. The details of all these months, of the particular relationship that we have always had with Dad, the problems added during and those that we have now, I save them to you, are a sickly nauseating stuff.

Simona and I were in white and smiling at the funeral, as for Mom’s. Life regenerates and you’re finally fine, you have to celebrate.
During the sermon Don Alessandro explained that love also means suffering. Whoever says that with time things are fading, he lie. Pain never goes away. Every time we think of him it will be suffering but also love, a way to sow and transmit what he has taught us.

After Mom’s experience we understood that to show ourselves strong meant in the eyes of others to show that we were well. That people quickly forget you. And that the greatest disappointments come in the most difficult moments.
We’ve had the demonstration that others think it’s really so simple to go through all of this. What strength is synonymous with well-being.
Just because we are strong doesn’t mean that we are well, this I had to repeat also to Dad in moments when even he seemed to confuse things.
I’d like you to remember that however pervasive we may seem, for how many smiles, for how many “I’m fine” we can say, we are two orphans placed in a world where adults come to tell us they hadn’t come to visit him because THEY “didn’t have the force to see him that way”, of adults who explain to us how much THEY hurt for this mourning, we are returning from two stealing in our house where they were also stolen first Mom’s wedding ring a year ago and five days after the loss of Dad also his ring; a world of people who cry while we smile and then wash themselves out of guilt saying that “both of us are strong” as if this means that we weigh less. Pain doesn’t pass. And this is an absence that becomes essential in a person. There is no moment, conversation, joy or gesture that doesn’t underlie this lack in our mind. And the constant question is whether those around us are aware of how much this absence is present in us and constant.
It’s not true that over time the pain decreases and the memory is lost. It’s true that over time the worst memories and defects are forgotten and only the best memories afloat remain, which make everything more painfully nostalgic.
We have always been grateful and aware of all the fortunes and marvelous life we ​​lived, how unbelievable our parents were, how many possibilities they gave us, how much love, how much culture, how much future. We never took it for granted, not even when childs, we can stop being grateful to life for everything, our life has always been indisputably perfect. We know and thank it.

Everyone goes through their pains in the moments and in the ways in which it’s right for us, life has not been hard, it has been marvelous till now. It gave us so much. Everything happens for a reason. To teach us something. And it’s a right reason, and we can overcome it. It’s destiny, the case doesn’t exist. They are not punishments, they are teachings, and everything is always for the best. It’s hard to believe, but there is an immense true truth behind all this life.

How apathetic is the word “condolences”. It doesn’t have pains, it has no pathos, it doesn’t share pain. It’s a word as cold as marble. Don’t tell anyone. Be sincere, say that you are sorry, that you are missing him, that you are sad. But don’t give condolences to anyone.

I wonder if you understand how much strength you need, to laugh, don’t cry even when others cry for you, to be in a good mood at the second funeral after a year and a half.
I’ll break one day, I guess. I feel stationary in my bubble of apathy. Last year, after Mom, I was full of enthusiasm, strength, desire to be well. Needto feel good. To prove it and to hear it. I was full of love, and I tried to put it all over. But during this year I started losing it. I don’t know if it’s simply consumed, or dried up (they are two different causes). In fact I lost it all.
I’m not sure this limbo will actually end. Because it has become my way to live, it’s strange. As if it had always been like that, as if my life had always been like this, Mom and Dad are there or not, whether they were there or never. I talk about it, I smile, I understand. But I don’t perceive.

People keep repeating “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through”. They don’t understand that the real problem starts now, with all the bureaucracies, the cards, the banks, the courts, the bills, solving the problems, the inconsistency of the people, arranging all the things of our parents, building a new daily life, replace them in their roles and realize more each day than their absence is big. That up until now we had locked ourselves in a strong armor that bothered any attempt of life to throw us down with the difficulties, and that only now can we truly stop and see everything and feel everything. I’m still keeping that armor, believe me. I still have not really cried. I’m still stationary. I have not really realized everything yet. It’s not yet time.
I had the worst disappointments after Mom’s loss, when people started to weigh themselves and I saw who I had next to me. I started to choose and close doors. To choose me, my time spent as best as possible because it’s an immense gift and shouldn’t be given. We must never forget it.

Mamma was an emancipated Ukrainian woman, a teacher of Russian literature at the University of Kiev, an expert in cybernetics (an ancestor of computer science), a translator (she knew 5 languages), an interpreter, she had also worked on the radio reading stories for children (the storytellers of once), danced for many years, attended theaters, museums, art galleries, concerts, conferences, traveled a lot, read books of all kinds (she knew Italian literature and history better than my teachers) in several languages, was independent, enterprising, untiring, fascinated by oriental cultures and religions, she only needed to discuss the thesis to become a yoga teacher, and almost a naturopath. Always with the desire to get involved, never a complaint, even at the point of death. Extremely altruist. Of goodness and kingly sweetness.

Dad was an art teacher first, then a naturopathic cardiologist. In the middle also photographer, journalist for the Sole24h, painter, director, speaker. He has dedicated his whole life to others, to help patients and friends at any time of the day or night. He toured the world and took us with him to discover the history and culture that he absorbed and taught as an encyclopedia. From art to history to chemistry, he and Mum embarked on conversations from which we took notes to learn as much as possible.
Humble, good spirits, reserved, willing to help, never mischievous or gossipy. They were the example of life that we aspired every day and still, we are proud to be their daughters, in life we want to cross the same goals with the same values to get to the final countdown with the same years full of experiences and life they lived. All lived, they left out nothing.
They were incredible parents, they gave us all the love they were capable of. They showed us all the beauties of the world – only the beauties. They taught us to love, to fight, that everything is possible and that traveling means to live. That culture is the real wealth. No regrets. There are no words to explain how grateful we are and how much we have always been aware of luck in having them. And that we would have lost them. But gratitude is not comparable to pain.

All I think about and try to say to you right now is that life is beautiful and always goes well. Everything that happens to us is always “the best”, because it has something personal to teach us. And as long as we decide to overcome it, we will be on the right track. We are only here to learn, and we learn only by falling and hurting ourselves. The case doesn’t exist, Mum used to say. Don’t complain, don’t despair, there is a right reason and a teaching to learn, always.
I would also like you to remember every moment of your life what the important things are. And that is love, gratitude for every new day, gratitude for every little thing being even an umbrella in the rain. Don’t lose yourself in hatred, in pride, in materiality. Never make choices you can regret. Remember that it’s a game among many others and we will return a thousand other times. We are here only to learn to love. Make it a life mission.
Be light in everyone.

xx Dasynka

Sono già 6 mesi, Papà. Sono già passati 6 mesi. È assurdo, è veramente assurdo il modo in cui il tempo accorcia le nostre percezioni, il modo in cui cancella i momenti e li riassume in poche immagini, il modo in cui mi sembra che sia passata una vita e allo stesso tempo che sia solo ieri. Che sei andato via anche tu.

Mi siedo a vomitare un po’ di pensieri. Anche se questa volta ne ho meno voglia, ma lo devo a Papà come ho fatto con Mamma. Se credevo di poter trasmettere qualcosa di questa situazione che migliorasse le persone, mi sono dovuta ampiamente ricredere. Dimenticano tutti in fretta, qualsiasi possa essere l’impatto avuto.

Un anno e mezzo basta a cambiarti la vita. Ne basta molto meno, in realtà. 10 giorni con Mamma, 10 mesi con Papà.

Un mese dopo la perdita di Mamma (Novembre 2016), le analisi di Papà hanno iniziato a riportare un valore alterato: i globuli bianchi. Dovrebbero essere massimo 10.000, erano 80.000. Nel giro di pochi mesi hanno sfiorato i 200.000. Era una leucemia, una linfatica cronica. Tra le sue concause è menzionato anche un forte shock. Io e Simona abbiamo sempre avuto una teoria precisa: essendo i globuli bianchi la difesa dell’organismo dalle infezioni, è come se il sistema immunitario di Papà abbia reagito all’attacco della vita mettendo tutte le sue difese in campo. Difese che lo hanno pian piano soffocato.
Dopo alcuni mesi in cui la situazione peggiorava, ha iniziato ad usare un farmaco sperimentale, e sembrava tutto migliorasse molto più velocemente di quanto i medici avevano predetto. Troppo velocemente. Il processo si è velocizzato. Con la linfatica cronica si può convivere anche tutta la vita, non per forza si trasforma in linfoma, non per forza deve essere un linfoma Non Hodgkin (più aggressivo di quello Hodgkin), non per forza deve diventare sindrome di Richter. Game over.
Tutto questo sarebbe potuto succedere in 5, 6 o più anni, invece 7 mesi sono sembrati evidentemente sufficienti per farci respirare un attimo e ripartire all’attacco.
Erano i primi di Gennaio quando le ghiandole linfatiche di papà si erano gonfiate al punto che sembrava non avere un collo. E così in tutto il corpo. La situazione in casa era sempre più disastrosa, non riusciva a camminare bene, era senza forze, non dormiva, aveva dolori diversi e continui, noi non sapevamo come aiutarlo, non c’era alcun farmaco che potesse, solo iniziare la chemioterapia. Il ricovero tardava perché non c’erano posti. Abbiamo tentato la via del pronto soccorso a Febbraio.
Cinque ore di attesa su una barella, una notte in lobby, poi una settimana in Medicina Generale (dove non gli hanno fatto nulla di utile per la malattia), e finalmente in Ematologia. Qui eravamo in attesa di un esame dal Policlinico e uno da Bologna per avere la certezza sulla natura della sua malattia e provvedere con la chemio. Gli esami hanno stranamente impiegato un mese ad arrivare, molto più del dovuto. Ed era sindrome di Richter, i medici ce l’hanno detto cercando di lasciarci comunque un po’ di speranza.
Ma su Wikipedia la spiegazione è molto lapidaria: “la terapia è su base di chemioterapia, anche se la risposta positiva è rara. La prognosi è nefasta: la sopravvivenza media, nonostante il trattamento, non supera gli 8 mesi”.
Questo significava arrivare ad Agosto, se tutto fosse andato per il meglio. Ma si poteva non arrivare neanche al giorno dopo e io questo non ho mai smesso di metterlo in conto. Ogni mattina arrivavo in ospedale o scendevo giù a controllare come stavi, con la paura che non avessi superato la notte. Il cuore in gola, il terrore negli occhi ma mai nella voce.

Lui non ha mai conosciuto questa prognosi, ha sempre creduto che fosse solo linfoma e che si guarisse. Guardava gli altri pazienti in reparto e ci chiedeva perché sembravano stare tutti meglio di lui. Noi siamo riuscite a infondergli abbastanza fiducia nel fatto che sarebbe migliorato ma doveva avere pazienza. Non è stato facile vederlo soffrire e dirgli di non lamentarsi ma restare positivi.
Intorno a noi nessuno sembrava voler capire quello che cercavano di dire: che non si guariva.
È tornato a casa pochi giorni dopo la chemio, con tutti gli effetti collaterali della prima e delle due successive. Per me e Simona è iniziato un periodo di fermo nella nostra vita. Abbiamo smesso di fare qualsiasi cosa fosse all’infuori dell’utilità per Papà, oltre cercare di lavorare io e Simona studiare al meglio possibile, anche durante le ore in ospedale, durante la notte, in momenti della giornata in cui riposava, in macchina, qualsiasi fosse la situazione senza scuse di poca concentrazione. 
Le nostre giornate erano scandite da continue visite al medico curante, farmacia, ospedale, ASL, assistenza, infermieri, medici, in aggiunta alle faccende quotidiane come spesa, banca, commercialista, due case, lavatrici, cucinare… cose che prima facevamo in quattro, ora eravamo in due a portare avanti tutto, e Papà non era semplice da accontentare a volte. Abbiamo scoperto un uomo estremamente timoroso e ipocondriaco, a tratti incoerente, nonostante fosse medico, nonostante le sue esperienze. Eravamo noi due a fare da madre moglie figlie infermiere. Abbiamo avuto il sostegno morale di tanti, ma alla fine della giornata eravamo noi sole con le febbri di Papà, il suo terrore di star per morire ad ogni tachicardia, i dolori nuovi e continui, la corsa alle farmacie di turno aperte di notte, l’aiuto a trascinare la sacca di alimentazione endovena, i litigi quotidiani per farlo mangiare. A volte dimenticava di essere uomo e medico e tornava ad essere bambino. Dovevamo essere anche severe, non bisognava assecondare nessun capriccio suo, altrimenti si sarebbe appoggiato troppo e si sarebbe lasciato andare.

Dopo le prime tre chemio, svariate trasfusioni di sangue, complicazioni di infezioni, confronti con diversi medici, nuovi esami, si è capito che la malattia aveva imparato a reagire alla chemio. E che Papà aveva anche altri problemi gravi che urgevano operazioni ma non era possibile nelle sue condizioni. L’unica cosa che ancora funzionava bene, diceva lui un po’ scherzando, era il cuore, “almeno hanno lasciato stare la mia professione”. Era cardiologo.
Aveva ricominciato a gonfiarsi e stavolta era arrivato al punto di non riuscire ad ingoiare né respirare. Ancora che non c’erano posti a Napoli in ospedale. Di nuovo pronto soccorso. Trasferito in Ematologia e nuova chemio più forte. Sembrava funzionare, ma gli effetti collaterali erano pesanti. È rimasto in ospedale tre settimane per riuscire a riprendere un po’ i valori. 
Questo significava per noi due di nuovo andare e venire ogni giorno dall’ospedale, mettersi in macchina e percorrere 100km fino a Napoli, passare la giornata accanto a lui, a volte anche la notte, aiutarlo in tutto, tenergli compagnia anche solo col silenzio.

Si instaurano tante empatiche relazioni vivendo assiduamente i reparti ospedalieri, con gli altri pazienti. E ti rendi conto di quanto le persone cominciano ad interrogarsi sulla vita e sulla sua importanza solo nel momento in cui iniziano a perderla. Perché? Perché dimenticate il miracolo di ogni singolo giorno nuovo? Perché lasciate che ogni piccolo problema oscuri tutte le meraviglie che in sottofondo accompagnano la nostra vita? Svegliarsi, essere in grado di respirare, di sorridere, mangiare, avere qualcuno accanto, avere un posto al mondo, un obiettivo, una vita di ricordi, la forza per muoversi, l’appetito, aver riposato, un capotto contro il freddo, il treno preso in orario, nessun dolore… quante infinite gioie abbiamo in playback per ogni singolo attimo e decidiamo di non notarli perché siamo ciecamente viziati ad avere tutto questo abitualmente, perché siamo convinti che la felicità sia altro, lontana, perché sappiamo solo lamentarci e mai prendere la decisione di alzarci e imparare o vederne i lati positivi.
Noi due non abbiamo perso mai il sorriso, neanche al secondo funerale nel giro di un anno e mezzo. Non abbiamo perso il sorriso neanche quando vedevamo Papà soffrire su una barella di un corridoio affollato e sapendo che fosse scaduto il tempo e che anche lui lo sapeva ma alle sue espressioni “Mi sento morire” rispondevamo “Macché! È un momento che passerà e starai meglio, fidati”. Non era una bugia.
Non abbiamo perso il buonumore in nessuno dei tunnel bui di questi mesi, con il sorriso abbiamo asciugato le lacrime di chi piangeva per noi ma era pieno di rimorsi e sensi di colpa per sé. 
Abbiamo finto una vita normale, non abbiamo trovato alcuna scusa per fermare il lavoro o lo studio, perché lamentarsi e fermarsi sono due frane troppo profonde, non avevamo tempo per cadere, neanche per chiudere gli occhi.
È difficile spiegare cosa diventi la vita in queste situazioni, fare assistenza continua ogni giorno fisica e psicologica, mentre tu stesso cerchi di restare integro, capendo perfettamente cosa stava succedendo e cosa ci sarebbe stato dopo, che la perdita di Mamma era solo l’inizio di un cambiamento di vita radicale, dei problemi legali e burocratici che sarebbero venuti dopo, del restare orfane a 22 e 24 anni; è difficile spiegare le ore trascorse in ospedale con il buonumore sempre in primo piano, le attese per i controlli settimanali, per le analisi mensili, le telefonate ai tanti medici, in fila alle farmacie anche più di una volta al giorno o in attesa dal medico curante, o quanta forza ci voglia a resistere alla vista di aghi e sangue o tirare flebo per me che ero solita svenire ai prelievi; è difficile spiegare la gratitudine immensa alla vista di un infermiere con la trasfusione di sangue, o alla possibilità di staccare anche solo un’ora per andare a fare spesa, per chi veniva e riusciva a far ridere Papà e distrarlo, per i prelievi e le medicazioni fatte in case; è difficile provare tutto questo per chi non si è mai trovato in una situazione simile.
Io e Simona abbiamo sviluppato un’insofferenza viscerale per tutte le persone che si lamentano e non reagiscono, che stagnano nei loro problemi per puro masochismo.

La vita corre avanti e bisogna allenarsi per starle dietro.

La quarta è stata anche l’ultima chemio. Lo abbiamo dovuto riportare a casa una sera anche se non era in condizioni, ma servivano posti in ospedale.
È iniziato così il periodo più complicato, durato un mese e mezzo di sofferenza per Papà, che spesso mi ritrovavo a sperare le sue sofferenza cessassero quanto prima.
Si era rigonfiato, non riusciva a mangiare e non poteva neanche alimentarsi endovena. Non poteva restare a casa, non riusciva ad alzarsi dal letto, non riusciva a fare nulla da solo e noi sole non potevamo sostenerlo abbastanza.
Siamo riuscite a farlo ricoverare in un ospedale più vicino con la speranza di fare un’altra chemio. Lo stesso ospedale dove era stata Mamma, stessa stanza e letto. Come a chiederci di rivivere tutto di nuovo, ironia della sorte.
Ma Papà era troppo grave… troppo grave per intervenire ma anche per lasciarlo così.
Quando abbiamo capito che stavano solo aspettando spirasse, abbiamo tentato l’ultima carta e organizzato un’ambulanza per Napoli, sperando in un aiuto maggiore.
Su una barella in un corridoio di medicina d’urgenza dalle 18 alle 23 di sera, quando finalmente ci hanno dato una sedia per sederci. Simona è rimasta a fare la notte con lui in quel corridoio, senza dormire un attimo, io avrei dovuto fare quella successiva, ma non ce n’è stato tempo. I medici ci hanno fatto capire che fosse più grave di quanto avessimo immaginato. Lui soffriva molto per diversi dolori, i valori erano tutti bassi. La mattina del 13 luglio sono arrivata in ospedale accanto a Simona, lui ansimava molto, era cosciente ma non riusciva a parlare. Soffriva.
Ad ogni respiro un po’ più trattenuto avevo un nodo in gola, eppure intanto speravo che tutte queste sofferenze fossero abbastanza per te e che tutto smettesse presto. Per le 15 ci hanno imposto di uscire. Abbiamo aspettato un’ora e mezza durante la quale ho cercato in tutti i modi di far ridere Simona e di chiacchierare come se tutto fosse normale. Abbiamo mangiato e scherzato.
Siamo tornate su che lui era in coma e il medico con poco tatto ha spiegato che qualsiasi istante sarebbe potuto essere l’ultimo. Tu ci hai aspettate, Pà.
Anche in quella mezz’ora ho cercato di ridere con Simona, e intanto pregavo, allo stesso modo in cui ho pregato per Mamma: lasciati andare e non pensare a noi, ce la faremo, tu meriti di stare bene. Vai con Mamma.

Alle 17:00 in punto hai aperto gli occhi per guardarci e hai spirato fuori tutta l’aria che avevi. Ti sei fermato.
Non una lacrima, tutto il mio amore per Simona e basta.
Sono corsa a cercare un infermiere, e poi ho continuato a dire qualsiasi cosa potesse far ridere Simona. 

Ho ancora l’impulso di prendere il telefono per aggiornarti, o il pensiero di dover scendere a controllare come stai. Poi una doccia fredda mi ricorda che non ci sei più neanche tu.
I dettagli di tutti questi mesi, del rapporto particolare che abbiamo sempre avuto con Papà, i problemi addizionati durante e quelli che abbiamo adesso li risparmio, sono una roba di una tristezza nauseante.

Eravamo in bianco e sorridenti al funerale io e Simona, come per Mamma. La vita si rigenera e tu stai finalmente bene, bisogna festeggiare.
Durante la predica Don Alessandro ha spiegato che amare significa anche soffrire. Chi dice che con il tempo le cose si affievoliscano, mente. Il dolore non passa mai. Ogni volta che penseremo a lui sarà una sofferenza ma anche amore, un modo per seminare e trasmettere quello che ci ha insegnato.

Dopo l’esperienza di Mamma abbiamo capito che mostrarci forti significava agli occhi degli altri dimostrare che stessimo bene. Che le persone si dimenticano in fretta di te. E che le delusioni più grandi arrivano nei momenti più difficili.
Abbiamo avuto la dimostrazione che gli altri pensino sia davvero così semplice passare attraverso tutto questo. Che forza sia sinonimo di benessere.
Solo perché siamo forti non significa che stiamo bene, questo l’ho dovuto ripetere anche a Papà in momenti in cui persino lui sembrava confondere le cose.
Mi piacerebbe voi ricordaste che per quanto pimpanti possiamo sembrare, per quanti sorrisi, per quanti “sto bene” possiamo dire, siamo due orfane immesse in un mondo in cui gli adulti vengono a dirci di non essere passati a visitarlo perché LORO “non avevano la forza di vederlo così”, di adulti che ci spiegano quanto LORO stiano male per questo lutto, siamo reduci da due furti in casa in cui sono state anche rubate prima la fede di Mamma un anno fa e cinque giorni dopo la perdita di Papà anche la sua fede; un mondo di persone che piangono mentre noi sorridiamo e poi si lavano dai sensi di colpa dicendo che “tanto noi due siamo forti” come se questo significhi che pesi tutto meno. Il dolore non passa. E questa è un’assenza che diventa imprescindibile in una persona. Non esiste attimo, conversazione, gioia o gesto che non sottenda nella nostra mente questa mancanza. E la domanda continua è se chi ci sta intorno se ne renda conto, di quanto questa assenza sia in noi presente e costante.
Non è vero che col tempo il dolore diminuisce e la memoria si perde. È vero che col tempo i ricordi peggiori e i difetti si dimenticano e restano solo i ricordi migliori a galla, che rendono tutto solo più dolorosamente nostalgico.
Siamo sempre state grate e consapevoli di tutte le fortune e la vita meravigliosa che vivevamo, di quanto i nostri genitori fossero incredibili, di quante possibilità ci avessero dato, quanto amore, quanta cultura, quanto futuro. Non l’abbiamo mai dato per scontato, neanche da bambine, ne riusciamo a smettere di essere riconoscenti alla vita per tutto quanto, la nostra vita è sempre stata indiscutibilmente perfetta. Lo sappiamo e ringraziamo.

Ognuno attraversa i propri dolori nei momenti e nei modi in cui è giusto per noi, la vita non è stata dura, è stata meravigliosa fino ad ora. Ci ha dato tantissimo. Ogni cosa avviene per un motivo. Per insegnarci qualcosa. Ed è un motivo giusto, e possiamo superarlo. È destino, il caso non esiste. Non sono punizioni, sono insegnamenti, e tutto va sempre per il meglio. È difficile da credere, ma c’è un’immensa vera verità dietro tutta questa vita.

Quanto è apatica la parola “condoglianze”. Non le ha, le dolenze, non ha pathos, non condivide dolore. È una parola fredda come il marmo. Non ditela a nessuno. Siate sinceri, dite che vi dispiace, che vi manca, che siete tristi. Ma non date condoglianze a nessuno.

Mi chiedo se si capisca quanta forza serva, per ridere, non piangere neanche quando piangono gli altri per te, per essere di buon umore al secondo funerale dopo un anno e mezzo.
Mi spezzerò un giorno, immagino. Mi sento ferma nella mia bolla di apatia. L’anno scorso, dopo Mamma, ero piena di entusiasmo, di forza, voglia di stare bene. Necessitàdi stare bene. Di dimostrarlo e di sentirlo. Ero piena di amore, e ho cercato di metterlo in tutto. Ma durante quest’anno ho iniziato a perderlo. Non so se si sia semplicemente consumato, o prosciugato (sono due cause differenti). Di fatto l’ho perso tutto.
Questo limbo non sono sicura finisca davvero. Perché è diventato il mio modo di vivere, è strano. Come se fosse sempre stato cosi, come se la mia vita fosse questa da sempre, Mamma e Papà ci siano oppure no, ci siano stati oppure mai. Ne parlo, sorrido, capisco. Ma non percepisco.

Le persone continuano a ripetere “Mi dispiace per quello che avete passato”. Non capiscono che il vero problema inizia ora, con tutte le burocrazie, le carte, le banche, i tribunali, le bollette, risolvere i problemi, l’incoerenza della gente, il sistemare tutte le cose dei nostri genitori, costruire una nuova quotidianità, sostituirli nei loro ruoli e rendersi conto ogni giorno di più di quanto la loro assenza sia grande. Che fino a questo momento ci eravamo rinchiuse in una corazza di forza che urtava qualsiasi tentativo della vita di buttarci giù con le difficoltà, e che solo ora possiamo veramente fermarci e vedere tutto e sentire tutto. Io ancora sto mantenendo quella corazza, credetemi. Ancora non ho pianto veramente. Sono ancora ferma. Non ho ancora realizzato davvero tutto. Non è ancora tempo.
Le delusioni peggiori le ho avute dopo la perdita di Mamma, quando le persone hanno iniziato a pesarsi da sole e ho visto in faccia chi avevo accanto. Ho iniziato a scegliere e chiudere porte. A scegliere me, il mio tempo speso al meglio possibile perché è un dono immenso e non va regalato. Non dobbiamo dimenticarlo mai. 

Mamma era un’emancipata donna ucraina, insegnante di letteratura Russa all’università di Kiev, esperta in cibernetica (antenata dell’informatica), traduttrice (conosceva 5 lingue), interprete, aveva lavorato anche in radio leggendo storie per bambini (i cantastorie di un tempo), danzato per molti anni, frequentato teatri, musei, gallerie d’arte, concerti, convegni, viaggiato tanto, leggeva libri di ogni genere (conosceva la letteratura e storia italiana meglio dei miei insegnanti) in diverse lingue, era indipendente, intraprendente, instancabile, affascinata dalle culture e religioni orientali, le mancava solo la discussione della tesi per diventare insegnante di yoga, e quasi naturopata. Sempre con la voglia di mettersi in gioco, mai una lamentela, neanche in punto di morte. Altruista oltremodo. Di bontà e dolcezza regali.

Papà è stato maestro d’arte prima, medico cardiologo naturopata poi. Nel mezzo anche fotografo, giornalista per il Sole24h, pittore, regista, relatore. Ha dedicato l’intera vita agli altri, per aiutare pazienti e amici a qualsiasi ora del giorno e della notte. Ha girato il mondo e portato noi con lui a scoprirne la storia e la cultura che assorbiva e insegnava come un’enciclopedia. Dall’arte alla storia alla chimica, lui e Mamma intraprendevano conversazioni da cui prendevamo appunti per imparare quanto possibile. 
Umili, buoni d’animo, riservati, disposti all’aiuto, mai maliziosi o pettegoli. Sono stati l’esempio di vita a cui abbiamo aspirato ogni giorno e tutt’ora, siamo fiere di essere loro figlie, nella vita vogliamo varcare gli stessi traguardi con gli stessi valori per arrivare al countdown finale con gli stessi anni densi di esperienze e vita vissuta. Tutto vissuto, non hanno tralasciato nulla.
Sono stati due genitori incredibili, ci hanno dato tutto l’amore di cui erano capaci. Ci hanno mostrato tutte le bellezze del mondo – solo le bellezze. Ci hanno insegnato ad amare, a lottare, che tutto è possibile e che viaggiare significa vivere. Che la cultura è la vera ricchezza.
Nessun rimpianto. Non ci sono parole per spiegare quanto siamo riconoscenti e quanto siamo sempre state coscienti della fortuna ad averli. E che li avremmo persi. Ma la gratitudine non è comparabile al dolore.

Tutto quello che mi viene da pensare e da provare e da dirvi, in questo momento, è che la vita è bella e va sempre per il meglio. È sempre “il meglio” tutto quello che ci accade, perché ha qualcosa di personale da insegnarci. E fin quando decideremo di superarlo, saremo sulla giusta strada. Siamo qui unicamente per imparare, e si impara solo cadendo e facendosi male. Il caso non esiste, diceva sempre Mamma. Non lamentatevi, non disperatevi, c’è un motivo giusto e un insegnamento da apprendere, sempre.
Vorrei anche che ricordaste ogni istante della vostra vita quali sono le cose importanti. E cioè l’amore, la riconoscenza per ogni giorno nuovo, la gratitudine per ogni piccola cosa foss’anche avere l’ombrello sotto la pioggia. Non perdetevi nell’odio, nell’orgoglio, nella materialità. Non fate mai scelte di cui potrete pentirvi. Ricordate che è una partita tra tante altre e torneremo mille altre volte ancora. Siamo qui solo per imparare ad amare. Fatene una missione di vita.
Sia luce in tutti.

xx Dasynka

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  • Reply
    8 February 2019 at 21:14

    This is such a beautiful post <3 I love how open and vulnerable you are about this. Its amazing how this post has already touched so many lives.

    • Reply
      9 February 2019 at 19:55

      Thank you so much❤️ xx

  • Reply
    Gemma Etc.
    5 February 2019 at 16:30

    I’m so sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine the pain you’re feeling right now, sending you lots of love xx

    Gemma • ❤️

    • Reply
      6 February 2019 at 17:45

      ❤️ xx

  • Reply
    Andreea Birsan
    31 January 2019 at 21:50

    So sorry about your loss! Sending you a warm hug.


    • Reply
      1 February 2019 at 16:36


  • Reply
    Len Parent
    28 January 2019 at 23:13

    I’m so sorry for your loss. This blog post is inspiring. What a beautiful tribute to your Dad.
    Praying for you and your family.
    Much love, Len

    • Reply
      1 February 2019 at 16:36

      Thank you❤️ xx

  • Reply
    25 January 2019 at 21:34

    This is so beautifully written and a wonderful tribute to your father. I am so sorry for your loss. Losing a loved one, particularly a parent, is the hardest thing one has to go through. Sending lots of love your way.

    • Reply
      1 February 2019 at 16:35

      Thank you ❤️ xx

  • Reply
    24 January 2019 at 3:17

    Reading this brought a tear to my eye, it’s so sad when we lose someone we love and losing your parents so close together must be hard. He seemed like a true fighter though, going through all of that, all of those treatments, the chemo, and still staying strong for so long. It’s amazing how much strength we can find in ourselves. I’m really pleased you’re managing to stay positive as life will always be something that comes and goes, which we cannot control, but how we deal with it is what matters. You’re strong, both you and your sister, and it is so crazy how fast the time goes. It really does fly by. Lots of love to you both xx.
    Raindrops of Sapphire

    • Reply
      25 January 2019 at 17:10

      Oh thank you so much, your words are so precious for me. Thank you so much for reading, for feeling my pain, for your emphaty. They mean so much for me and gave me much more strength. Thank you❤️ xx

  • Reply
    22 January 2019 at 6:18

    This is so sad but full of love shown towards your parents, I feel sorry you lose them both. My dad was also in a coma due to lung cancer and I was there for a week before he died. I couldn’t forget the pain each time I set foot in the hospital where he was only to find him in the same condition everyday. But it’s good to know that we have sibling/s we can share the pain although we can’t really divide the pain it’s just that we are experiencing the same painful situation that they can relate with and be a shoulder to cry on. Hope that you and your sis will always be there for each other, you both seem strong and compassionate women. I’m wishing you a happy and fun new year with full of hope and aspirations.

    • Reply
      25 January 2019 at 17:06

      Having a sister was my salvation, they can relate but also fully understand the feeling, situations with people, problems and every single emotion. My sister and I don’t need to speak to understand exaclty what we are thinking, be became like one persone. So I’m so happy that you aren’t alone and hope it will always be this way for you. Thank you so much for sharing your pain, I’m so incredibly sorry to hear all these stories, but I undestrand how many people know what life means, how beautiful and precious it is. And then I can’t not think that our beloved are now much more better then us. We only want the best for them, right? ❤️xx

  • Reply
    sonia // daring coco
    22 January 2019 at 1:25

    This was a very emotional read for me so I cant begin to imagine how so for you and how incredibly brave you are to share this story. Good and the bad. Times like these really do show you people’s true nature. You learn who real friends and family are too. I’m so sorry you and your sister had to lose two important people in such a short time. Your parents really sounded like exceptional humans. So talented and intelligent. It would be safe for me to assume that they really lived too. My story isn’t similar to yours, though I can easily resonate to it. Especially the “tact” of doctors. Back in 2010 I lost my aunt to bowl cancer. When she past we or more like me kept getting harassed by nurses and doctors wanting to clear the room while our whole family and some of her friends grieved. This is something I still remember vividly and something that makes me so angry. My aunt had been suffering dementia and Alzheimers too but the cancer was horrible. We only had six months from her diagnosis and she deteriorated rapidly. My mum never left her side in the hospital. I always regret not visiting more or being patient with her. There’s always the what-if’s and what I could have done better sadly. I learned very strong lessons during and after her death. Mostly about who was really there for me when I needed. But also how short life can be. These kind of experiences can change a person forever. But not always. We experience loss differently I guess.


    • Reply
      25 January 2019 at 16:54

      First of all thank you, thank you so much for taking time to read me, to write me, to live with me through ours experiences. As you write, there is always the what-if but they are the wroste things in the world. Life has its path, and everything we experience needs us to learn something. Cause we need exactly that to learn exactly this. So as faster we learn to let everything go and just love -everything- the better is for us. Lately it became even more difficult for me: I didn’t had what-if and now I started having dubt and regrets.. and it’s the worst. I’m trying to understand more and more that nothing was wrong, we act following our feelings, so everything is right. We just have to become more concius about our choises, and love more and more. Thank you for sharing your story❤️ sending you all my love❤️ xx

  • Reply
    21 January 2019 at 1:43

    This was so heartbreaking for me to read but my condolences are with you. Stay strong. You have a strong online, blogging community always here for you.

    • Reply
      21 January 2019 at 14:38

      Thank you so much❤️ xx

  • Reply
    Missy May
    20 January 2019 at 21:57

    Aw, I’m so sorry for your loss. My sincere condolence to you and your family. Keep your head up.

    • Reply
      21 January 2019 at 14:34

      ❤️ xx

  • Reply
    20 January 2019 at 15:57

    Sorry about your loss dear. Stay strong! Jessica |

    • Reply
      21 January 2019 at 14:33

      ❤️ xx

  • Reply
    Lovely Amusan
    20 January 2019 at 15:10

    I am so sorry for your loss hun, I know how it feels to lose a parent as I lost my dad 10 years ago. Great tribute to your dad.


    • Reply
      21 January 2019 at 14:37

      I’m sorry for you too, we are in the same path. But knowing that they are better now makes everything easier, right? It’s just our pain❤️ xx

  • Reply
    Marisa Cavaleiro
    20 January 2019 at 12:58

    Hi Dasynka
    I’m very sorry for what happened to your father and your mother, I m so sorry !!
    My father has also died 22 years ago and I still cry for him today. It is a wound in our heart, I mourn everything that he has passed and you watch him in its suffering.

    • Reply
      21 January 2019 at 14:36

      I’m so sorry for you too, and yes.. the pain will never end. Being during their sufference is never easy and you know that. Stay strong as much as you can, they are better now and that all that matters❤️ xx

  • Reply
    20 January 2019 at 8:55

    I am so sorry to hear about your dad’s passing. It is very hard when your closest family member passes away. Your father demonstrated great strength when he was battling his condition. Even though there were a lot of visits to the hospital, you and Simona did everything you both can to help out. It’s never simple to go through this. I am sending you my warmest wishes to you and Simona ♥.

    Nancy ♥

    • Reply
      21 January 2019 at 14:33

      Nancy your words warmed my heart. Thank you so deeply for your kindness, for gas reading all these and the love you send us❤️ xx

  • Reply
    20 January 2019 at 0:37

    I’m so sorry for your loss, what a horrible thing to have to go through, to lose both of your parents so close together and to have to struggle alone. I hope that things get easier with time, although I know nothing will completely take the pain away.

    • Reply
      21 January 2019 at 14:29

      Thanj you so much for your time, your emphaty and your words❤️ xx

  • Reply
    19 January 2019 at 12:39

    I’m so sorry about your loss. Stay strong. We’re all here with you <3

    • Reply
      19 January 2019 at 15:31

      You are so sweet, thank you❤️ xx

  • Reply
    17 January 2019 at 18:03

    So sorry for the loss of your parents! I couldn’t even imagine how it felt and still feels! Such a honest and brave post to write. Thank you for sharing x

    • Reply
      17 January 2019 at 18:12

      Thanks to you for reading❤️ xx

  • Reply
    17 January 2019 at 17:30

    Wow such a strong article !
    I couldn’t stop to read it until the end.
    I’m really sorry for your loss.
    It must be so hard to say goodbye to your both parents. But you’re really strong.
    I love beside everything you didn’t lose any faith in life, It’s beautiful.

    • Reply
      17 January 2019 at 18:12

      Thank you from my all heart, your time and words mean the world for me❤️ xx

  • Reply
    Allie Mackin
    17 January 2019 at 16:51

    Very difficult to lose both parents so close together and to lose them so young. I am glad you have your sister. It is a difficult and grueling experience. Your parents are now at peace and I am sure they are aware of this post and your effort and tribute to them here. Just beautiful.


    • Reply
      17 January 2019 at 16:53

      Deeply thank you, for your time, your words, your love❤️ xx

  • Reply
    17 January 2019 at 16:49

    I cannot imagine what it’s like to lose a parent- much less lose both parents in such a short time. This was a beautiful tribute, babe- thinking of you!

    Le Stylo Rouge

    • Reply
      17 January 2019 at 16:52

      Thanks hun❤️ xx

  • Reply
    Linda Libra Loca
    17 January 2019 at 13:26

    I am very sorry for your loss, especially loosing both your parents so close together.

    Anne| | Linda, Libra, Loca

    • Reply
      17 January 2019 at 16:51

      ❤️ xx

  • Reply
    17 January 2019 at 9:10

    So sorry you had to deal with two losses of the people most closest to you.

    • Reply
      17 January 2019 at 11:18

      ❤️ xx

  • Reply
    Perla Aguilar
    17 January 2019 at 5:40

    So heartbreaking, but a beautiful tribute to your dad! ♥


    • Reply
      17 January 2019 at 11:17

      Thank you for reading❤️ xx

  • Reply
    ivana split
    16 January 2019 at 22:16

    I’m very sorry for your loss. To lose parents at such a young age, must be incredibly difficult and hearth-breaking. It is always hard to lose someone you love, but to lose them young is even harder. You are right that the pain of the loss never really goes away. I have a feeling that I can deal with anything in life but I’m never good with dealing with that final goodbye, it’s the hardest thing. Your parents seemed like such wonderful people, it is a tragedy they had to leave the world still so young.

    I have spent a lot of time in hospitals, many months, all together probably years and had quite a few operations…in 2017 some of my doctors thought I was going to die, but I survived. So, I can relate to what you wrote. A prolonged hospital stay and the psychological and physical suffering is hard to both experience and watch. It takes a great toll on a person, it’s incredibly difficult and stressful, especially when you have to be strong for others. You probably didn’t have any time to rest because you had and still have so many obligations, and this makes it harder as well. There is no advice I can give because advice is empty in this kind of situations. But I can tell you what gives me solace personally in cases of loss- it comforts me to think that our loved ones live on in us as long as we remember them. I think we can feel their presence in a way. Such is the power of love. And as difficult it is to say that final goodbye, love can offer comfort because love can’t never die.

    You are right that we often don’t appreciate the gift of life. People often complain about small things while there are millions of people who suffer unspeakable pains, who are fighting for their lives. When one goes through health problems, one realizes how precious life is. How precious is to share sincere emotion with someone, to make someone laugh, to comfort someone. That’s life. Not daydreaming about future happiness, not being unhappy because things didn’t work out as planned. Life is in the present, in the love we can give and feel.

    • Reply
      17 January 2019 at 11:17

      Your words fulled me so much. Your empathy is so high and this is never something to take for guarantee. And I understand that your experiences gave you all the straight to know what life really is, how much be happy for every moment, the importance of living the present and be grateful each moment. I’m so sorry for your hospital experiences, for the suffering.. but I see how much it gives to you. It’s that kind of gratitude and love and happiness that no other experience in life can give. I hope with my all heart that you are fine now, that your sufferings are ended and that you can live your life totally and happily. You have such a big heart and understanding, I hope that those around you can learn from you. Sending you so much love and so much thanks for taking the time to read and to write to me, it means the world. The world. Thank you❤️ xx

  • Reply
    Recep Hilmi TUFAN
    16 January 2019 at 14:08

    I am so sorry for your loss. I also lost my mom 7 years ago from rectum cancer. 🙁

    • Reply
      16 January 2019 at 15:47

      Same for my Mom… I can feel you so much❤️ stay strong xx

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