My father was not a religious man. He never went to church. For him, manual labor was his religion. Seven days a week, from dawn to dusk. He used to say, ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss.’ His hands were large and strong. He could break anything. He was so strong that once, a friend broke a stone on his shoulders as a joke. Men like that feel immortal or believe they will live to be a hundred.
But it wasn’t so. When my father reached his seventies, he started to feel unwell. After various tests, the specialists suspected prostate problems and treated him for those symptoms. They were wrong. The issues were different, and when they were discovered, it was too late. He often said, ‘If I stop, I die.’ He had to stop.
Even when he was immobile, he didn’t lose his courage. One day, on foot, he set off alone for the hospital, almost two hours away. He kept repeating, ‘They have to fix me here!’ His determination was unwavering as if his organs were mechanical parts that needed to be replaced.
One summer day, while floating in my sister’s pool, he was found at the bottom. He was discovered in time and saved from drowning. However, they found that the cancer had spread throughout his body. Even with surgery, they didn’t give him more than a year to live.
Back home from colon surgery, I often saw him lying in his armchair, watching cowboy movies, his favorites. I would say, ‘Dad, be strong!’ He would reply, ‘What courage? I’m waiting for death!’ His acceptance of his fate was palpable in his words.
Suspicious about the journey ahead, he had placed carob beans around the living room, near the pictures of all the family members who had passed away. He did this with a specific intention. The carob beans, a symbol of life after death in our culture, were his way of preparing for his journey to the afterlife, seeking comfort in the belief that he would be reunited with his loved ones.
And so, my father began his journey to the afterlife. Between excruciating pain, morphine, and moments of joking, he would ask my mother, ‘Grazia, why don’t you come with me?’ My mother would reply, ‘Nino, I can’t come with you.’ ‘You have to make this journey alone.’
Towards the end of his life, when he would ask to be held and lifted into a chair, I couldn’t move him from the bed. He had become so frail and skeletal that gravity seemed to pull him in the opposite direction, as if he were being drawn upward, towards the heavens, rather than downward, towards the earth.
Before his final breath, my mother placed tiny sugar crumbs on his lips. My father raised a hand and waved it gently from side to side with a slight wrist twist. It was a gesture of such sweet tenderness and gentle strength, a stark contrast to the powerful force he had exerted throughout his life’s labors.
It was his last act: a farewell and a blessing, like a priest in church. The carob beans had given him hope for an afterlife.
It was his last gesture—a greeting and blessing. The carob beans had given him hope for a life after death.
Mio padre non era religioso. Infatti non andava mai in chiesa. Per lui, il lavoro manuale era la sua religione. Sette giorni alla settimana. Dall’alba al tramonto. Mi diceva, ‘Chi dorme, non piglia pesci!” Aveva mani lunghe e pesanti. Riusciva a spezzare qualsiasi cosa. Anzi, era così forte, che un giorno, un amico, per scherzo, gli spezzo’ una pietra sulle spalle. Uomini cosi’ si sentono eterni o almeno credono di vivere oltre cent’ anni.
Ma non fu’ cosi’. Arrivato alla settantina, comincio’ a non sentirsi bene. Tra’ una cosa e un’altra, gli specialisti sospettavano problemi di prostatite e lo curavano per questi sintomi. Si sbagliavano. I problemi erano altri e quando furono scoperti fu’ troppo tardi. Diceva spesso, “Se io mi fermo, muoio!” Si dovette fermare.
Anche se fermo, non perse il suo coraggio. Un giorno, a piedi, si avvio’ verso l’ospedale a quasi due ore di cammino da solo. Si ripeteva nella mente, ‘Qui mi devono aggiustare!” Come se i suoi organi fossero pezzi meccanici da ricambiare.
Un giorno d’estate mentre galleggiava nella piscina di mia sorella, fu’ ritrovato sul fondo della piscina. Fu’ scoperto in tempo e si salvo’ dall’allagamento. Però, scoprirono che il cancro aveva invaso tutto il suo corpo. Anche con interventi, non gli davano più’ di un anno di vita.
Tornato dall’ ospedale dopo un intervento al colon, a casa sua, lo vedevo spesso, sdraiato sulla sua poltrona, a guardare film di ‘Cowboy’, i suoi film favoriti, alla TV. Gli dicevo,’‘Papa’, coraggio!” Lui mi rispondeva, ‘Ma che coraggio! Io aspetto la morte!”
Sospettoso sul percorso da fare, aveva messo carrube nel salottino di casa attorno a tutti i familiari, che avevano lasciato la terra per l’aldilà. Lo faceva con precisa intenzione.
Fu’ cosi’ che mio padre comincio’ a viaggiare verso l’aldilà. Tra dolori acuti insopportabili, morfina, e momenti scherzosi, chiedeva a mia madre, “Grazia, perché non vieni con me?” Mia madre gli rispondeva, “Nino, non posso venire con te!” “Questo viaggio lo devi fare da solo.”
Verso gli ultimi giorni della sua vita, quando chiedeva di essere preso tra le braccia per sedersi su una sedia, non riuscivo a spostarlo dal letto. Tanto era diventato uno scheletro che la forza della gravita’ spingeva in una direzione opposta, come se volesse andare verso il cielo e non verso terra.
Prima del suo ultimo respiro, mia madre gli mise granuli di zucchero sulla bocca. Mio padre alzo’ una mano e la sventolo’ pian piano da sinistra a destra con un mezzo giro al polso con una gentilezza dolce con una forza leggera tutta contraria a quella usata attraverso i suoi lavori terrestri.
Fu’ il suo ultimo gesto. Un saluto e una benedizione, come un prete in chiesa. Le carrube gli avevano dato la speranza di una vita dopo la morte.
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