It’s a quiet morning of unobstructed blue sky here in Rome.
Located just up the road from my house—some 300 meters away—there is a well-respected hospital. I am aware of its proximity because I’ve measured it as the outer limit for how far I can stray if I go out for a run. Thankfully I have no knowledge of who is inside, but in passing I think about what the tone must be like right now. On its best days, a hospital counts its shares of morti (fatalities) and guariti (healed) as a part of its regular duties. I was thinking about that especially today. Entering Jerusalem might signal one man’s first step towards death, but the truth is that every person both in and outside of a hospital is already traveling down this same road.
In this time of pandemic, it’s not the fact that people are dying that shakes me. Rather, it’s the knowledge that this disease steals away the possibility that we might be able to die on our own terms. My blood chills when I see images of refrigerated trucks. Or reports of people dying alone, people dying in a place where illness has no patience for even a smartphone screen to be brought into a room so that loved ones can say goodbye. And so I live in a state of suspense at home and maintain dialogue with those whom care about. The only difference is that in hearing the chime of each incoming message, a small part of me wonders whether this will be bad news.
The experience on the outside (when I go outside), is one of a wide berth. I walk past others who might not be passing me as far as I’d like. We hardly acknowledge each other, but I can guarantee that both of our interior voices are asking, “Is that the person who will incorporate me into the nightly tally?”
My hours have assumed a dramatically different rhythm. I do things that were not a part of my daily habits before February. I wake up, meditate for 10 minutes and then pad into the living room to flip on the TV. Invariably I am face to face with Pope Francis as he celebrates daily Mass from Santa Marta. I leave him on in the background and then head to the coffee Frog to perform one of the few rituals that I have never strayed from in my adult life.
The other bookend to my day— however each one may be filled— has to do with the nightly numbers announced at 6PM. It is probably best to call them il resoconto serale because, as one Italian told me, “the nightly numbers” sounds too much like the lottery. The entire country waits for regularly scheduled TV programming to be cut off so that the head of the Protezione Civile, Angelo Borelli, can tell everyone how the day went. For non-native speakers, I hate to say it but he has become one of my best teachers for learning Italian. I want and need to understand how the day went, and my ears prick up once I hear him utter the word “purtroppo”. Unfortunately. I say this because as soon as he gets to this point in his delivery, that’s where you hear the number of deaths that have been recorded over the past 24 hours.
The counterbalance to these nights of bad news takes many flavors in Italy. For me, I was directed to Nicola Savino, a nationally-known DJ who has taken it upon himself to livestream music from his house directly after Borelli’s grim announcement. The music is varied and excellent. His wife dances in the background and throughout the set, he sprinkles in bits of greeting and encouragement for everyone tuning in for some unscripted and somewhat external escapism. From him I also learn some good Italian: “Teniamo duro!” or Hold on! Is one such phrase.
It’s true that the numbers in Italy have been showing some signs of improvement. Like anticipating the arrival of spring, we are all desperate for signs of change. But even as though measurable change is recorded, there is still so much to be done. Or not done, as the overwhelming case may be. I hate to say it, but it is not helpful that the weather has turned beautiful and rather warm. Last night during Savino’s deejay set, he admonished listeners for being outside too much. He specifically called out the Milanese in the north—one of the areas hardest hit—while simultaneously giving them the Italian hand gesture for “Come ooonnn!”.
For those of us in the military (and not a part of the medical corps), this experience has rendered us impotent. It’s like we’ve been ordered on a deployment with only a cardboard box to be utilized as defensive and offensive armament. As strong as we used to imagine we are—what with all of the gucci training and weaponry—there is absolutely nothing in our inventory that can stop this menace. It’s unsettling on many levels, and after spending so many days at home, it sometimes sends my brain down thought streams that are better left inside my skull.
And so I return to my books. To the transatlantic chess match that I have going with my 82-year-old father. To the nightly music being played for Italy. And all of the phone calls and never-ending language training. I sit at home and hope that this disease will run roughshod across the planet without impacting me too personally. I know that’s a selfish thing to say…but I also know that this is what we are all thinking.
For some, it’s Palm Sunday. For others, it’s just another collection of hours in an unknowable series of sunrises and sunsets. Whatever the case, on most days I strive to remain mindful that each of these days—however they look—still count. We are all traversing a path that is paved by labors of love and devotion. And whether it’s sampietrini, non-skid or sawdust, it’s important to bear in mind that at some day in the future, the journey will come to a conclusion.