I wake at four in the morning knowing I will be moving today. I wonder what the place will be like. At five my favourite doctor arrives and we begin our morning chat. We discuss my legs, Giorgia Meloni, the up-bringing of teenagers and the pleasure of when your children become your friends.
He tells me that Russian novels were originally translated into French before being turned into English. He asks me to recommend a good translation of Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past.
I show him a photograph of my psychoanalyst and suggest some books. He breaks a sugary biscuit into murky tea and feeds me while he tells me the story of being taken to Calabria to perform surgery on a Mafia Don.
He says the experience surprised him because despite the great wealth of the Mafioso, they appeared to live quite squalid lives. You would have thought, he said, they would have had better taste in carpets. We continue to talk for an hour about this and that. It is wonderful to have found such a companion.
I ask him what worries him most. He says the future of Italy. I have to say that becoming paralysed is a great way to meet new people.
Then Isabella and I leave my room and are taken by ambulance to the new hospital. I catch a glimpse of the blazing blue sky. My new room is wide and comfortable and has sophisticated facilities. Immediately I feel depressed. I am in despair, I don’t want to be here, I want to go home, I’d rather die now.
I’ve had enough of this shit. I feel I lack the strength to take this on. I really don’t want to live like this. It’s shit and I’m tired of asking Isabella to do so much for me.
A young woman in a wheelchair with dyed bright blue hair rolls herself into the room and we introduce ourselves to each other.
I ask her if we can be friends. I plead with her to not let me go. She tells me she won’t. She says; “After my accident, when I first came here, I had the use of only one eye.”
Isabella then feeds me some lunch and I ingest a rather large piece of fish. Seconds later I am choking. Isabella cries for help and four people run into the room and after some clapping on my back and pulling from the front the fish is out of me. The doctor tells me I could have died at any moment. I’ll take it easy with the fish in the future.
Later on, a man comes into the room with a measuring tape. He says he’s checking my size for the wheelchair.
Until tomorrow, dear friends, in these shitty times, your writer Hanif, and a kiss.
HOW EASY IT IS TO NEARLY DIE
I can't think of anything to say that won't sound like platitudes, but I read your newsletter every day and it moves me and stays with me long after I have clicked away from the page. Despite your feelings of despair, you are adding value and meaning to the lives of strangers, so, selfish though it may be of us to ask, please carry on x
Oh my god Hanif. That must have scared you and everyone else so badly!!! Chew more in future okay!!!
Today is a big step. I'm not surprised your feeling low. Don't look at this next part as a whole job. You only need to get through one day at a time. Work hard, rest well, eat and drink well. Cry and shout if you need too. One day. At a time.
I must warn you. Rehab is slow and boring. And you often feel like things aren't happening quickly enough. Have patience. Nobody is letting go.