My eyes fall on the folder still resting on that table, full of notes jotted down on a sheet of paper. Traces of medicine boxes, of appointments made, some crossed out. The name is still legible on that worn folder, and it is not my name.

I turn my gaze and find other boxes. More supplements and bottles. I close my eyes and the walks to the pharmacy come back to me. The freezing air, the scarf, my hands reddened by the winter wind. But I went on foot, for that small outlet - that half hour of movement in a static time.

The pharmacist would ask questions and offer advice. I nodded and smiled, but understood nothing. I just wanted that time to end. Then she would ask how I was. Fine. Even though I was eating sweets and losing weight. Even though I slept like a stone, but little. Even though I dreamed - and not of what I would have liked.

Then I see the antibiotics - mine, this time - that I took a few weeks ago. When, at last, I could afford to be ill myself. For a few days. I can't stay away from my life for long.

I look at the calendar and the weather forecast on the device in front of my eyes. Sun, warmth. The plan is for a fine day out. I think to myself that I need to put that folder away. Winter is over, thankfully.

I press the button and wait: 104/58.

I get up and return to my chair, without looking back.

That afternoon in 2011, I was on top of the world. I was getting ready for a series of connected events I had been looking forward to for some time. I was going to an introductory meeting with an important potential client - one that would have allowed me to do wonderful things - and then a journey of around 150 kilometres to somewhere else, for a rather important evening, and the following morning, another work meeting. In those two days I would lay the foundations for my entire future and, after such a long time, I was truly, truly proud. I looked at myself in the mirror before leaving the house, and I liked what I saw. My smile was full, rich, bright. I decided to take a photo of myself in front of the mirror, to capture that moment.

Keys - taken. Wallet - taken. Laptop - of course. Suitcase with everything I'll need - yes. Does the car have a full tank of diesel? Yes. After closing the shutters and taking one last satisfied look at the living room, I locked up and got into the car.

The Thick as a Brick CD - to get myself going - and off. The journey went smoothly, filled with thoughts about what I would propose, how I would play it. And the meeting was a success: their situation was a disaster, and my project would give them stability within a few days. They approved it immediately, without any hesitation. In the meantime, an unexpected message had arrived, which I only saw at the end of the meeting. This message carried considerable weight - perhaps as much as the previous meeting, though in an entirely different context - and I read it twice, feeling my heartbeat shift. I arranged an evening programme, given how close my hotel was to this person.

I put on the Thick as a Brick CD again, this time turning up the volume and driving more calmly. I watched the people in the other cars and tried to read their expressions. Now and then, someone would look back at me. Who knows whether my expression gave away my emotions. What I do know is that I got a few smiles in return.

While I was comfortably overtaking, I felt something strange in my mouth. I paid no attention - I had eaten a sandwich not long before - and carried on singing. Until the moment I glanced down and saw fresh blood on my shirt. I pulled down the sun visor and looked in the mirror. My entire mouth was red, and a trickle of blood was running down my face. I opened my mouth and saw a whole pool of fresh blood, with no way of understanding where it was coming from. I froze. I turned off the music. I indicated right and pulled into the first service area I could find.

I couldn't make sense of anything. On instinct, I just thought about rinsing. I opened a small bottle of water I had brought with me, rinsed and spat out of the car door. Again and again, but the more I rinsed, the more the blood increased. The pool beside my door had become enormous, swelled by the blood diluting with water. I decided to run to the service station bathroom.

I don't like the sight of blood - but I immediately thought to bring my bag with me, with my precious laptop inside. They get stolen all the time, precisely when you're travelling alone and you step away toward the bathroom. The blood kept flowing, kept filling my mouth. That taste, that terrible taste, wouldn't leave me. I couldn't understand. The more I tried to find the source, the more agitated I became, the more it accumulated in my mouth.

I started to feel dizzy. I couldn't tell whether it was from the fright or from losing too much blood, but in either case, there was no time to work it out. I decided to sit down, not far from the sinks, on the floor. The service station was fortunately clean, and various people were coming and going. I had come from a work meeting - I was well dressed, with my bag. I was pale, my shirt stained, and visibly worried. I decided to half-close my eyes for a moment, without allowing myself to faint - and I decided that no, I was not going to die there, like that.

Meanwhile, dozens of people came and went. Lorry drivers, family men, businesspeople, young people and not so young - it was a busy service station at peak time. And I was there, worried and deeply ashamed, sitting in the corner of a motorway service station bathroom, alone, with blood coming out of my mouth. Many people saw me. Nobody asked if I needed help. I didn't need help - I would have asked - but nobody cared. Nobody alerted the staff. At best, I was invisible. At worst, someone to glance at sideways with disgust.

I could have cried - from shame, from fear, from the sense of emptiness. Then, all at once, I understood that no, I was not going to die in this corner of a service station, and that, in fact, the bleeding had stopped a few minutes ago.

I waited a moment longer and stood up. I rinsed the shirt - cold water removes fresh blood, a friend had taught me - and decided I would change it as soon as I got back to the car. Or perhaps not - what if the blood started flowing again?

I rinsed my mouth once more and returned to the car. I saw the pool of my blood beside the door, stepped over it, and continued on my way, with the headache of someone who had come close to passing out.

After about ten kilometres, I felt the taste of blood again. I opened my mouth and saw it was coming from a tooth - that wisdom tooth. It had decided to push through on exactly that day, far from home, with such important plans ahead. I reassured myself and simply managed the situation. I understood that by breathing through my mouth and letting air in, it would stop. My dear old platelets - you just have to stop rinsing them away.

Calmer, I continued my journey to my destination, my hotel. I checked in and went to my room to have a long shower. I didn't cancel the rest of my plans, but adapted accordingly. I took off the shirt, looked at it carefully, and decided that if the blood didn't come out, I would dye it a dark colour once I got home. I checked that the others were in order - they were, and I always pack at least one spare. The shower was long and relaxing. I changed into the other shirt - the one I had packed not for work, but for the evening - and checked myself in the mirror one more time before going out.

That night I fell asleep very, very late. The room was exactly as I had left it - yet somehow emptier. And no, I wouldn't have wanted to be alone. I didn't feel calm. Yes, the wisdom tooth and the bleeding seemed to have stopped hours ago - but I was alone, in an anonymous, clean, sterile hotel room. And no, I wouldn't have wanted to die there either - I thought - though this time almost mocking myself for the excessive fear of the afternoon.

When I woke the next morning, I made an unpleasant discovery: the pillow and the sheets were heavily stained with blood. I felt guilty. White sheets, a wonderfully comfortable pillow - ruined. After a shower, I went down for breakfast, making sure to eat only soft things. I went back to the room and got ready for the next appointment, though worried about this new episode of blood loss.

I went down to reception to check out. The receptionist was different from the one the previous evening: an older man, professional, with a reassuring smile - but with wrinkles that showed the smile was simply a professional habit. I handed over the room key and explained what had happened, asking to pay for the extra cleaning or any damage my blood might have caused to their linen.

All at once, his smile became real. "You can't imagine what we find in the rooms", he murmured. And he asked me to wait. After about a minute, he came back with a small white bag. "These are two gum swabs. If it happens again, place one on the affected area. It will absorb the blood and help the wound close." He wouldn't let me pay for them. I thanked him warmly and said I hoped we'd meet again. "Oh, that won't happen. Today is my last day." As he said it, though, his smile shifted, and his face settled back into the shape of his wrinkles, until the greeting for the next guest.

"I've never understood what that thing is, but I suppose it's ready to be thrown away by now?" My wife knew about my adventure on that trip, but some details were and will remain mine alone.

"Nothing, just a swab to absorb blood in case of problems with a tooth. It's fifteen years old, but I want to keep it anyway."

She asked no more questions, and carried on looking for a plaster to cover my slight abrasion.

When I found the photo, my attention shifted to a secondary detail: that anonymous white bottle, barely visible on one side. And I could smell it again - that sharp, acrid smell, now unbearable to me, that had followed me for a very long time.

I had just turned sixteen when my mother started saying she was finding my hair on the pillow. She was worried, and so was my father. Honestly - I had so much of it, it could only have been their obsession. It was beautiful, glossy, thick. I liked it, even though I kept it short for convenience. I was doing a lot of sport, so it made sense to keep it practical. But given everything we had been through in the years before, I didn't feel like arguing, so I simply acknowledged their obsession and went along with it. I showed no concern whatsoever - I washed it often, it all seemed firmly in place - but if it meant putting their minds at rest, I was willing to go along with their suggestions. The first of which was a visit to a dermatologist friend of the family. He was professional and kind and, as I expected, said I had a great deal of hair. But who knows - stress, genetics - it would be wise to act early, to prevent things from becoming a problem. Doctors. There was an entire line of products: incredibly foul-smelling ampoules to apply in the evening, designed to stimulate the hair follicles. So foul-smelling that after applying them, I had to sit still for around half an hour with a towel over my shoulders, and the pillowcase needed changing every two days because of the stains and the smell. Then in the morning, my hair had to be washed with that shampoo. A shampoo in a plain white bottle, anonymous. Expensive, but not outrageously so - the kind sold in pharmacies. The good news was that my hair really was glossy and beautiful. The bad news was that the whole thing had become a kind of slavery, and the smell of the ampoules lingered even after washing. At best, it mixed with the shampoo, creating something different. After a few months, I stopped noticing.

Time passed, and the visits, the ampoules, the washing continued. I looked at myself and genuinely didn't understand why any of this was necessary. But after what had happened, I thought it was something that reassured them, so I kept enduring it, going along with it. Of course I was irritated. It was a form of slavery. And that smell, which I had grown somewhat used to, was still different from the scent I would have wanted. But I put up with it, covering it by wearing a great deal of cologne and aftershave. My friends never said anything - in fact, they said I always smelled clean. They teased me gently, saying I smelled "too good" for a teenager, but in a positive way. I will be grateful to them for that for the rest of my life.

I was seventeen and in the changing room at school, after PE. That day I'd finished getting dressed before the others and had gone out to the entrance area. Everyone would gradually arrive there, including the girls from my class, so we could organise ourselves for the next lesson. That day, as class representative, I'd been tasked with asking the teacher to go over a topic again - a clever technique to try to avoid any kind of oral test - but I needed to coordinate with my co-representative, so we could make the request together and give it more weight. The changing rooms were at opposite ends - the boys' was at the far end of the corridor, the girls' had two doors but was close to where I was standing. One of the doors had been left open, so you could hear what was being said inside. Out of habit, I wasn't deliberately listening, but when I heard my name, curiosity got the better of reason - and of the lesson I already knew clearly at seventeen: sometimes it's better not to know.

A voice - one I didn't identify in that moment - said cheerfully: "...he can't cover that incredible stench of whatever it is he has on him. He puts on so much cologne, but it's pathetic because the smell still wins." And a general laugh broke out. My brain refused to identify that voice, or the laughter that followed. When someone stabs you in the back, you often don't want to know who is driving the knife in. It would hurt so much more.

The door opened and the first of the girls came out of the changing room. When she saw me standing there, and realised the other door had been left open, she froze. I decided to pretend nothing had happened, that I had heard nothing, and with a smile I asked if my co-representative was ready, as we needed to coordinate. Escaping her discomfort, she replied with half a smile: "Yes, she's coming. Bye!"

I never spoke about it to anyone.

When I got home, I made a decision: I would never put those ampoules on my head again. At most, I would keep using the shampoo. But the ampoules - no. I didn't explain why. I didn't want them to feel guilty about any of it. After all, even if in their own way, they were doing it for my good. And yet I felt trapped - without knowing how to get out. We agreed I would finish the current box of ampoules - there were still a few months' worth left - and then we wouldn't buy more. They were very expensive, but according to my parents, they were working. "Expensive, this placebo", I thought - and not just in financial terms.

A few months later came one of the highlights of the year: a Carnival party, organised by an important local association, where you could attend either in costume or well-dressed - jacket and tie - and only by invitation. I always had an invitation, thanks to my friends, and I looked forward to it every year. This time, though, everything was different: in the meantime I had turned eighteen and got my driving licence. When I got dressed at home, I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw. I hadn't used the ampoules for two days - to avoid the smell - and my hair was glossy and bright.

That evening I arrived by car and brought a friend along, who I signed in with me. A girl who was and would remain only a friend - but that evening, I felt genuinely good about myself. I was independent - my own car! I arrived with a beautiful girl - just a friend, of course, but all of it made me feel good - and I felt adult, accepted. Respected. There was dinner, then the after-dinner - the moment when they played music for our generation and people danced. It was the late nineties, disco music still had a pulse, even if its final stages, while we were in full bloom. At a certain point I got thirsty, took a break, went for a glass of water. I decided to stop by the bathroom to rinse my face and wash off the sweat. As I splashed water on my face, I was thinking about how wonderful the evening was, how marvellous it was to be growing up and becoming an adult. I looked up at the mirror, smiling the smile of someone who is happy. I looked straight into my own eyes - bright, full of energy - and then I saw something: above those eyes, my hair was thin. At the front, and on top. I tried moving it a little - maybe the sweat had flattened it? - but nothing changed. I froze.

A close friend walked into the bathroom. I looked at him. He looked at me. A moment - just a moment - and then he gave a small nod, the kind that doesn't need words. I pushed all the negative emotions back down, overwhelmed by the positive ones. This was me. This was really me. I ran a hand through my hair to put it back in order, and walked back into the ballroom, smiling, with an enormous sense of relief. I would carry on with the ampoules and that shampoo in its anonymous white bottle for years more.

Until life, like the bottle, came into colour.

I fixed my gaze on the photo hanging beside me. The one where I stood leaning against my car, at the Piana di Castelluccio. Standing. I didn't have the courage to try. The moment had arrived - that moment. I wasn't ready. The whirlwind of thoughts continued to envelop me and, as I often do in these cases, my brain told my body to let the thoughts tangle among themselves while I acted. I turned and placed my feet on the ground. I felt the floor beneath me. I stood up. I felt no pain. I tried walking in various directions. I moved. Apart from the back pain, everything from the legs down was fine. Everything was fine. Everything was fine. I sat back on the bed and, finally, managed to cry.

It was a cool but sunny morning in March 2007. I had an appointment at the training center I collaborated with. The goal was to present new courses on Open Source operating systems, focused on Linux and BSDs. The attendees were system administrators expert in other OSs who wanted to approach the open-source world in a systematic, complete, and guided way. I liked it, I liked it a lot, so by 10:15 I was already in the saddle of my trusty Suzuki Burgman scooter. Bologna's traffic, at that hour, was decidedly less intense, but parking a car would have been impossible. Besides, it was a beautiful day; two wheels were undoubtedly the best way to move. I had time, so I planned to enjoy the ride calmly, already thinking about how to present my ideas to the organizers. Smiling, positive, optimistic.

I left the house and put all my documents under the seat, safely stowed. I opened the gate and edged the nose of the scooter out. No cars were coming, so I decided to set off slowly. The limit was 50 km/h, but I had just left, so I was advancing much, much slower. A few meters later, as I was proceeding, I saw something out of the corner of my left eye. Then I felt a blow and lost control of the Burgman. Instinctively, I threw myself off the vehicle, sliding on the asphalt. My gloves, helmet, and jacket completely cushioned the blow, and in a split second, I realized I had made the right choice, without yet understanding what had happened. I was going so slowly that I slid for very little distance; I was already stopped and ready to get up. Before I could even focus, I felt a very strong blow to my back, without feeling any pain. Again, I didn't understand, but I saw the handlebars of the Burgman coming closer right after. Instinctively I stood up, immediately, and turned around.

There was a car, a Fiat Punto, and my scooter near me. The car was trying to maneuver to get around the "obstacle", but I understood immediately, from the damage, that it was a car - that car - that had hit me. I planted myself in the middle of the road and immediately stopped the person behind the wheel, an elderly man - but not too elderly. Meanwhile, some people who had witnessed the scene or heard the noise rushed over. I wasn't alone. He got out of the car and looked at me and the scooter. He only said, "Well, I see you're standing and you haven't hurt yourself, I'd say I can go, right? I'm in a hurry." He wasn't confused. He wasn't trying to pull a fast one. He was just focused on his schedule.

I lost my temper. He only thought about the fact that he "had to leave", and not out of fear or a sense of responsibility. He was distracted. I lashed out, "But didn't you see me coming?" His response, calm and relaxed, froze me: "Of course, but I was in a hurry to get to the bar for my usual card game and I was late. I thought I could squeeze past, I was in a hurry. Anyway, you're standing and the damage seems minimal. I have to go."

No, he wasn't a confused elderly man. He was a person focused on his routine, and this had been just another hindrance. It was him, being himself. I shouted, with the support of the people who had gathered, "No, you're not going anywhere, we're waiting for the Carabinieri." In that moment, fueled by adrenaline, I lifted the Burgman and leaned it against the side of the road. Alone. Immediately after, my vision went almost black, and I had to sit down. A piercing pain in my back which - I realized only then - I had had since the beginning, but the adrenaline was making me ignore. Meanwhile, both the Carabinieri and the Ambulance arrived together. Someone had called them, and they had arrived with some speed.

I got into the ambulance on my own legs, and they examined me immediately. They decided to take me to the hospital for checks, especially for the back pain. Meanwhile, the Carabinieri took their measurements. One of them got into the ambulance. He must have been only a few years older than me and, looking me in the eyes, said words I will never forget: "So much damage, so much pain caused by small distractions, by small things. By our small lives. That man didn't do it on purpose. He is sorry, but he keeps repeating that he was convinced he could get through and keeps emphasizing that 'he couldn't be late'. So much damage, so much pain due to our vices and whims!" A venting from a man who, every day, saw all kinds of things. Yet they were words of comfort. Somehow, this man was bitter for me, sorry. And, probably, in the general confusion, amidst the professionalism of the medical staff and the voyeuristic interest of the passersby, I really needed a contact without barriers.

As soon as he got off, I called the Training Center: "I had a small accident, I won't be able to be there as agreed. Can we postpone by a few days?" They, of course, agreed.

Small accident. I downplayed it. Because, all things considered, I was back on my feet. Because I didn't want to show vulnerability to the client, risking losing this beautiful project. Because, perhaps, I was protecting myself from reality.

When I arrived at the hospital, everyone was extremely kind and diligent. They did all the necessary checks - including an X-ray. And it was precisely that X-ray, suggested by the type of impact and the tingling I felt in my legs and feet, that brought the doctor into my room. There had been a hairline fracture of two vertebrae and, for less than a millimeter, there hadn't been grave, very grave damage. That damage would have caused the total loss of sensation from the pelvis down. I breathed a sigh of relief, but the doctor continued: "We have to monitor the tingling. I believe the problem is linked to the impact, to the effort made immediately after to lift the scooter - suggested by the bruises on both legs - but we are not certain. We have to wait." Confused, I asked what that meant. What we had to wait for. He was vague. At that point, I was myself and went straight to the point: I asked him if I was still risking losing the use of part of my body. He lowered his gaze. He didn't answer. He stayed vague and said that within a few days we would better understand the situation. He focused on the tingling. "It will probably disappear - and at that point, we will understand. If you feel everything normally, it means everything went well. Otherwise..." He said no more. I asked no more. I didn't want to know, at that moment. I kept focusing on the probably. The rest of the sentence, instead, I metabolized in the following hours.

I was just going to present my ideas for my course, on a pleasant early March morning, calmly, on a road I had taken every day for years. With prudence. Building my life, my future. My projects. If I had left 30 seconds earlier - or later... or by car. In that instant, probably, I would have already been on my way back, maybe retrieving the car from a distant parking lot, regretting not having used the Burgman.

I was discharged in the afternoon, with the prescription to get out of bed as little as possible, exclusively to go to the bathroom. There was no way to sleep: I had pain everywhere, my legs had turned completely black. I took a photo in front of the mirror - then deleted it, in the terror of what I had seen. There was no position that didn't give me pain and pangs. I had continuous tingling and little sensitivity from the pelvis down. Problems going to the bathroom, problems doing everything.

They were terrible days, compounded by a further problem. Because of the false promises of a salesperson, I was also left without an Internet connection. But necessity is the mother of invention, and the discovery that a directional antenna pointed towards the end of the street, where there was an old router with an easily "guessable" WEP password, was like a lifeboat after a shipwreck.

The tingling went on for days, until that morning. The morning I realized I had managed to sleep because I no longer had pain. The "probably" had come true. And it had gone away giving me back, again, my sensitivity.

The doctor confirmed: it was an excellent sign, meaning the healing phase had begun. No serious permanent damage. It would take time, but I would heal.

That day I understood many things - many more than I thought - about myself, about the world around us, and, more specifically, about those around me.

And about the importance of keeping one's access points updated, of course.

The waiting room was packed. Too many people, perhaps. But, according to the receptionist, it’s always like this in the days leading up to Christmas. People probably want to get their check-ups done before the holidays. They probably want to eat. Probably, barring emergencies, none of us will be going for tests in this period anymore.

While we were waiting, in silence, I looked up - seemingly absent-mindedly - and saw an old sign displaying social distancing regulations, dating back to when the Covid emergency was still ongoing.

I felt a jolt.

On the morning of 29 June 2022, I was sitting right next to that sign. That was the last time I had seen that waiting room so full. The last time I waited so long. This time I was a companion, for a routine check-up. That day I was the patient, and I was alone because, due to Covid containment regulations, companions were not allowed.

The previous afternoon I was in my bed, watching some relaxing videos. I felt, once again, that something was happening. The fever was returning, and with it, the chills. Even though it was summer and temperatures were well above average. Even though it was 33 C degrees in that room. My wife urged me to measure it. I didn't want to, but I followed her advice. It was well over 38°C. I decided to wait, as per the doctor's instructions. But ten minutes later it had risen. And after another ten minutes, it had risen even further. In half an hour, I was nearing 40°C. I rushed to call the doctor, who suggested I take medication to contain it but to go for an urgent blood test to (finally) understand its origin. Previous tests had given no indication, so we were flying blind. My wife was at her limit; I brushed it all aside and looked forward with confidence and enthusiasm. It's nothing serious - I thought - it will pass. But it didn't pass; in fact, it increased. And yet, I didn't feel that bad. Slight fatigue, nothing more. But my temperature was skyrocketing.

I called my parents - who were far away - my grandmother was in the hospital and, according to the doctors, the situation wasn't rosy. Because things, when they happen, always happen all at once. Life taught me this. Much, too soon.

I don't even want to think about what they went through in those moments. My grandmother, although elderly (but in excellent health until very few months prior), in that condition, and me, hundreds of kilometers away, like that. With what they had lived through almost 30 years prior. This was my main thought. More than my own health, I didn't want to worry my wife and them. I downplayed it. But the thermometer no longer allowed me to.

The antipyretic, fortunately, worked. The fever went down and disappeared within a few hours. And, although I was perfectly and inexplicably able to stand up and do things even with that uncontrolled temperature, I understood that things were improving. The energy was returning. And I was starting to feel the heat. But the medication was only treating the consequences, not the cause. And this nagging thought, in everyone's mind, was very clear.

I won't recount the following hours. I was definitely better. But many things happened around me that I will never forget. A funny, almost ironic photo will forever bear witness to it. That seemingly innocent photo embodies the spirit of what happened in those hours.

At 21 I was trying to rest in bed, without falling asleep. Just some physical rest. The phone rang. It was my mother. My grandmother was gone. She was unsure whether to tell me or not, but she knew me and knew that if she hadn't told me, I would have been very, very hurt.

The last grandmother was gone and, with her, the last chapter of an entire part of my life.

I remained catatonic. I knew it could happen, but not so soon. Not on that day. Not with me unable to reach her. I felt relief for her. I felt a void - that void you feel when you know something has closed forever.

I tried to sleep, in the suffocating heat of that boiling room, under the unbearable weight of the guilt of being sick right while she was facing the most difficult journey of her life. And in the guilt towards the people close to me, who had to bear these two heavy burdens. Together.

I got up very early, washed, and dressed, listening to my wife: we went to the hospital immediately for the tests, hoping they would let her in and that, given the urgency, they would let me in sooner. But the rules were clear, and they didn't want her to risk a Covid infection - for herself, and to avoid infecting me. So she stayed outside. And all the people present that morning were more or less urgent.

I waited an hour, until my appointment time. Alone, on that chair, with the weight of everything that had happened and was happening. I stopped thinking about anything. Anything at all. I took my smartphone and started looking at photos published by people on the Fediverse. And although I still had few contacts, the poetry of the #Photography hashtag without the interference of algorithms let my mind travel. Dreaming of returning to travel with my body too, as soon as all this had passed. To return to living as I always wanted.

Every now and then I looked up and looked at that sign next to me. By now I knew it by heart, and it reminded me why no one was by my side at that moment. But it was better that way. I would never have accepted someone getting sick just to be close to me.

When I entered the blood test room, the nurse was kind and professional. She immediately understood that I wasn't well and asked if I wanted to lie down. I told her the chair would be sufficient - and I explained the reason for the tests. And that my Covid swab, which worried everyone so much (except her) at that time, was negative. She suggested I take off my shirt to reach the vein better. When I took it off, I immediately realized I had worn the wrong T-Shirt underneath. Clean, sure. But with three tiny holes on the shoulder, caused by me packing it poorly in a suitcase. Before Covid stopped us all. Before that fever stopped me too.

I lowered my gaze and couldn't take it anymore. "Look at this, I didn't even pick the right T-Shirt this morning. But 14 hours ago I had a fever climbing, climbing, climbing, which I stopped at 40°C with an antipyretic. Two hours later my grandmother died, and I can't even go to say goodbye to her. I barely slept at all last night. I am really, really tired.".

She, a mature and experienced person, was almost detached. She told me she was sorry, but not much more. I expected it - they see everything, they have to be professional. I know it well, from direct experience.

Right after the blood draw, while I was putting my shirt back on, she told me to wait a moment for the label. She took some time - more than usual - and when she turned around, her eyes were glossy. I thanked her with words, but we said much more with our eyes.

When my wife's turn came, we both stood up - she towards the blood draw booth, me heading towards the exit. I looked at that sign again, for an instant, and walked away, ready to accompany my wife to have her long-awaited breakfast and have an energizing, comforting coffee.

Maybe it's time to go to the cemetery, to my grandmother's grave. To accept that day. To stop feeling like I owe her an apology.