Finding, eventually, a shady little spot on E. Coli in which to park, we walked to the hospital, heading for Oncology and my ten o’clock appointment. Running the gauntlet across the hospital grounds was akin to Russian roulette. Cyclists were everywhere, crossing and re-crossing like the Royal Canadian Mounted Police musical ride. Green coated and hatted men, stethoscopes flying, white-coated, purple-clogged nurses, coats streaming out behind like Bat-Man, all sorts of hospital employees with bicycle baskets full of files, we eventually placed our complete trust in them and just strode across the grounds. Proving their innate ability to avoid anyone or anything, they crisscrossed each other and flew between parked cars, ambulances, pedestrians, any obstruction in their way.
Opening the door to the waiting area and reception, my chin must visibly have dropped in amazement at the sight before me. At least one hundred people were sitting, standing, waiting. Numerous bald heads, yellow, pallid faces, surrounded by support groups, husbands, fathers, wives, mothers, aunties, grannies, great-this’s-and-that’s and others, all set in somewhat archaic, dull surroundings. Floating among this misery were the ever-present Italian beauties, women in flowing dresses, gorgeous wigs rich red and henna and golden tresses, gold dripping from wrists and necks and ears, gorgeous soft leather sandals. So uplifting to my soul, at least. Hard plastic chairs were arranged in boring rows, dusty fake plants and one co-ed washroom for visitors and patients alike, a cardboard sign hanging on the doorknob announcing “Aperto” or “Occupato”, the user having to switch the sign on entry and exit. One sink with a dripping cold water tap, no soap, and some long paper towels that came out four or five feet at a time when pulled. Where is my beautiful Oncology? Its twelve lazy-boy style, soft seated chairs in a waiting room of restful taupe, sage green and dark rose décor, the tropical fish tank brimming with color and life?
Checking in amid the confusion of whom I really was, was very funny. My Canadian passport announced Virginia Gabriella Ferrari; my Italian passport announced Virginia Gabriella Colbourne. Very often Italian females retain their maiden names after marriage.
“Who exactly am I?” I asked Luigi.
“Don’t ask me,” he said, I have been married to you for thirty-four years and even I do not know that.”
I would be Gabriella Colbourne for the duration. Perhaps Gabriella sounded more familiar to them. At least we had a laugh as we squeezed in among the throngs, amazingly enough finding two nice hard seats.
About thirty seconds after I mentioned that we were going to have a very long wait, I heard Signora Colbourne called. Do you mean me? I indicated as I stood hesitantly, one hundred pairs of eyes boring through my body. “Si Signora, venire, venire”. I rushed on behind the nurse, her purple clogs flying, her dark green coat billowing. How could it be my turn already? All these people were before me. Guiltily, I left them all behind as I was led through a maze of ancient corridors to Dottoressa Machiara. She was just as nice as she sounded on the phone. Seated at an old desk, the top of which was littered with files, papers, medical books, we exchanged introductions and she and Luigi spent at least ten minutes chatting about Canada and our house here in Italy. I was amazed at the office; a room filled to bursting with filing cabinets disgorging their tattered contents from over full drawers, piles of boxes, and books. The walls held notice boards covered with charts, graphs, notes, and cartoons. Vacant spaces on the walls announced that Pavarotti would be in Modena and that Verdi’s Requiem Mass would be performed at Chiesa San something or other, and tacked between the posters was a recipe for walnut liqueur. There were handwritten notes pinned or stuck to every conceivable surface. The only indication of our presence in a modern day office was a computer, exhibiting the inevitable Windows program.
We went over my entire medical history, which had been faxed to Dr. Machiara from my oncologist. I answered numerous questions relating to the health of my siblings, mother, father, grandparents. Within this very small office circulated a constant flow of people, men and women, in white coats with stethoscopes, nurses in green and blue and white, people with masks. Some remained, leaning against file cabinets, curious it seemed, arms crossed. Others bent, elbows on the desk, looking at Dr. Machiara’s constant scribbling. There was much conversation, discussion, and consultation. Was I really so important, or odd, that I could generate this much interest?
Finally released, to be weighed on a scale from the dark ages, and to leave a little blood for analysis, I was told to return in an hour and we made our escape. I was desperatefor a cappuccino so we made a beeline for the coffee bar and staff canteen, outside across the parking lot. With not one space available on the baking tarmac we were glad we had left the car under the trees on via E. Coli.
It appears to me that the Italian government sinks more health dollars (lire) into hospital canteens than into medical equipment. “State of the Art” met us in every direction. Gorgeous chairs and tables, soothing dimmed lighting, washrooms from heaven, the bar lined with bottles of every aperitif imaginable, miles and miles of the most stupendous array of food, fruit, vegetables, bread, rolls, cheeses, every kind of hot pasta dish known to mankind. For staff, a plastic card slid through the till supplied a sumptuous feast for two thousand lire, about two dollars. For visitors, why stop at acappuccino? Enjoy the same glorious fare for about eight dollars each, after all it was lunchtime and we were both ravenous. Floor to ceiling windows lined every wall providing views through the trees, across lawns, down shady avenues. In a central open-air patio with umbrella shaded tables, sit the coffee drinkers, smoking, and with the standard Italian ear growth, cell phones, sprouting from their heads. We enjoyed our superb selections of pasta and salad, and stuffed to the gills, we returned to Oncology. Many of the people were still there, faces dull and unemotional, resigned to the long wait.
Once again ahead of the queue, I was called to the doctor’s office. Occupied by two new doctors and a nurse, I was again questioned on my medical history. Confirming what this doctor was reading from Dr. Machiara’s notes seemed a waste of time to me, but when in Rome….. Directed to lie on the examination bed and being very obvious that no-one intended to provide me with a cover, I whipped off my top and lay down. As the doctor examined me, I looked up at him and saw one of the most handsome men I have ever encountered. It did not seem to matter that he had thrust his hand down my pants and was poking around in my groin as I looked at Luigi, feigning a swoon of pleasure.
After dressing and being informed that my blood was good (I knew that), we were told to return next Wednesday for my treatment. I looked questioningly at Luigi.
“Why can’t she have it today? She’s already behind schedule,” he said.
“No, No, this is the first consultation. Come back next week,” said the doctor. They are all so charming and I was so tired, I could not be bothered to challenge and we left amid much handshaking, thanking and smiling.
It was almost five o’clock when we arrived at the cool haven of No. 17, Rovinaglia. To me, it was a day wasted even though I have been assured often in Canada that Italy leads the world in cancer treatment and research. I would just have to accept their way of doing things. Little knowing I would be in for more surprises the following week, we settled back into our sort-of-routine.
* * *
Thursday dawned golden and beautiful. Still, after four summers, I felt a sense of expectation and awe as I opened the shutters and gazed at the view. The wonderful old flaking and warped shutters, through necessity, were gone now. Steel ones, an ugly dull gold color, doing nothing aesthetically for the house, replaced them, but did not detach from the beauty of the view. I was not here for their purchase and installation and had no choice in color. We left that to Roberto, who as usual did a wonderful job, I would get used to the color. The eldest of Meri’s sons, he is willing to complete some of the more necessary jobs of maintenance during the winter, a quiet time on his land, fitting the odd job in betwee
n his shifts with the Italian State Railway.
Luigi had gone off to the town to do food shopping, his only addiction. He spends hours reading labels, checking contents, weight, to obtain the best deals, going from shop to shop to find the freshest vegetables. He was a chef for so many years, he just cannot give up his love of food and his concern for a healthy diet. I was glad to see him take over what I had always considered to be the bane of my existence. After work on Fridays, I would fly into one supermarket with my list. Always the same store, I could rush round blindfolded, I knew exactly where everything was. Damn the cost, get out and home and shove it all in the cupboards and fridge and collapse with a glass of wine. The only similarity to Friday afternoons now is the wine, and not only Fridays. The forced retirement, even at a terrible price, has its rewards.
While Luigi did his thing at the shops I sat on the balcony enjoying the silence and my morning coffee knowing that the afternoon would bring the straightening of the kitchen cabinets! I was perched on one of the old wood-wormy chairs, which were now brilliant yellow, and drew as much calmness into my reservoir as possible, knowing how I would need it later.
My “yellow phase” struck two years ago. It had its origins in the Healing Touch therapy sessions that I enjoyed while enduring rigorous chemo sessions. My therapist worked on the Chakra theory of color zones being representational of different areas of the body. Long ago I thought this stuff was bunk, but two books by Frederick Frank, The Zen of Seeing and The Awakened Eye, which have become two of the most meaningful books in my life, changed my mind. They led me along a path of discovery and awareness of my own life and the world around me. Exploring and learning more about Zen and its connection with my love of drawing opened my mind and eyes to a whole new way of thinking and seeing. Thus, I am far more tolerant of, and open minded to, alternate methods of healing.
In any event, the yellow thing came about because my therapist, with no knowledge of my condition other than that I had cancer, zeroed in on my liver, which was misbehaving badly. My healing color is yellow and she urged me to dress and paint and surround myself with yellow, to aid me on my way to better health. Everything I ever owned that was yellow came out of the closet, drawers, and storage and draped me, the table, the sofas and chairs. Paintings of sunflowers became the norm, and every wall was adorned with the bright yellow blooms. I painted the closet doors in my art room with a jungle of leaves and flowers and included every shade of yellow I could manufacture. And this yellow phase followed me to Italy. It was the year that my neighbors and the villagers would finally be convinced that I was totally mad.
Luigi has been a migraine sufferer for as long as I have known him. Over the years we have discovered certain triggers, one of which is the smell of paint. My attempt to find good, odorless paint in the little town with only two old-style hardware stores, was more difficult than I expected. Eventually, from the dusty, brown depths of one of these rickety old shops, the lady who ran the store produced my paint. She was learning to speak English and the scene seemed amusing to the other customers as I struggled in Italian and she in English. After turning over the preposterous amount of twenty-five thousand lire, about twenty dollars at that time, for a mere litre of the stuff, I was able to rush home and start my project.
I asked Luigi if he minded if I painted this, that or the other thing, considering they were originally his mother’s possessions. I did not really heed his reply. I just wanted to make him feel important, that his contribution to the redecoration was worthwhile. I took the four old wood-wormy chairs outside. I found three gruesome old picture frames in a huge wooden chest in the cantina and added them to my collection. There were two elderly bedside cabinets that could not look any more hideous whatever I did to them. Out they went to join the crowd.
The sparse but constant parade of villagers along the top road always amused me, they did not disappoint me this day. I knew their eagle eyes would not miss a thing. Within ten minutes huge black clouds rolled in over the hills and down came the rain. Away scurried the villagers. Into the cantina went the chairs, frames, cabinets and me. The only light down there comes from two tiny grilled windows and the doorway, but that would not stop me. Having sanded the chairs earlier I started on them first. With their woven straw seats they were beginning to look pretty gorgeous dressed in yellow. A second coat and they were ready to make their glorious debut. The frustration of running out of paint at this point was eased as the rain stopped and the sun came out again. Holding the chairs by their straw seats I carried them outside one by one and placed them proudly on the flat rocks of our little piazza. In the daylight they were astounding. The yellow was the yellowest yellow I had ever seen, and a moment of, “Ohmy God, did I really do that?” gripped me like a vice.
I do have a touch of defensive stubbornness. Looking up at the road and seeing two old biddies staring with looks of disbelief, immediately erased any doubts I may have had, I shouted up to them, “Aren’t they gorgeous, don’t you just love my chairs?” Shaking their heads they wandered away towards Brattesani and I knew it would only be a matter of minutes before the word was out.
Leaving the chairs in the sun I went to find Luigi. He was gossiping with Guilio in the garage. It is difficult stop the conversation of two Italian men in full swing, so I did not bother to interrupt, but sat on an old box to wait.
I love Guilio’s old garage. There is not much vacant space. Racks of ancient tools, belts, chains and choppers, iron stovetop rings, distributor caps, paint brushes, oil cans, every mortal piece of hardware you can ever imagine that might be used on an old tractor, or baler, or farm vehicle. All this and more covered the walls and helped fill the shelves piled with old magazines, work gloves, different bits of wood and steel bars and pipes, boxes filled with nails and screws and washers, nuts and bolts, paint cans and spray bombs. On a small shelf in the corner sat the ever-talking television, an integral part of Italian life. On the bench, under the bench, on the floor, hanging from hooks and nails, baskets filled with chestnuts, walnuts, hazelnuts, and potatoes. Old cement bags stamped with the Portland Cement logo, sat in a dusty pile in one corner. Wooden chairs needing to be repaired or restored, were stacked, tangled in an unbelievable maze of legs and arms, backs and rungs. Underfoot were bits of bark, nutshells, sticks, old leather boots, laceless, holey-soled and dead, and dirt tracked in over the years which had disintegrated to a thick layer of dust. Amid all this sat the wood stove, accompanied by boxes of newspaper and kindling. King Giulio’s domain—for the moment. I have, at times, seen six or seven people stuffed in to this incredible museum of one man’s life. I do not know how they fit but they appear to be arranged inthe same organized mayhem as the other contents.
My yellow chairs waited. I gave up on the two of them and walked back to the house. Not long afterwards, Luigi, followed by the cats, always looking for handouts, appeared round the corner of the house. He has known for years that I am somewhat different from the norm. He smiled kindly and knowing better than to be critical of my work, suggested that perhaps the chairs were a little bright. The cats, Bianca and Laila, however, made a beeline for them and each, settling on a chair, curled up in the sun. They may be color-blind but they are not stupid. Those two chairs became the cats’ chairs and wherever they were placed, inside or out, more often than not, one at least, was occupied by a cat. I bought yellow cushions, I stood my huge nodding sunflowers inside and out.
When I offered to paint the church, Pierina, the lady with the key, only confirmed with her rolling eyeballs, that the “artista matta” was not getting anywhere near her church. I am sure she envisioned yellow pews, yellow walls, and campanile, as she madly made the sign of the cross and backed away up the lane, her stick legs clad in red, blue and purple, diamond plaid knee high socks, which she always wore regardless of the weather. I felt honored when she confirmed my membership in her “funny sock” society by presenting me with a pair of these long, colorful wooly
wonders to keep my legs warm during the Canadian winters.
Pierina is a unique being in this little nucleus of Italian mountain folk. She was a nonconformist from childhood, and considered an oddball by her peers. She had no desire to have a boy friend, much less get married. She is considered to be quite mad by her family and others who know her, with the exception of a few old ladies. I find her to be perhaps one of the saner members of this insular community. She has a terrific sense of humor and we both enjoy long chats, animated as usual, but interesting. She has valid points of view, is well read, and always open to new ideas. She is Giulio’s sister, living upstairs in her part of his family home, and the kitchen downstairs, her one tiny dark, ground level room, with only two little windows on the world. Her daily inside existence revolves around a wood cooking stove, preparing pitiful little meals, seated at her table eating alone. She secretly feeds the three cats, leaving scraps on her window ledge, for fear that Meri will find out she is spoiling them. Her evenings are spent stretched out on the standard hard wooden bench with only the company of a television perched high on the sideboard, Cyclops constantly watching. I cannot imagine how she has endured most of the past fifty winters and the majority of other days in this room. Cleaning the church, mass and market days, the occasional gossip session with a neighbor and perhaps a visit to her nephew in the town have been her major events in life. Wandering the woods looking for sticks for kindling, gathering mushrooms, and sometimes raking hay make up the remainder of her life. A long-standing intense mutual dislike of each other has resulted in Pierina never being invited to, nor wanting to, attend Meri’s family dinners. It is evident that our visits and those of Gloria and her family, help to provide Pierina with the stimulus she needs to continue, plus the fact that she and Giuliana get on well together. Pierina’s sense of humor can erupt at a moments notice, transforming her face from a lifeless mask to a cheery look of sunshine. She is seventy-five now, so proud of her years. She will tell you that she speaks five languages and proceeds to reel off “I love you” in English, French, German, Spanish and Italian. She will describe the perfect man for whom she says she still searches. When Pierina chats with Luigi about the “old days” and they laugh a great deal, I enjoy watching her react and come alive. I have become quite protective of Pierina and defend her against criticism, refusing to listen. I will walk away from anyone who chooses to malign her. The bad feeling between some of those old cronies has been going on for years. Who am I to say who is right, wrong, or just wacky! I always side with the underdog and Pierina, to me at least, in this little corner of Rovinaglia, is the underdog.
In Love With Emilia Page 15