Published on: 16-12-2025 08:30:00 by Stefano Marinelli

6 min read

Photo by Olga Thelavart on Unsplash

Yesterday morning, I accompanied my wife for some blood tests. We arrived before the appointment time because, usually, after 8:30, there’s no one left and you can walk right in without waiting. Yesterday morning, it didn’t go like that.

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.