BOLZANO. “My plan now? To fight.” But he also has another in mind, Dado Duzzi: “I know that those close to me are suffering perhaps more than me. I have to help them not to feel bad.” He is someone who does not give up even in the face of the boulder that has appeared before his eyes, Dado. He looks at it and moves on. For two years the boulder seems to be getting bigger and bigger, the chemotherapy, the CAT scans and everything else have not been enough but he has done nothing.
“What good would it do? Only to the boulder: and I don’t want it to win.” For this reason he has decided not to hide, neither from himself nor from others, and to tell what happens to him. He does it at times, when he is a little less tired. He did it this time too, after they told him that the chemo has not created a barrier, the trench has given way a little more, he must not stop being strong. Always on the front line, Dado Duzzi (former president of the Tourist Board), from the time of his commitment to the economy and politics, as in a new electoral campaign where the challenge, much worse than when he tried to be mayor, is for life.
“If I speak it is because I would like my insistence on speaking and telling to be of use to someone and something.” He did so with a post and in this interview.
When did the war start?
A couple of years ago. My knee was hurting. I said to myself: I’m going to Bressanone to get myself checked out.
And there?
They thought it was arthritis.
Remedies?
Cortisone. Lots and lots of it. Thinking about it now makes me shiver.
Then?
It happened that I fell down the stairs. It was as if my femur had suddenly given way. In fact, it had. I remained on the ground. And I said to myself: what now?
What now?
More checks. That’s when they saw it, not right away, but after a while, the sarcoma. For the way I am, it was like a slap in the face. I don’t react to a slap by turning the other cheek.
Does that mean he started fighting?
After a few days of my pulse beating like a drum I said to myself: come on, go for it. Then the ordeal of chemotherapy began. A first cycle that I now remember as if it were a century ago. I had a different mind than I do now.
It didn’t go well.
It seemed so, then no. To make a long story short, they told me that the least dangerous way forward compared to the inevitable advance was to amputate. Off with the leg. Terrible ordeal to say it like that, and to think what it could have entailed, no?
I imagine.
That’s when I said to myself: it happened to me, it could happen to others.
And his?
I don’t tell you. I looked at them and I understood that they were more desperate than me. They encouraged me, but I looked them in the eyes, they were not as they said they were. I am a fighter, not everyone is.
So?
If I know how to fight, why not tell how it is done, what strength I can bring out, how it is possible to live like this? I knew it was possible. I had to be able to tell it, but to do it naturally, as I am talking to you now.
Did it help?
I tell myself that it was useful. Then many people started answering me, because I started writing all these things on social media too. Reading what they were telling me I said to myself: look, they are understanding. Some went further and asked me: but how do you do it? I told them how I was doing it. And then I had the feeling of giving a hand, while I was giving it to myself too.
Was the amputation not enough?
Little by little. Some time later they called me: the tests are not going well. Another cycle is needed. And then another and another.
And at the end of these new cycles?
They saw that the PET scan did not communicate anything good. In fact, the sarcomas seemed to have no intention of stopping.
Were they advancing?
Of course they were. I looked around. And I asked myself: what do I do, do I give in? Do I stop fighting? After a second I answered myself that no, it was not the case at all. But how, I worked all these years and I throw up my hands right now when instead we need to stay up?
And he also told us about this last step of his journey.
I did it because I know there are many like me and many who are afraid that it will happen to them. And then because I will go to Dr. Bernardo, the one from palliative care. I don’t know him but I know he is a great person.
What is being said now, in these hours?
I have a clear idea of what will happen to me and I want to say it: going to palliative care means having new aids, fighting pain better, but above all, here’s what really matters to me: going there doesn’t mean anything definitive at all.
What does he mean?
That everyone must know what I have in mind: climbing those stairs is a search for a possibly good quality of life. Sure, it is a tile that can knock out. But the thought that it is knocking out more those who are close to me than me gives me the strength to try to transmit hope again. I have it. I know. Everyone who is still able to reach out must have it.
Good luck Dado.
It still will be.
2024-09-17 17:03:22