A long day for Carlo Calcagni: “I’m still here… and I’m fighting”
Carlo Calcagni talks about his latest pit stop. “There are days that begin even before the sun rises,” writes the colonel, a great Paralympic champion who has been racking up world records in recent years. Days when the body already knows what’s in store, while the mind starts racing. And it races fast. Too fast. Today I’m at Perrino Hospital in Brindisi, and I’ll be spending—if you can call it that—a long day in the dialysis unit.”
“I’m scheduled for plasmapheresis.
More than three liters of my plasma will be extracted and will not be replaced.
My body will have to undergo a major treatment, but I assure you that the physical aspect is often not the hardest burden to bear.
The heaviest burden is that of my thoughts.
Because when you’re here, lying still in a hospital bed for so many hours, you can’t run away.
You can’t distract yourself.
You can’t just put everything on pause.
And then all the memories come flooding back.
All the fears.
All the unanswered questions.
All the people you love.
All the battles you’ve already fought and all those that still lie ahead.
Even those thoughts that you manage to keep at bay throughout your life come knocking again during these hours.
One after another.
It’s a strange silence, the silence of a hospital ward.
Outside, it seems as if nothing is happening.
Inside me, however, there may be a war.
A silence that becomes deafening.
A silence that screams.
A silence that screeches.
And yet, right there, I keep reminding myself of one thing:
We are not our worst days. We are what we choose to do during those days.
Today, I can’t choose what will happen to my body.
But I can choose how to deal with it.
I can choose not to give up.
I can choose to keep believing.
I can choose to turn even this day into something that might help someone else.
Because I know that, while I’m here, somewhere else there will be someone else locked in a room, in a hospital, facing a diagnosis, consumed by fear, or struggling with a battle that no one knows about.
And maybe that person will think they’re alone.
There’s one truth that this life has taught me, over and over again:
NO ONE SAVES THEMSELVES ALONE.
We need someone to hold our hand.
Someone to listen to us.
Someone to care for us.
Someone who, even with just a glance, lets us know that we’re not alone.
And today I want to dedicate a special thought to all healthcare workers.
To those who walk into a hospital room every day and find people who are scared, tired, and fragile.
To those who work behind the scenes.
To those who prepare treatments.
To those who monitor vital signs.
To those who care for patients.
To those who do their jobs with competence, but above all with compassion.
Thank you.
Because behind every procedure, behind every machine, behind every treatment, there are you.
And when a patient is forced to pause, while their mind races in all directions, knowing they’re in the hands of people who do their jobs with professionalism and compassion makes a world of difference.
Today I’m in this dialysis unit with so many thoughts running through my head.
Maybe I’ll leave feeling tired.
Maybe drained.
But not defeated.
Because being strong doesn’t mean not being afraid.
Being strong means being afraid and carrying on anyway.
You can be tired.
You can be afraid.
You may even cry.
But never confuse exhaustion with giving up.
One breath at a time.
One hour at a time.
One day at a time.
And when you can’t go on alone, let someone walk beside you.
Because no one can save themselves alone.
I will keep fighting.
For myself.
For those who love me.
For those who support me.
For those who care for me.
And also for those who, in the silence of their own battle, need to know today that it’s still possible to keep going.
NEVER GIVE UP.
Even when the silence screams.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it seems impossible.
Because sometimes the bravest form of victory isn’t staying on your feet.
It’s simply being able to say:
“I’m still here… and I’m fighting.”
