Shrouded in Turin

I watched her take a breath. The deep kind that fills all parts of the body. A breath that is at once both pure relaxation and comfort. She was sleeping on the beach – the calm waters of the Mediterranean lapping just a few feet away. The day had been spent hunting for sea glass, swimming, and walking around the harbor of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. Watching her breathe and be so at peace, a warm tear of happiness fell down my cheek. I didn’t know if she’d ever find this state of bliss again. I didn’t know if I’d ever find her again – my daughter who had known nothing but happiness and innocence. And I didn’t know anything about the past few months – I was still trying to piece them together in a way that made sense.

 But she was here. She was healing. And she was, once again, happy.

 Like kaleidoscopic chaos, the images, people, and moments of everything since we left the United States collided together. Time became elastic, and days that felt like an eternity seemed so distant while thinking of my bed at home – a bed I hadn’t seen in a month and a half - seemed like I’d slept in it just yesterday.

***

There are small nuances in how to properly say grazie. The typical American way – and the way I’ve said it up until a few weeks ago – leans hard on the “e” at the end. It really drives two points home, that you’re grateful and you’re very American. I’ve recently switched to pronouncing it with the “e” as almost an afterthought. A fleeting glimpse of a vowel. I’ll often accompany my new way of pronouncing grazie with a hand on my heart or in the surprisingly comfortable “prayer hands” typical of disingenuous influencers and elderly parents who think they’re sending the high-five emoji via text.

Only there’s nothing disingenuous about my grazie. Each one is – I hope – a verbal high-five thanking the receiver for saving my daughter.

A few weeks ago, we were woken up first by the cries of our son, Parker, wanting to be taken out of his crib to spend the last hour of sleep in our bed. As is tradition, this was followed closely by our daughter, Malin, who trudged with her stuffed bunny “Sheets” behind us. We all crawled into bed with daylight just appearing over the horizon, when I turned to my wife, Lindsey, and said, “At least we’ll be in Italy soon where we can relax.”

Lindsey had just spent almost two weeks away from the family as she participated in board meetings and strategic planning sessions for work. The weekend before, I completed a 200-mile charity ride throughout Massachusetts, and my sore muscles had kept me from any real sleep since. It was thoughts of our deep hotel bed, relaxing poolside on the shores of Lake Como, and hoping that my in-laws, who were traveling with us, would take care of the kids for a bit, that got us through the end of July and beginning of August. We just needed to get there, and all would be ok.

After a quick jaunt through Milan, we wound our way up through the deep valleys of the Alp foothills and came to the literal end of the road, a quaint village called Rima where my father-in-law, Joe, had spent many summers as a teenager. (He is not Italian, but his love of the place and of the family that took him in during his summer exchange program infused Rima into his bones.)

Having heard stories of this fabled town for years, I grew more and more intrigued, but feared it wouldn’t live up to the lofty expectations I’d built up after more than a decade of tales. Could a place so described truly be that charming? That filled with beautiful people? That untouched by tourists?

An hour after we set foot in Rima, I realized all of it was true. It’s quaint, as in the central piazza has a sheepdog of dubious ownership that hangs out near the town fountain with a frisbee in its mouth waiting for someone, anyone, to throw it to them. Shepherds come down from their huts high in the amphitheater-like mountains to sell their cheeses in the square. The only restaurant/bar in town sells unnamed beer and wine on an honor system as the residents and visitors cavort on the patio after a day spent hiking the mountains. And the air – it’s so pure that my unaccustomed smog-filled city lungs cough when exposed to its untainted freshness.

Our time in Rima was built around two things: the Feast of the Assumption in which Malin would wear a traditional dress and march with the ladies of the town in a parade behind the bishop from one chapel to the other. (This town of about 65 year-round residents needs two Catholic churches. Italians love their Jesus almost as much as they love their pasta.) The second involved a day-long hike up through the Calle De Mud and back with Joe along for part of the journey and Peter, the son of my father-in-law’s host family’s daughter (still following me?), leading the way.

The processional went without a hitch, and Malin, who has never been in a church before, has no real concept of religion or God, and doesn’t speak an ounce of Italian, had the time of her life.

The hike was also a success. We climbed almost 3,000 feet and ate what can only be described as the best meal I’ve ever had – vegetable soup (with unneeded apologies for a less-than-typical vegetable quota), bread, and a gallon of beer in a frosty mug, at the refuge just past Calle De Mud.

I should take a pause and speak a bit about Peter. Within a few minutes of meeting him, I knew I liked him. He was friendly, interesting, and committed to improving the world through deep research into finding solutions to medical dilemmas. In fact, his LinkedIn bio reads like a Nobel prize application. And, while Peter’s family came from Italy, he was born in Vancouver and spoke both Italian and English perfectly. With five hours of hiking, I talked his ear off. His life was fascinating. His family history was fascinating. His work was fascinating. And when he told me he was a competitive runner who’d once done this two-and-a-half-hour hike in a 45-minute trail run, I knew we were in good hands.

Upon returning to Rima, we celebrated our accomplishment with beers and wine at the restaurant and a pizza dinner at Peter’s mother, Anna’s, house. My kids, who have trouble sitting still during normal dinners, were even more excited to wander around the village and explore its twisting walkways and paths. As the sun was setting, my daughter ran into the house and asked for my phone to take photos of the sky.

A few minutes later, we heard crying from outside. I sighed in a “what did they do now?” expression, pushed myself away from the table, and meandered out to see what happened.

As is typical of alpine villages, Rima is built at cascading heights, so that someone’s front door could lead out to another house’s roof.  Walking out of Anna’s house required walking down a few steps and onto a small stone walkway. On the other side of the walkway was a giant rock that dropped 15 feet down onto someone’s deck. I’d told my kids the previous day that they could play anywhere in the village so long as they didn’t stand atop that rock.

When I went out to check on the situation, I saw Parker standing on top of the rock with a concerned look on his face.

“Malin needs help. Malin fell,” he said.

I grabbed him off the rock and looked down to see an image that will, unfortunately, play over and over in my head for the rest of my life. And while I’ll spare the details here, I saw my daughter severely injured at the base of the rock. I quickly called for my wife, handed her my son, and tried to figure out a way to get to my daughter. Adrenaline is an incredible chemical, and it allowed me to scale the outside of a house, climb up onto a balcony, and lower my daughter to the waiting arms of her mother.

The rest is a blur.

I remember picking my phone up in a pool of my daughter’s blood. I remember running through Rima’s twisted alleyways to get back to Anna’s house where they’d brought Malin. And I remember sitting in the bathroom with Malin, trying to stop the bleeding, and watching as the village doctors tried to stabilize her. One doctor, who showed me where Malin broke her wrist and was currently using a used pizza box to create a makeshift splint for her arm, looked me in the eyes and said, “No helicopter. No ambulance. Go now.”

With that, I carried Malin through the village with Lindsey, Peter, and Anna quickly behind. We piled into Peter’s rental car and sped down the mountain to the nearest hospital in Borgosesia.

“Malin, are you awake?” I asked every two minutes.

“Yes, I’m awake,” came a muffled voice behind towels and bandages.

In the distance, a thunderstorm was tracing outlines of the looming mountains overhead. Peter raced through small villages as I kept repeating, “Malin, are you awake?”

We arrived at the emergency room, and I carried my daughter in while still high on adrenaline. The doctors and nurses took her from me and got to work. One nurse saw me covered in my daughter’s blood and vomit and handed me XXL scrub pants and a shirt that would have fit perfectly on Parker – a two-year-old. I threw all my clothes into the trash and threw on what would become my outfit for the next two days.

Due to COVID restrictions, only one parent can go into the hospital at a time in Italy. As I was the one carrying Malin, I was the one in there with her while Lindsey and Anna waited outside. Peter was by my side not only interpreting what the doctors and nurses were saying but giving me neurological advice on Malin’s wounds. Quite possibly the best person to have in this situation. Eventually, they decided they were going to put Malin in a helicopter and fly her to Turin where Italy’s best children’s hospital was located. The thunderstorms continued to grow, and the helicopter was quickly ruled out. Instead, Malin, a doctor, a technician, a driver, and I were placed into an ambulance and quickly sped through the rain toward Turin. Peter, Lindsey, and Anna followed closely behind.

It was 2 am when we arrived in Turin. More CT scans. More doctors. More nurses. More forms. More interpretations. And suddenly, I found myself alone in a hospital room with my daughter sleeping with pain meds coursing through her. Lindsey, Peter, and Anna were en route back to Rima, and in the silence, the past five hours came into view.

I cried. I cried as I’d never cried before. My daughter, my sidekick, the girl who I’d loved since the moment I held her in the hospital almost six years before, was in pain. She was broken. Her eyes were swollen shut, and purple bruises blossomed around her face. The one thing I’d promised her was that I’d always keep her safe. And at that moment, I realized I’d failed. And so, in a dark room, in a city I’d never been in, with questions about my daughter’s fate still twisting in the air, I held her hand and cried my eyes out while she slept.

The next day brought more pain as they set Malin’s wrist and contorted her body on the x-ray table to get images of her spine. She was sent in and out of MRI machines and given CT-Scans. Her swollen eyes were pried open so doctors could gauge if her sight would be affected by the injuries. Dried blood was scraped out of her ear canals, and her wounds were cleaned.  

The doctors quickly confirmed that not only had she broken two bones in her wrist, but she’d broken almost every bone in her face, including her nose, her cheek, and her right orbital socket. Most seriously, she had two skull fractures and both a subdermal hematoma and an epidural hematoma. Incredibly, she’d managed to avoid damaging any vital parts of her brain, including her speech and motor functions. In other words: she got very, very, lucky.

That said, and not fully understanding the complexity and seriousness of her injuries, I scoffed when the admitting doctor told us to expect to be there for several days. Surely, we’d be out of the hospital by the end of the day and on our way to Lake Como where we’d feast upon the spoils of northern Italian cuisine while laughing at the slight speed bump in our vacation.

Lake Como was out. And, it looked like Malin attending her first day of Kindergarten was going to be out, too.

Hours poured into days. Days became weeks. The Po River that flowed next to the hospital meandered its calm waters eastward toward the Adriatic. And in the cycle, routines were developed. Lindsey and I would trade off staying in the hospital every five days or so. Joe, Anne, and Parker would explore the city as we awaited more MRIs and x-rays. At the hospital café, I ordered my “usual” cappuccino and pain au chocolate every morning through scrambled Italian and used Google Translate to understand what the nurses and doctors were telling me. I cursed the limited hospital Wi-Fi, counted the number of times a helicopter would land at the heliport each day, and watched as, ever so slowly, Malin’s wounds began to heal.

Nurses and doctors adopted names such as “The Young One,” “Salt and Pepper,” “The Brute,” and “Monica” – whose name was actually Monica, and was the only one to tell me her name. “Blondie” was my preferred server at the café as she was the only one with the patience to let me get through my garbled breakfast order. “The Old Man” was a kindly gentleman and the head of radiology who gave both Malin and me hard candies after each one of her trips to see him. There was the “Lunch Lady” who came by every day to take Malin’s food order for the next day and tried her best to speak English by asking us if we wanted “mushed potatoes” or “beef ragu.” And each day, I progressed with my Italian studies through the use of Duolingo – often trying out the words I’d learn that day on the nurses who were both bemused and bewildered in my attempts.

One night, with Malin finally off her IV drip and an encouragement to get her walking again from the doctor, I took her down to see Lindsey, Anne, Joe, and Parker who hadn’t seen her since the accident. A nurse came out five minutes later, grabbed my ear, and yanked me and Malin back inside. We walked back to the ward where a gauntlet of nurses yelled at me in Italian with the condemnation of angry mothers while I apologized profusely. I never made that mistake again, and quickly used Google translate to write each nurse a lamentation.

At one point, they took me to an administration office and, with a somber and delicate tone, told me this stay was going to cost a significant amount of money. I instinctively moved to grab my credit card with the notion that money was no issue, and that I’d pay whatever it took to get my daughter healthy and released. They cast their eyes downward and told me it would probably cost around $4,000. I laughed and asked if that was per day. They also laughed with relief and said it was for the entirety. Had this occurred in the United States, and if we hadn’t had proper medical insurance, I’d roughly calculated this would cost us somewhere in the realm of $200k.

And still we waited.

Each week, more tests would occur. The doctors said Malin was progressing well. Peter and Anna stopped by to check on us, and helped us interpret some of the results, and with each day, the doctors made vague promises that Malin would be released soon.

More helicopters landed.

More cappuccinos were ordered.

More nights were spent on the hideously tiny foldout cot listening to the sound of hospital alarms, air circulators, and nurses chatting in the hallways. I yearned to be back in Connecticut, crowded back into my bed with my family sleeping soundly beside me. I regretted ever wishing for anything else.

Finally, Malin’s MRI showed enough improvement that the doctors said she could be discharged on the upcoming Tuesday. Figuring Parker needed to get back to reality, Lindsey, Anne, Joe, and Parker scheduled flights back to the States with the assumption that Malin and I would be close behind.

They left and Malin was still in the hospital.

Then, the doctors said she could be released on Thursday.

Then Friday.

Each time they gave us a date, I excitedly told Malin that we’d be allowed out, and she’d glow with the thought of existing outside this small room. And each day, as the sun set and we remained in the hospital, she’d grow more despondent.

One Saturday morning, her neurologist. “Salt and Pepper Doctor” came in to say that her tests were excellent, and he would discharge her “tomorrow or Monday.” I asked why she couldn’t be released that day and he said, “I’m too busy.”

I have many faults. I’m well aware of my failures and how I can improve as a person. But the one positive attribute of mine, perhaps the one I’m most proud of, is my incredible patience. In fact, I’m probably patient to a fault. But at the doctor’s “I’m too busy” comment, I lost my proverbial shit.

The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. My heart raced. My hands shook. I felt a fire in my stomach. No more false promises. No more excuses. No more wasting our time.

“No. She leaves today. If she’s healed, we leave,” I said with a stern voice, “Thank you for all you’ve done, but it’s time for us to go.”

“It’s not possible. I don’t have the time,” the doctor responded with a wave of the hand, “You’re wasting my time right now.”

“Listen,” my eyes shrunk to slits under the weight of my furrowed brow, “If I have to tear this hospital down brick by brick, Malin will leave this hospital today.”

“It’s not possible,” he repeated and walked away.

I instantly called Lindsey in the US, woke her up, and told her what just transpired. Then, I went in search of a hospital administrator to plead my case. (I never found anyone) My next call was to the US Embassy asking if I’d be arrested for kidnapping if I removed my daughter from the hospital. Then, while I was connected to the US consulate in Milan, Salt and Pepper Doctor walked in with Malin’s discharge papers. We shook hands. I apologized for losing my temper. He reiterated that I’d wasted his time. I bit my cheek and mustered up a bent smile. He explained that her cast would need to come off on or around September 20th and that she couldn’t fly for 3 weeks. I thanked him, threw clothes, snacks, toys, and iPad chargers into bags, grabbed Malin, and headed to the elevators. Stopping in the hallway, I went back to thank the nurses who had been so kind and gentle to Malin over the past weeks. After saying our goodbyes, we hit “down” on the elevator and said ciao to the 4th floor of the hospital forever.

Malin and I walked out of the hospital together for the first time in eighteen days. The sun was brighter, the colors more saturated, and the curves and twists that had plagued us for weeks were suddenly lengthened into straight lines. Together, carrying a load of both literal and figurative baggage, we took our first steps forward into a world full of possibility, careful adventure, and optimism.

***

I’m thankful for all the doctors, nurses, technicians, and EMTs who saved my daughter.

I’m thankful to Parker for alerting us to the accident and dealing with a family upheaval with grace, laughter, and snuggles.

I’m thankful to Lindsey for being the detail-oriented person she is – helping us navigate a strange world with order and purpose. I’m also thankful she brought Parker home and brought his life back on track. And, of course, I’m thankful for her warmth, her beauty, and her intelligence throughout it all.

I’m thankful for my in-laws, Anne and Joe, who quickly reworked their vacation, helped us find a stellar hotel in Turin, handled logistics behind the scenes, and understood and shared the gravity and stress we lived daily.

I’m thankful for my parents who sent love across the sea from Connecticut, took care of our overly complicated house, and sent daily messages of love and calls to Malin.

I’m thankful to Peter who drove like a bat out of hell to get our daughter to the hospital, acted as both our interpreter and confidant, and gave invaluable advice on treatment options.

I’m thankful for all the friends and family members back home who sent video messages, photos, and toys to Malin, kept us in their thoughts, and offered to move mountains if it helped us in anyway.

I’m thankful for our incredible pediatrician back home who worked with the neurological team at Yale to give us second opinions and helped coordinate medical treatments once we returned.

And, perhaps most of all, I’m thankful for Malin. She’s experienced more pain and terror than any five-year-old should ever know, and she’s handled all of it with grit, poise, and positivity.

To all of them, I give a heartfelt and still accented, grazie.