Single Ladies and Silent Goodbyes

Single Ladies and Silent Goodbyes

Single Ladies and Silent Goodbyes

A week in a Trentino hospital and the mountain women that left their mark

Brain-storming mapping and laptop for writing.

A week in a Trentino hospital and the mountain women that left their mark

During these past few days in hospital, I’ve been sharing a room with a lady born in 1929. She is one of four sisters—three still to marry and one a widow, I’m told. Coincidentally, their mother was also named Emma. Conservatively speaking, their combined age must be approaching 350 years.

It’s touching to witness how the sisters visit, how attentive they are, fussing over their sister, gently cajoling her. They chat in the thick tones of the dialect spoken in the Rendena Valley, here in Trentino, Northern Italy—where I had my skiing mishap. When I ask if their dialect is the Trentino one, one of the sisters laughs and says it’s completely different—almost as different as Arabic in comparison, she claims. I like this. It’s reassuring to see such strong cultural identities still thriving, despite small geographical differences. Trentino-Alto Adige seems to be holding firm against the effects of globalisation.

These are hardy, down-to-earth mountain people. Community is deeply rooted here, as are family ties. My roommate receives a steady stream of visitors, and it’s clear she is cherished. Her recovery will even be mentioned at Mass this evening in her village. “I think a lot of people will know who you are,” one of the sisters remarks confidently.

They speak to me in Italian, though with a heavy dialect accent—I doubt they use much standard Italian. They’re warm and friendly, kindly asking how I am each morning and offering help with small tasks like cutting my prosciutto or bringing me a cup of ice cream. They continue to chat, laugh, and argue about the age of the village priest, Il Vecchio, Don Giuseppe. I suppose the concept of vecchio is wonderfully relative when you’re born in 1929.

Two hospital priests have given my roommate communion a couple of times, and I’ve received a bonus blessing myself—gratefully accepted. They chat amiably with me—one dreams of speaking English fluently, the other hasn’t skied in 30 years and considers it a death wish. From my hospital bed, post-op with two pins in my leg, I see his point.

I’d never spoken to a real priest before—unless you count the one at a fancy dress party on a boat, where I was Ginger Spice. The banter started off fun but took some weird turns—we may have been too deep in character. But I digress. The meds here are good—what can I say? The communion-giving does feel a bit business-like, but they are hospital priests, after all. They seem eager to chat with the English patient—me—though I’m not sure why. My Polish neighbours across the hall, also injured on the slopes, are self-medicating with vodka. Surely, they’d be livelier conversation?

I am mostly bobbing under a pleasantly pink-tinged mist of pain relief. Even so, it’s clear—my roommate has had enough. Breathing, eating, drinking, sleeping, sitting up—it’s all so difficult for her. She is suffering. She is being poked, prodded, propped up, and subjected to a host of other indignities. Don’t get me wrong—the nurses and doctors are professional, patient, and deeply caring. The healthcare this week has been exceptional, and they’re doing their best to keep her comfortable. But she has said several times that she can’t take it anymore. Today, after lunch, she states plainly that she wants to die now.

In my view, that should be an option for her. Who knows how much longer she will endure this? Her body is closing down, but her mind remains lucid. It’s brutal, to put it mildly. Shouldn’t she be allowed to let go on her own terms, in a dignified and peaceful way? I also feel like an intruder, witnessing her discomfort and the intensely private moments she shares with her family.

The next day, my roommate receives a blood transfusion, some extra drips, and a cup of ice cream. She has had a good night’s sleep and seems noticeably brighter, more chatty. She tells me she was dying yesterday, but today there’s no mention of it.

In the afternoon, one of the sisters reads us a story from the regional newspaper about a local woman who had just celebrated her 107th birthday. After cutting the cake, she quietly passed away. The sisters nod respectfully, and we all remark on what an incredible achievement it was—and what an incredible way to go, peacefully, after a family celebration. These single ladies from the Trentino mountains are clearly made of strong stock. With local female role models reaching the grand age of 107, perhaps my roommate, born in 1929, has some staying power yet. I certainly hope so.