Those days, even with the television off, my mind was there in that square, reliving everything that had happened six years before. The midnight departure from Sant'Arcangelo with the children asleep. The remarkable day ahead of us. And the fateful meeting with him—"Karol," John Paul II—whom I had already dreamed of three times. In each dream, he had touched my Francesca's head, and I prayed that gesture would come true, that something else might too. The anxiety of that day didn't settle even when we arrived in St. Peter's Square, in the special section where they seated us.
When I saw the white convertible car pull up with the Holy Father inside, I thought: "At last I can make this dream real. At last I can have what I've been longing for."
When he stepped out, his gaze fell on us—not just me and Francesca, but all of us seated near the wheelchairs with the sick. His eyes lingered on us. He too was already suffering from Parkinson's, so he knew what it meant to sit motionless in a wheelchair. While I listened to his voice, to what he was saying, I couldn't take my eyes off him. So many questions. Where did all that life force, that strength, come from? Then when we drew near and looked at each other, it was an intense moment—especially when his gaze landed on Francesca. That look was different from the one he had given me.
You know, something a journalist said these past days has stayed with me. When the Holy Father was in audience with thousands of people across the world, when we saw him on television, he had to follow protocol. He couldn't do what he wanted. But once the cameras were off, he would step down from his chair and move close to the people in wheelchairs. He would stop, caress them, speak with them—disrupting all the security, all the day's careful planning. In that, I recognized something I myself had lived through.
When his eyes met mine, I'm not sure I made clear to the Holy Father what I wanted to say. But his eyes told me to keep going. And to hope.
People are already speaking of making him a saint. I hope it happens soon, because he was "great" with us. He drew us closer to God through his suffering, through his illness.
What is burned into my memory is that gesture during his last appearance—when he tried to speak and couldn't, and then passed his hand across his face. In that moment I felt a kind of defeat, but a good kind. His gesture was like a farewell. He was telling us: it's over now. I don't have the strength to make myself heard anymore. Now I'm leaving you. And that's what happened, just days later.
Since his death, I find I can't think or speak of him in the past tense. For me he's still alive, still here. I can't accept that he's gone. I can't imagine someone else appearing at that window soon. John Paul II was one of a kind. The way his face communicated his joy—his joy at being up there in that high place, and yet close to all of us.
Now I hope to dream of him again. And this time I hope he speaks to me, shows me what I must do. I hope he gives me a hand from up there.
Right now I'm really struggling. I can't turn over in bed. My hip hurts so much. Every morning I lift Francesca up and down from her chair, and I see stars from the pain. In the morning I look up at the ceiling through my tears and say "dear Papa, you who suffered so much, help me. Take away this terrible pain. I have no one to help me, and Francesca needs me. Please, help me." Now I must say goodbye. I can't sit any longer. My back is hurting too much...
Immacolata, 2005