It's half past eight. For more than an hour, the only sound is a nurse shuffling past; the whole ward is quiet and drowsy. My shift is over. I need to go home. I kiss her goodbye, put on my jacket, grab my helmet, and sit back down. I can't leave. I keep telling myself she's fine, they only pulled a wisdom tooth, she won't need the bathroom or food until I return tomorrow morning. I tell myself it's not the first time I've left her alone in a room, in her wheelchair, with nothing to do. Her stubborn scorpion temperament has earned her solitude before. But today is different. She didn't refuse school or the workshop. She didn't pull anyone's hair or hide in the laundry room. Today her lip is swollen because of surgery, not because she's trying to move me after one of her schemes. Today she isn't home in her little room with Battisti blaring and photographs of all the people she loves taped to the walls for company. And what if she gets thirsty? The nurses won't know how to give her water properly—they'll soak her pajamas. She doesn't have a spare pair. I wish I could at least put her to bed. If she fell asleep, I could leave with a clear conscience. But she slept all day, knocked out by anesthesia; she'll probably stay there, motionless under the fluorescent lights, through most of the night.
An enormous sadness washes over me. I try to summon our last fights, our last angry words, to push it away. It doesn't work. All I see is the surgeon's face, refusing to operate because, although she was capable of understanding and choosing, she couldn't sign her name or speak to give permission.
Then the memories come. All the important, beautiful, intense moments I lived with her during these months of voluntary service—the easy start of our friendship, the difficult rhythm of daily life together, afternoons at the hairdresser's and nights when the big questions of life got answered only with tears and cries of pain. I think about the intimacy we have now, the precious authentic closeness that replaced the necessary coexistence of those early months. I think how many times in recent weeks my anxious heart found comfort in that now-familiar room. Lela's room.
For the first time since I've known her, I feel a hateful helplessness and a compassion that has nothing to do with pity—something that can only spring from deep love. With a little presumptuousness, I think I feel her same frustration at the impatience and obtuse discomfort of the so-called normal world, at a dentist terrified of bureaucratic technicalities and "possible consequences," at a nurse who wants to forget you're twenty-three and treat you like a baby.
My eyes well up. Then yes, I stand quickly, say goodnight, and leave. Going down the stairs, I cry a little and am surprised at myself. Later, in my own bed, I can't sleep. I wonder what she's doing and get up several times to reset my alarm. I want to be back with her as soon as possible.
A year has passed since the wisdom tooth extraction. Three seasons since my discharge from voluntary service. And now I understand the real depth of that experience—not in itself, but in what has followed, what has endured, what has grown, in the people and bonds that became part of my life. The legacy that remains with me, as a former volunteer, is the most meaningful and unexpected aspect of this work. But the full accounting takes time. At the starting line, and long before it, there's a vast landscape of expectations, doubts, and confident certainties.
The reasons that push some young women—between eighteen and twenty-six—to make this choice are many. Ethical conviction usually comes first (the self-description as an "objector" is not accidental), but it's not the only one. I'd add that ethics alone wouldn't be enough. A volunteer working twenty-five hours a week earns about 430 euros. If she's studying psychology, education, sociology, or a similar field, voluntary service can count as an internship and serve as an excellent test. It adds points to any civil service exam and often leads to a job offer from the organization where she worked.
Beyond the practical benefits, there's the pride of continuing Italy's precious tradition of voluntary service, and the pleasure of watching faces register that incredulous, slightly mocking expression: "Why would you do that?"
Silvia Gusmano, 2004