Last updated on 1 April 2026
The Exercise Bike
I had been “awake” for a few days (according to the medical diary, around March 7, 2021) and the doctors had decided that I needed to begin restoring the musculature that had wasted away over the previous months.
In the morning, a very young and athletic man would arrive; he would take my limbs and move them passively, as I did not have the strength to move anything except my hand.
During that period, I was also worried because I had no sensation in my lower limbs or my right arm; this frightened me greatly and made my state of mind very dark and pessimistic.
One afternoon, however, he arrived with a mini exercise bike and placed it on the bed.
I felt like laughing, if not crying—how was I supposed to pedal if I couldn’t even feel my legs?
He took my legs and fastened my feet to the pedals with Velcro, then turned on the machine and suddenly I was pedaling… or rather, the machine was making me pedal without me doing practically anything.
It was, however, another milestone I had reached. These were all very small milestones, and this condition made me impatient and demoralized for not being able to do more. I was used to more concrete goals, and these seemed almost “useless.” But slowly, as everyone kept telling me, some improvements began to show, even very small ones; one milestone I was still missing was being able to eat independently and not through that tube.
Going Outdoors with Carmen
By now, I was able to sit in an armchair for hours.
I spent my time observing what the nurses were doing, aware that as a former professional rescuer, my knowledge made me very critical in judging various medical procedures, the order of actions, and the methods used.
After a few days, however, the routine began to grow tedious and time dragged on.
One morning, to my great surprise, a nurse named Carmen arrived and suggested I go outside for some fresh air. At first, I was frightened; moving from intensive care to the outdoors was by no means a given, and I had never heard of a procedure or therapy that included such an action.
To be honest, I was fearful; in intensive care, I was controlled and monitored, I had a ventilator at hand and everything that could keep me alive in case of an emergency, but if something happened to me not just outside of intensive care, but outside the hospital entirely, what would happen?
Carmen immediately calmed and reassured me; she had an oximeter at hand—or rather, at her fingertip—and we would also bring an oxygen tank with us. I was afraid, but I couldn’t wait to get my nose outside and feel the freshness and temperature of the outdoor air, and perhaps catch a scent.
Once I was in the armchair, she wrapped my body in a blanket, so that practically only my head was visible. She took me outside in front of the hospital helipad; no helicopter arrived, but instead, there was a constant flow of people entering and leaving through that door. Some went out to smoke and others entered to go to work; I was no longer used to seeing so many people and it exhausted me, even though I didn’t have to interact with them. It was one of the most beautiful experiences I had during my hospitalization, even if the only scent I managed to catch was that of cigarette smoke. Two other exhilarating experiences were the first glass of water and the first lemon gelato, but I will tell you about those another time.
Eating and Drinking: A Spontaneous Action
Bringing food to the mouth, chewing, tasting, swallowing, digesting… and finally evacuating; these are all actions taken for granted, physiological. Unfortunately, during these months, my body had forgotten all these automatic processes.
Even though the doctors had decided not to reinsert the nasogastric tube after I had pulled it out, I was not allowed to eat or drink anything; I had to wait for an evaluation by the speech therapist before I could consume anything at all.
I thought it would be natural to be able to return to nourishing myself, but I soon had to change my mind.
The speech therapist arrived, a young woman with long blonde hair; she vaguely reminded me of my daughter, Asia.
She had a tray with some purées, water, and a bluish liquid.
She introduced herself and told me she had come to evaluate whether I was capable of swallowing solid or liquid foods.
I was fairly calm, even though I still had the tracheostomy; without the nasogastric tube, I felt better and—mistakenly—I thought to myself: how hard can a swallowing test be?
She had me open my mouth and placed some drops of this blue liquid on my tongue.
Afterward, she gave me a few teaspoons of water and had me swallow them, then told me to cough; it seemed to me that the test had gone well. She asked me to open my mouth and show her my tongue, which I did; convinced I had passed the test, I opened my mouth wide.
She looked at my oral cavity and immediately said, “Unfortunately, we must stop here; you have dysphagia, and if you were to ingest liquids or solids, they would very likely end up in your trachea and lungs.”
I was discouraged; I had been convinced that I had passed the exam without problems and that I would be able to eat a few hours later.
In the following days, they gave me only liquids with a thickener that turned the water into a kind of jelly, disgusting in both taste and consistency.
Every day I asked to repeat the test, but the speech therapist was unavailable, or perhaps they told me that because they felt it was too soon to repeat it.
Finally, after a week of jelly, I was able to repeat the test. I was nervous and tried to concentrate on swallowing and coughing in the best possible way so as not to have that blue liquid in my mouth anymore.
With a smile, she told me I could start eating a dysphagia diet; in practice, all foods were blended and turned into a purée. Inviting? Not in the least, but better than nothing.
When the speech therapist left, I immediately asked for a glass of cold water; they brought it to me after a few minutes.
The nurse stayed nearby to ensure I had no problems swallowing the water.
I took the glass and began to sip a drop; it was better than the finest Champagne I had ever tasted. I hadn’t had a drink of water in three months.
That glass of water gave me an exhilarating sensation, and in that moment, I felt fully satisfied and fulfilled. The food, on the other hand, was not the best; those blends of meat and vegetables mixed together were not inviting either visually or in terms of taste; I couldn’t tell what I was eating.
At the end of the meal, however, came the second greatest satisfaction: a lemon sorbet, a true delight.
The coolness of the ice cream going down my throat and the citrusy taste of the lemon, so refreshing, left a good flavor in my mouth. Water and lemon sorbet were the two things that provided the best sensations—sensations I hadn’t felt for a long time.
The nurses had stocked up on lemon sorbet to make sure I didn’t run out, as vanilla and chocolate ice cream did not give me the same sense of pleasure.
I had been in intensive care for many months and by then everyone knew me; they all pampered me and tried to make my stay as pleasant as possible, even though the cannulas and devices invading my body were still many and I didn’t know when they would be removed.
Day after day, I managed to reach a small milestone and obtain small satisfactions; the road ahead was still long and I often fell into frustration and discouragement, but then I would get back up and try to face the next obstacle.
ETHZ Article: “Therapeutic Success Thanks to Determination and Robots”
After suffering from a severe case of Covid-19, Roger Gassert discovered firsthand how important rehabilitation is for recovery.
The ETH professor of rehabilitation engineering now intends to ensure that patients benefit from his developments.
https://ethz.ch/en/news-and-events/eth-news/news/2023/12/globe-portraite-roger-gassert.html