Last updated on 1 April 2026
Today (September 8, 2024) I will begin to describe the strange events that happened to me in the days following my awakening.
Even today, I cannot define whether they were dreams or hallucinations. Was I sleeping? I do not think so; the images, the details, and the smells were so real that they lead me to believe they were hallucinations, but I cannot be certain. They were so absurd as to be at the very least incredible, yet extremely rich in detail.
They were so real and intense that I lived them, and they are now part of my history and my experience of that period.
The first “hallucination-dream”:
I was in my bed in intensive care at Cardiocentro Ticino and, to pass the time, I was browsing the internet on my computer. This was impossible, as at that time I was completely paralyzed and could move neither my arms nor my legs… anyway, let us continue.
One day, on a specialized canine website, I saw a new variant of my dog: a Labrador with webbed paws that was very effective and high-performing in all aquatic disciplines.
This is an image constructed with artificial intelligence based on my memories:
I had to have it!
I wanted to find a special dog that could keep my Kila company.
In this case, the image represented is real:
This strange puppy was in Benidorm, Spain. It was a Labrador selected for swimming in the sea, capable of diving to great depths without any problem.
The problem was how to leave the hospital and how to get to Spain in my condition.
One day I spoke about it to Dr. Paul (see chapter Doctor Paul); I explained the peculiarities and the rarity of this puppy, as it was the first litter with these characteristics.
Dr. Paul saw my enthusiasm and at that moment said to me: “I will take care of it. I will see how to organize things, and as soon as I have two days off, we will go.”
To myself, I thought, “Sure, okay, but how does he plan to get there?”
After a few days—I do not remember how many—at around six in the morning, I saw Paul arrive. He was not wearing his usual green scrub top and trousers, nor was he wearing the usual green plastic clogs he wore; he was in jeans with a very colorful Hawaiian shirt.
He approached my bed, leaned toward me, and whispered: “We are leaving; put your arms around my neck.”
I had not noticed that there was a wheelchair next to Paul; as soon as I saw it, I immediately clung to his neck. Paul lifted me and then gently placed me in the chair.
We slipped out quietly, avoiding being seen by the hospital staff; to exit, we used the access that Rega uses to deliver its patients.
First success: we were outside. It was a spring day, not too cold, with a very pleasant breeze.
But how would the journey to Spain continue now? By what means? A van, by car?
Paul was pushing me, but I knew nothing; I did not know where we were going.
At a certain point, I saw that he was heading toward the motorcycle parking lot of the Ospedale Civico.
I was surprised and worried. I could move neither my legs nor my arms; how could I get onto a motorcycle? Even though motorcycles have always been my passion—in fact, before my illness, I had just purchased a splendid, fully equipped 1200 cc Triumph Tiger—I would never have been able to get on it, let alone hold on to avoid falling.
Paul stopped in front of a huge Harley Davidson, complete with a top box with armrests.
He lifted me from the wheelchair and placed me on the rear seat of the motorcycle and, while holding me, secured me to the top box with a strap. He put the helmet on me, got on the bike, and we set off.
To myself, I said: “Nice, but going to Spain by motorcycle is really long; by the time we arrive, I will be dead!”
But no, he did not head toward the highway, but rather toward Bioggio and then Agno.
We arrived at Agno airport and entered through a service gate at the end of the runway; from there, he headed toward the hangars. He entered one of them and parked the motorcycle next to a small propeller plane.
The idea was excellent, but where was the pilot?
In the hangar, there was only him and me; even outside, not a living soul was to be seen.
He unstrapped me from the motorcycle and, using the same technique as before, I clung to his neck so that he could lift me and carry me inside that small four-seater propeller plane.
The hardest part was climbing the stairs with me clinging to his neck and entering through that narrow, cramped door, but after a few failed attempts, we succeeded.
He placed me on the seat and fastened my seatbelts; now we just had to wait for the pilot.
But no, Paul sat in the front in one of the pilot seats, fastened his seatbelts, put on his headset, and began to tinker with buttons and levers.
At a certain point, the first engine started, and shortly after, the second one did too; soon after, the plane began to move and we left the hangar.
I was truly worried, as I did not know if Paul was capable of piloting a plane, let alone if he had a license.
I gathered my strength and whispered to him: “Paul, do you know how to fly?” At that time, I still had a tracheostomy, so I could not speak unless the speaking valve was fitted, and in that case, I did not have it.
In any case, Paul saw my concern and, reading my lips, understood what I had said to him.
He replied that he did not have any valid license, but that he had learned to fly in the Netherlands during his military service. Yes, Paul was Dutch, but he had lived in Switzerland for years and worked at Cardiocentro Ticino as an intensive care nurse.
To be continued… I will take a short break now.