Epitaffio /2

Qui sotto c'è un epitaffio il cui senso, criptico, certo non potrà essere compreso da molti.
Ho appreso anch'io la notizia, come un altro noto lettore, dai commenti sul suo blog: potrei linkarlo, ma sento che farei un torto a Fravia stesso, almeno credo.

Sta di fatto che il mio epitaffio è ben povera cosa: non sono certo un poeta. Ben diverse sono le ultime parole scritte da Fravia, che desidero ristrascivere in parte (la fonte, neppur questa, la linko). La sottolineatura è mia.

Ok, so all the cures I had to undergo for almost two years: two complete and quite debilitating chemotherapy cycles, 4 operations, many biopsies, uncounted PET scans and MRIs, months spent inside a clinic... did not work out.
The metastases escaped from the throat: my dutch professor managed to stop everything but not the liver tumour, and my liver is now imploding. So it is a matter of weeks, not even months.

My remaining choices are to die in a clinic, to die home or to ask for euthanasia (the last I will of course do if needs arise... fortunately this is a civilised EU-country and religious nuts don't have here -at least for now- enough power to nuke my rights just to appease and placate the alleged wishes of their dubious godzilla).

I'll go for home: it seems (again: this ubiquitous "seem") that I will die while asleep. I will "just" get weaker (and yellower, gosh: nothing like a terminal tumour to become really ugly) until one day I won't wake up any more. If so, fair enough: you go with a gentle puff on your final trip, an experience that btw is usually reported as unique and unrepeatable :-)

Avrete capito che Fravia, che aveva un rapporto privilegiato con l'Italia, si riferiva al nostro, di Paese.