Nicholas M. was a large man, with eyes that threw the cobalt-blue hands and shovels as that used with unsuspecting lightness and undeniable skill. It was a successful orthopedic, for some clinical insights, the ability to improve the structure of bones, tendons, ligaments and battered for his gentle manner. Nicholas M. held a career as human aspects of the profession or so for one reason or another was still in hospital. One day, while he was in the operating room received a call from a colleague in the oncology ward, where a couple his mother was hospitalized for weeks. After the call, to Veva completed the intervention seeking to dismiss the thought of what awaited him, then without even changing out of the pavilion was "Trauma, Orthopaedics, Physical Medicine and, with wearing green scrubs, he crossed the long-running hospital courtyard, towards the pavilion where was his mother.
\u0026lt;\u0026lt;Mamma, mother aspettami>>. Big, big, doctor, but also called "mother", his old mother came to the end of the trip.
was entered in the darkened room with head held high, eyes dry and clear his jaw stiffened in the cold and resolute expression. He was a doctor and a doctor should behave: clarity, reasonableness, a thread of cynicism.
Near Berry, a friend and colleague, almost a brother, was the Professor. The bright, the Guru, the scientist, the Great Chief who spoke English in conferences fluid sciorinare theories that left the audience spellbound. Standing proud, held in his fingers the delicate wrist of his mother, saying phrases in scholarly erudition of his retinue of assistants, arrayed against the wall, obsequious, wheedling.
His mother opened his eyes, deep blue and still vivid among the withered eyelids. He had looked and with his free hand from the grip alters the Professor had mentioned him over. He obeyed, leaned over her and she softly (but not enough to prevent bystanders to hear), indicating the professor had told him: \u0026lt;\u0026lt;Nicola, this here is a ermelo>>.
The Professor had cast a look of royal condescension, then led the forefinger of one hand to his head, to tap, while Nicola stared. A lewd gesture, vulgar and eloquent: There is so much more with his head.
Nicola, excellent medical career, looking at the Supreme nodded with the same air of fake compassion. He also had winked: We have heard, there's so much more with his head. Received.
Then he looked again, her mother smiled, saying, (and would have been his last words): \u0026lt;\u0026lt;Credimi ermelo> a>. Then he closed his eyes and does not most had reopened.
It was the burning pain of the moment to awaken his memory. It was revised child next to her blonde, beautiful and cheerful. She always felt good when they were together because she loved him and wanted him so, just as it was. He liked her laugh, loved to protect it and one day to succeed in both of the things he had invented a word for her brand new. It was centuries before: u n semi-drunken acquaintance he had made a scenataccia for trivial reasons and his mother was about to cry. Then he could not defend it otherwise, had tried to comfort her saying: \u0026lt;\u0026lt;Mom, that there is a ermelo>>.
She looked at him, he understood the flight and had burst out laughing. \u0026lt;\u0026lt;Not Vero>>, answered back, naturally, as if the term - created at the time - for centuries belonged to the vocabulary, \u0026lt;\u0026lt;Not own ermelo>>.
And so in their secret language, full of invented words and strange buried in the past along with kisses and caresses of childhood, "ermelo" had been synonymous with "person which have some 'fear, but not too much. "
Nicholas M. was a quack big man who spent almost all his time in hospital, because she loved her career, and regarded his patients a top priority. The day her mother died, he was the natural order of things that happened, it took too long to remember an episode of his childhood. So for many years after he took with him the guilt of did not understand that his mother was about to die, to relieve the pain he felt, had tried to make him laugh: \u0026lt;\u0026lt;The professor is ermelo>> (Someone a bit 'so, but not so threatening. You and me together we can laugh and the fear will go away).
He did not understand and had listened only to the act cowardly (and eloquently) the Professor: There's so much more with his head.
\u0026lt;'No Professore>> would have to say, but she had not done so and then it would not have had more sense, because she was gone. \u0026lt;\u0026lt;No Professore, my madre, what he is saying even if it is just past the eighty anni, vero, she is really ermelo>>. And then he had to laugh, to make her happy.
daughter wants a baby. Daughter thinks it's easier to be the mother of a child. Son believed that for a woman to have a child is the highest award that can bestow life. Daughter is convinced that the bond that builds a mother with a son can never reach the outstanding quality of what you can create a mother with a daughter. Prejudices, nothing but prejudice. And to prove it I thought I'd better tell her, with more details, this true story which I learned almost by accident. Then I decided to put it here for you and for those who like true stories that talk about mothers and sons.
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