Following an accident occurred to my mother, I come back to live in my hometown, a small village North of Naples, Southern Italy, from which I escaped when young. The decline of this part of the country is so bad, and living conditions have deteriorated so far, that religion represents the only way to bear the burden.
Aware that the situation won’t improve, people are waiting for a miracle. Religious icons are everywhere, in the streets, in the houses, at the hospital. There too, its conditions are such that everything is entrusted to miracles and not to doctors.
I see my mother’s condition worsening, but I can’t get any information about her situation. Every day, annoyed doctors keep repeating that: “She’s fine.” I wait for her recovery, but instead I watch her losing her mental faculties a little more every day until she enters a coma.
The Litany of Divine Mercy, obsessively recited for hours at the ICU waiting rooms, accompanies me throughout endless days. “We cannot escape Our Lord’s will but sometimes miracles happen” is the phrase frequently repeated by the doctors as part of our surreal dialogues about her state.
Lacking any credible information, my waiting soon comes to a standstill. Suspended throughout the long hours spent in the hospital and in my mother’s empty flat, waiting becomes my life-style. I have no expectations, and I fear that she will remain in a coma for the rest of her life, since in Italy euthanasia is prohibited.
Over a year with my mother I recorded in my images moments with her after the temporary recovery, the hospital where I spent endless days, religious icons spreading everywhere, her empty flat, her coma, and, lastly, her death.