Dani Alba: "I spent a lot of time imagining life without my son."

BarcelonaFear in capital letters is the fear that something bad will never happen to your child. Dani Alba (Sant Pere de Ribes, 1973) approaches this abyss with the novel Dandelion (LaBreu), a fiction based on reality: the 399 days of wake and anguish for her son Jan—Jana in the fiction—at the Vall d'Hebron. The novel moves swiftly and vibrantly—without sentimentality or morbidity—toward the new world that appears when life forces you to take a break.

Have you mastered losing your fear?

— And I was trained, because I had cancer when I was 29. But that's nothing to do with it. When the disease hits you, you fight as hard as you can to avoid dying, you cross your fingers and let God's will be done; if I die, I die. But, damn, having a child is the greatest universal fear. Jan was 15 years old and arrived at the hospital at risk of dying. From the moment he was diagnosed, a fateful scenario begins. But no, I haven't lost my fear because Jan is still alive. If you're a mother, we share that fear.

Altogether.

— You dread a phone call, an accident. Until the reality hits you: "This looks like leukemia." Dad, Mom, family, friends—everyone experiences it differently. You have to protect the sick person. At that moment, you know nothing, but you know you're setting something incredibly difficult in motion, until a certain medical normalcy arrives. You never feel like a number, but you know you're not the only one.

Do you stick to a routine?

— I think it's the closest thing to a war, when the war has gone on for too long and you've normalized it. "A bomb fell on this one's house, the other one died." You end up normalizing absolutely radical situations.

"If we're told they have to cut off a leg, we're thankful it's not a decapitation," you write.

— If you were asked every day what you would give, you would leave the hospital with your child alive and with nothing. There are people from different cultures, from different social backgrounds, who react differently, but we would all want to be in our children's shoes.

Of course.

— It's a more intimate journey than it seems. You spend many hours alone, thinking, talking about the illness. You meet illness partners with whom you feel comfortable, and you can even trivialize or go see Barça. The stronger the core around the patient, the more likely it is to be manageable. Mothers are a wall, very strong, they lead the situation and carry a greater burden than the father. We do the planning and logistics; they don't leave her side. I slept in the car for seventeen days until we were able to enter. the House of the XuklisAfter that, everything is left to medicine and luck.

It is a constant match ball.

— You experience terrifying situations, shocking moments: the kid has no vital signs, his arm falls off, they take him to the ICU, and they tell you: "Get ready, there's that possibility." But on the bench next to you is a father, with whom you have a close relationship, who has been with the kid in the ICU for three days. And suddenly, mine comes out and his doesn't. And they won't see each other again. They clean the room and another one arrives.

Is uncertainty the worst?

— I think it's about not trusting what the doctors are doing. I decided to trust 100% in medicine and the Vall d'Hebron team.

But I guess inside you hear two voices, the angel and the devil.

— You consider many situations. I considered the possibility of Jan's absence with a certain naturalness. I even made decisions: it will pass and I'll do this. I spent a lot of time imagining a life without my son.

Why? To reduce tension?

— If not, you don't live. I shared that living space, that time, with 75 children with cancer. Of those 75, nine are gone. I've held nine children under ten in my arms who are now gone. This isn't normal; few people have experienced it. You take ownership of these deaths because you've played, you've written, you've cared for them at times because the mother needed to rest. I'll have to work on this.

In the novel, in addition to following what happens to Jana and how her parents experience it, the nurses have their own storyline. Gina experiences a love story that contrasts with the harshness of life inside the hospital.

— For me, Gina is a metaphor for the beautiful things in life. Desire, the things worth living for, are fleeting moments, which come and go, and perhaps return; that's why the title is DandelionIt's also a tribute to the Gines, nurses, and doctors. Despite sometimes having temporary contracts, services in need of improvement, and shift changes, they maintain a level of excellence and incredible empathy. They too fear and face situations of loss and continue and continue with incredible humanity.

The father gets frustrated seeing the world keep turning, seeing his friends go on vacation.

— It makes you angry. Because it's unfair. Relationships change, distances grow, and silences remain. Because Jan wasn't in Moscow, he was in Barcelona. One day I went to buy a hat downtown and ran into a friend loaded with Christmas shopping. These situations make you withdraw. There are also people you have to stop, or they'd come every day. Very sincere friendships blossom. Without a supportive environment, it's impossible.

Joan befriends Sergi, a resident of Montbau.

— I spent many hours in the bars of Montbau, talking to complete strangers as if they were friends because they were much closer than any friend. I've learned to forgive the absences I might have needed.

What happens 400 days later?

— Life surprises you. When I go out, I need to let go of that. I live 220 kilometers from home. I've missed many hospital checkups because I'm working. My son is fine; he's doing a touring season, he got his license back, he's traveled to Morocco, the Pyrenees, Rome, he's getting through it and learning to live with the collateral damage. I'm not satisfied, but I'm not angry. Because I have it.

Has your relationship changed?

— We've always had a good relationship; I haven't been an absent father. But you do have a lot of contact, a lot of skin-to-skin contact, especially during the outpatient stages when we can sleep cuddled. This bond continues, and at 18, this is very cool; I value it a lot. We trust each other a lot.

What consoled you?

— I wanted to be alone. I took the subway and rode the entire green line. I liked the noises that weren't those of the hospital. I assure you, you'd be screwed up inside a well 50 meters away and still hear the chemotherapy pump and the noises from the oncology ward. I also started writing Instagram posts so I wouldn't have to share them. And I wrote the book in my room when Jan was sleeping, or when I was in waiting rooms and hallways at night. I read to the nurses, asked them for help, and they told me about themselves. They're wonderful.

What do you take away from this ordeal?

Jan.