A hundred years, and a vivid memory that runs as fast as the footsteps of those who have lived through so many emergencies and so many births in homes without a hospital.
Efisio Manunza, born in Stampace (Cagliari), blows out his first centenary candle today . "My childhood is all there," he says.
For four decades he was a local doctor in Muravera, becoming not only a healthcare hub but also a silent guardian of the community's stories, pains, and hopes.
Medicine called him early. He graduated in 1955 and already as a student, he worked as a volunteer in a medical clinic.
The idea was to specialize, but fate had other plans: "They told me: go to Muravera for a fortnight, as a replacement. It was 1956. I left thinking I'd come back immediately."
Muravera, however, wasn't a temporary stopover. "There wasn't a hospital. There just wasn't one. There was only the doctor, period. If anything happened, the doctor had to be ready for anything."
The first patients were farmers, in an area where life depended on agriculture. "They said, 'Stay a little longer.' I said yes. And I stayed for forty years."
And so that brief assignment would become a lifetime: forty years of house calls, home births, unexpected emergencies, and a human relationship with each patient that knew no timetable or rest. The clinic was down the street, on Via Roma. Mornings until one or two, then house calls without clocks or breaks.
"If there was a high fever, I'd come back the next day. And the day after that," he recalls. In those years, emergencies were a daily occurrence: injuries from car accidents, complicated births, the lack of specialists and ambulances.
The early days were tough: two years in a hotel, half salary for room and board. Then Maria Teresa, his lifelong companion, arrived: "We'd been engaged for seven years. When I was able to buy a bedroom, kitchen, and living room, we got married. Sixty years and six months together."
Maria Teresa, life partner and clinic assistant, ready to transform herself into an improvised nurse or support for the most vulnerable patients.
"When my husband wasn't around, I went out into the streets and helped those in need. We raised our children surrounded by these little, big stories," Maria Teresa said. She's retiring at seventy, but her connection to Muravera remains. "There were those who didn't want to be examined by anyone else. They'd say, 'I want Dr. Manunza.' And I went."
Among the most incredible stories was that of the woman who lost an ear in an accident in Castiadas: "I checked for any fractures, then I said, 'Let's try to find it.' Someone came back with the earlobe picked up on the asphalt. I washed it, stitched it back together. My wife held the earlobe in place. I didn't know how it would go, but that was the best I could do."
The next day, the woman went to the hospital for a check-up, and Manunza's work was praised by a professor: "I only did what I had to do," he downplayed.
In his forty years in Muravera, he never asked for money: "Never. Not even from tourists. Once, a German gentleman left some marks. I still have them. It wasn't the money that made me a doctor."
In addition to his daily practice, Manunza also serves as a medical examiner: questionable cases, suicides, and dealing with the Carabinieri. Always with poise and discretion: "At night, they'd stop me and say, 'There's a seriously ill person.' They wanted to take me, but I'd say no."
Her private life reflects the same dedication: Maria Teresa, ill, cared for until the end. Her children share that daily routine : Antonello, a doctor, Alessandro, a physician, Cristina, a pharmacist, and Alessandra, a teacher.
He retired at seventy, but his connection to Muravera remained . "There were those who didn't want to be examined by anyone else. They said, 'I want Dr. Manunza.' And I went."
Today, at one hundred years old, Efisio Manunza reads, follows current events, but above all remains a witness to a time when medicine meant continuity, attention, and total responsibility.
"It was a different time. If I could go back, I'd do everything the same way," he confesses without hesitation.
The accolades came quietly: the parish gold medal, honorary citizenship of Muravera. "I was pleased. But I only did my duty," he clarifies.
The mayor of Muravera, Salvatore Piu, a physician like the new centenarian, calls him "a fundamental part of our town's civil and human history. He was not only a doctor for generations, but a point of reference for the entire community."
