100 Days of Happiness by Fausto Brizzi

hepatocellular carcinoma with extensive advanced-stage pulmonary metastasis.”
    In the Dino Zoff notebook, I scratch out “Get Paola to forgive me.” I’m still going to do that. But I’ll do it later. Right now, there’s something more important I need to do.
    The most important thing a person in my situation needs to do.
    I write:
    Don’t give up.

−96
    T he only doctor I’m comfortable talking to is Umberto. The location is our favorite little café. The prevailing mood is black. The subject of conversation is chemotherapy. I’ve read extensively on the controversial topic and I can’t seem to come to an opinion that would allow me to make an informed choice.
    â€œBy now it’s pretty much accepted wisdom,” Umberto begins, “that the benefits of chemo are insufficient to outweigh the contraindications. Chemo is devastating and debilitating in physical terms and to the immune system of the organism being treated, in my opinion. It’s as if, in order to remove a hangnail from your big toe, we decided to blast it with a shotgun. The hangnail would be gone. But so would the whole foot. I never advise my patients, or I guess I should say their owners, to undertake chemo. The only sure thing is that the animal they know and love, whether it’s a dog, a cat, or a rabbit, will never be the same, it’ll just lie there listless on the sofa, uninterested in eating or running around. Alive, but already dead.”
    â€œBut I feel all right, I can take it. The rest of my body is healthy,” I retort with a decisiveness that’s not like me.
    â€œYou think you feel all right, my friend, but the truth is that your blood tests are all over the place. The cancer is progressing vigorously.”
    â€œTomorrow afternoon I’ve got another CAT scan scheduled.”
    â€œBut you just got one two weeks ago!”
    â€œMaybe it was wrong.”
    â€œYou can’t just go on getting CAT scans, those are X-rays. They’re not particularly good for you.”
    I refuse to listen to advice. My stubborn, overconfident brain is hoping to show that it’s all been a mistake, a spectacular oversight. “Signor Battistini, we hope you’ll accept my apologies and those of the lab. For the past two months we’ve repeatedly gotten your tests completely wrong. You’re actually healthy as a horse. Please accept this briefcase which contains one million euros in cash as our way of saying how sorry we are.”
    Umberto keeps after me: “Do you want to start the chemo, or try some other form of treatment—what do you want to do?”
    â€œI don’t know . . . ,” I reply, sounding like a boxer who’s just been stunned by a sudden right hook.
    The first side effect of cancer, as I understand it, is a dimming of the brain function. I want to react but I can’t seem to organize a logical defense.
    â€œWhat would you do?” I ask Umberto, hopefully.
    â€œI’m a friend of yours, and a doctor shouldn’t be his patient’s friend.”
    â€œI understand, and that’s fine, but what would you do?” I insist. I need someone else to decide for me.
    â€œLet’s wait for the results of the new CAT scan, then let’s check in with an oncologist.”
    â€œI hate oncologists.”
    â€œI’ll bet you do, but all I can do is offer my advice; I can’t be your primary consulting physician. Remember, I’m a veterinarian and I specialize in exotic animals.”
    â€œWhat are you doing tonight?” I ask, ignoring every point he’s trying to make.
    â€œI’m going out with a woman dentist from Prati. Second date.”
    â€œHave you taken her to bed yet?”
    â€œNo. I was hoping that might happen tonight.”
    â€œCancel. Dentists are boring in bed. Let’s go get a pizza with Corrado.”
    When I fire off these dictatorial commands, Umberto