hepatocellular carcinoma with extensive advanced-stage pulmonary metastasis.â
In the Dino Zoff notebook, I scratch out âGet Paola to forgive me.â Iâm still going to do that. But Iâll do it later. Right now, thereâs something more important I need to do.
The most important thing a person in my situation needs to do.
I write:
Donât give up.
â96
T he only doctor Iâm comfortable talking to is Umberto. The location is our favorite little café. The prevailing mood is black. The subject of conversation is chemotherapy. Iâve read extensively on the controversial topic and I canât seem to come to an opinion that would allow me to make an informed choice.
âBy now itâs pretty much accepted wisdom,â Umberto begins, âthat 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. Itâs 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 itâs a dog, a cat, or a rabbit, will never be the same, itâll just lie there listless on the sofa, uninterested in eating or running around. Alive, but already dead.â
âBut I feel all right, I can take it. The rest of my body is healthy,â I retort with a decisiveness thatâs not like me.
âYou 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
âTomorrow afternoon Iâve got another CAT scan scheduled.â
âBut you just got one two weeks ago!â
âMaybe it was wrong.â
âYou canât just go on getting CAT scans, those are X-rays. Theyâre not particularly good for you.â
I refuse to listen to advice. My stubborn, overconfident brain is hoping to show that itâs all been a mistake, a spectacular oversight. âSignor Battistini, we hope youâll accept my apologies and those of the lab. For the past two months weâve repeatedly gotten your tests completely wrong. Youâre 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.â
Umberto keeps after me: âDo you want to start the chemo, or try some other form of treatmentâwhat do you want to do?â
âI donât know . . . ,â I reply, sounding like a boxer whoâs 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 canât seem to organize a logical defense.
âWhat would you do?â I ask Umberto, hopefully.
âIâm a friend of yours, and a doctor shouldnât be his patientâs friend.â
âI understand, and thatâs fine, but what would you do?â I insist. I need someone else to decide for me.
âLetâs wait for the results of the new CAT scan, then letâs check in with an oncologist.â
âI hate oncologists.â
âIâll bet you do, but all I can do is offer my advice; I canât be your primary consulting physician. Remember, Iâm a veterinarian and I specialize in exotic animals.â
âWhat are you doing tonight?â I ask, ignoring every point heâs trying to make.
âIâm going out with a woman dentist from Prati. Second date.â
âHave you taken her to bed yet?â
âNo. I was hoping that might happen tonight.â
âCancel. Dentists are boring in bed. Letâs go get a pizza with Corrado.â
When I fire off these dictatorial commands, Umberto
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley