Cancer, Rome, and the Covid Plot Twist
The surgeon told me to go to Rome. So we went. Twenty of us, a restaurant tram, a view of the Colosseum. Then all twenty of us got Covid. My surgery was rescheduled. I was so mad.
If you haven't read the previous post, the short version is this: I crashed my electric bike into an embankment near the cemetery, introduced my face to the asphalt, and two weeks later received a registered letter from the AUSL Parma that had nothing to do with my face.
My annual mammogram had flagged something. I needed to come back.
The Callback
A callback mammogram is not a diagnosis. I knew this. I went to Parma, had the second mammogram, and then about a week later was sent for a biopsy. After that I went home and waited.
The diagnosis was ductal carcinoma in situ — DCIS. Breast cancer, caught at the earliest possible stage. So early, in fact, that when the surgeon explained what we were dealing with, her manner was calm and methodical in a way that I found genuinely reassuring rather than performatively so. This was a small spot. It was contained. We would handle it.
I want to be honest here, because I think dishonesty about this moment does a disservice to anyone reading who has their own version of it sitting somewhere in their future. There is no good way to hear the word "cancer." Early or not, contained or not, the word lands with a particular weight and then you sit with it for a moment before the practical brain kicks back in.
My practical brain kicked back in fairly quickly. This is probably a personality flaw and also possibly what got me through the next several months.
Go to Rome
We had a trip planned. My Italian teacher (Giovanni from Italiano Semplicemente) had planned a trip for the members of his association. We are from about 40 different countries. He plans a trip every year for us, and in 2022 (after a couple of years of not being able to meet due to Covid-19), had organized four nights in Rome. About twenty of us, real-world Italian practice amidst sightseeing, food, and wine. We had been looking forward to it for months.
I told the surgeon I would cancel, obviously.
She looked at me with the particular expression of an Italian medical professional who has just heard something slightly absurd. This was a very small spot, she said. There was no reason to cancel. It would be at least a week before they could even get me on the surgical schedule. Go to Rome. Enjoy yourself.
So we went to Rome.
And honestly, we had a wonderful time. Rome in the late spring, with a group of people you like, speaking Italian badly together in public, is exactly as good as it sounds. Our adventures included Rome sightseeing, a beer factory (out on the farm where they actually grow the hops), a boat down the Tiber to Ostia Antica for lunch. One evening we did a restaurant tram: a vintage tram that winds through the city making stops, with food and wine served on board. At one point we had a view of the Colosseum lit up at night. Twenty people, a tram to ourselves, aperitivo and dinner, and did I mention wine?.
I should have enjoyed it with slightly less abandon, in retrospect.
The Tram
We were in close quarters. Twenty people who all knew each other, all vaccinated, all reasonably careful — but close quarters on a tram, sharing food, talking animatedly, doing what you do on a Roman evening out. Afterwards more than one of us mentioned that one of the servers had seemed a bit flushed. We blame him of course!
It was 2022. We had been careful for two years. Extraordinarily careful, actually. The kind of careful that becomes its own exhausting full-time occupation.
On the train home on Monday I felt off. Then more than off. Joe and I went to the farmacia, got tested, and were sent home with the news and instructions to do absolutely nothing for a week.
I was so mad.
Not frightened, not philosophical, not resigned. Just genuinely, specifically furious. Two years of being careful. Two years of masks and distance and missed gatherings and cancelled plans. And a restaurant tram in Rome, in the spring, with twenty people I trusted, was apparently where Covid-19 finally found me.
I don't believe a single one of us was spared. All twenty reported back the sad news. For me it caused more complications than for the others.
The Postponement
I was still in my Covid recovery week when the surgeon's office called. They had a slot for my surgery. Next week.
I had to give them the bad news.
Thy were gracious about it. We rescheduled for two weeks out — enough time to recover properly and arrive at surgery not still fighting a virus. This was the correct medical decision and I understood that completely.
I was still annoyed.
There is something particularly absurd about having managed the cancer diagnosis with relative equanimity, gone to Rome on doctor's orders and had a genuinely lovely time, and then had the surgery delayed anyway — not by anything bureaucratic, not by anything systemic, but by a restaurant tram.
Joe, to his credit, did not ask what went wrong.
What Came Next
The surgery was scheduled, the Covid cleared, and the next chapter of this story involves things I had not previously considered — including why we ended up in an Airbnb for three nights, what Italian surgery actually looks like from the inside, and a group of volunteers I had never heard of before any of this happened, who became some of the more unexpected bright spots in a difficult few months.
That's coming up soon.
The practical note for now, because every post should leave you with something useful: if you are planning a move to Italy and the "but what if I get seriously ill?" fear is one of the things keeping you up, I want you to notice something about this story so far. I got a cancer diagnosis in a small town in northern Italy. The mammogram that caught it was covered. The callback was covered. The biopsy was covered. The surgeon was calm, competent, and told me to go to Rome.
The system, so far, was working exactly as it was supposed to.
More soon.
Continued in: Surgery, Covid Restrictions, and Why We Rented an Airbnb →
