If you haven't read the previous post, here’s a quick recap! I crashed my electric bike into an embankment near the cemetery, smashed my face into the asphalt, and then 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 and they wanted me to come back.
The Callback
When you get a callback mammogram, it is not in itself a diagnosis. At my core, I knew this, but there is fear and trepidation nonetheless. Joe accompanied me to Parma for my follow-up mammogram, and I was told I’d get a call. About a week later was sent for a biopsy. After that we 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 genuinely reassuring. This was a small contained spot, and she felt confident that it would be handled, almost routinely!
I want to be honest here, because I know that anyone reading who has their own version of of this diagnosis in their future needs to know how it really feels. There is no good way to hear the word “cancer.” Early or not, contained or not, the word has weight. I’m sure that all of us who have heard it have different experiences. I can ony share mine. I sat with the idea for a bit, and then decided that I needed to trust the system to get me through the next several months.
Go to Rome
We had a trip planned for the next week! My Italian teacher (Giovanni from Italiano Semplicemente) had organized a gathering in Rome for the members of his association. We are from about 40 different countries, and Giovanni plans a trip every year for us. The trip for 2022 was extra special, because after a couple of years of not being able to meet due to Covid-19, four nights in Rome was a welcome adventure. The group would be about twenty people, including 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 on the tram. 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. I was just genuinely, specifically furious. After two years of being careful. Two years of masks and distance and missed gatherings and cancelled plans. But a restaurant tram in Rome 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 for the following week. Alas, I had to give them the bad news. They were gracious about it, and we scheduled for two weeks out — enough time to recover properly and arrive at surgery not still fighting a virus. I was still annoyed at the absurdity of it all.
Those who know me well will realize that in my mind there truly is something absurd about having managed the cancer diagnosis with relative calm, gone to Rome on doctor’s orders, and then had the surgery delayed anyway. Joe, to his credit, did not ask what went wrong.
What Came Next
With the surgery scheduled, the next chapter of this story would involve things I had not previously considered. Like 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.
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 at night, I want you to notice something about this story so far. I got a cancer diagnosis in a small town in northern Italy. Because I was registered with the Italian health service, all of my medical costs, including the mammogram that caught the cancer, the cost of the callback and the biopsy were all covered, and happened expeditiously. 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 →
