My Cancer Journey - Italy Edition

I remember the phone call.  Of course, we all do.  

I was living in Italy at the time and found the tiniest lump in my left breast a few months earlier. Hardly as big as a pea. I found it while lying on my bedroom floor, stretching, after my morning run.  I wasn’t even sure it qualified as a lump; it was so small. This was late July, and I had had my annual mammogram in March, where all was proclaimed normal. I was more curious than afraid. I asked my husband if it felt like a lump to him, and he said, “Well, I guess so.  But if so, it is an awfully tiny one.” 

Just to be safe, I asked my Italian friends if they could recommend a doctor and received the name of a very nice doctor in the next town.  But it was almost August, when most of Italy closes, so the earliest I could get an appointment was early September.

When I did finally see her, she suggested we do a sonogram since I had just had a mammogram. She was very reassuring, saying that it was indeed tiny and seemed to have none of the characteristics of cancer. She asked a second doctor to review the results as well, and he agreed it was most likely a cyst. They recommended I come back in 6 months; watchful waiting, it was called. Relieved, I went home, and we began preparing for our vacation in Sicily.

But as the days went by, I found that the lump was constantly on my mind. I decided that although it was probably a cyst, I wanted it gone. So we arranged to have it removed. It would be a simple process, she said. I would not need full anesthesia, just a local anesthetic. It would be over in a few minutes.

When I arrived for the procedure, the hospital was chaotic. We were told to wait in the stairwell with dozens of other patients, including two nuns.  After an hour or so, when it was finally my turn to go in, I turned to the nuns and asked them to pray for me. I was only half joking.

My bed for the procedure was in the middle of a hallway, surrounded by sheets.  My surgeon, with three nurses, prepped my skin for the procedure, which they said would take less than five minutes. Twenty-five minutes into the task, the doctor was sweating and visibly agitated. They finally closed up the wound, and said that I should go on vacation and they would get back to me in a few days.

Two weeks later, on my vacation, I still had no results, although I had sent several messages to my doctor inquiring about them. It began to dawn on me that she was afraid to tell me I had cancer. At last, she called just as I was on the jetway to the plane home.

“The results of your tests are not benign,” she said.

“Not benign?!!??” I shot back. “What does that even mean??”

No response. I guess I had to be the one to use the “c” word. “Does that mean I have cancer?” 

She waited a few seconds and finally replied, “Unfortunately, yes.”  

I took my seat, fastened my seat belt, put my tray table and seat back in the full upright position, closed my eyes, and felt the plane lift into the air.

It is odd when all of your worst fears become real. It is not so bad. Nothing hurt. Nothing felt different. But I knew that suddenly everything was different, so I settled in and tried to untangle the rush of my thoughts. My husband took my hand, and I felt the warm release of tears. Then I took a deep breath and barely cried again for the rest of the long year ahead. I didn’t have time. I needed all of my energy, every breath, every thought, every drop of positivity I could muster to get me well. 

This is not to say that I didn’t feel sorry for myself from time to time or experience rolling waves of fear. There would be days that I could not wait to end so that I could cross them off the calendar and move on to the next one. But on that day and each of the days that followed, I did my best to manage hour by hour, until the day passed. 

Together, my husband and I decided that I should be treated in the United States. We would go back to San Francisco, where we had doctors and friends to support us, and rent a place for as long as necessary and return to Italy when we could.

For the following two months, all the new news I received was bad news. I had Stage 2, Triple Negative Breast Cancer and would require surgery, two difficult rounds of chemotherapy, and radiation. In all, the treatment would last about a year. 

My odds were not the best. But my care was, which is why my cancer story has the happiest of endings.

I was treated at UCSF and encountered the most amazing team imaginable of surgeons, oncologists, nurses, and practitioners.  Everyone, from department heads to receptionists, was kind, respectful, and intelligent.

And today, seven years later, I am cured.

Was it a hard journey? Absolutely. But none of us escape this life unscathed or unscarred. It is not that bad things or hard things won’t happen. They will. But my cancer journey was not without silver linings. I learned what was important. I learned about the depths of people’s love. I learned how strong I actually was. And I learned to appreciate every dawn, every sunset.

I feel lucky and blessed. Maybe those nuns were on to something.

Photo courtesy of author.