100 Days of Happiness by Fausto Brizzi Page B

unfortunately, we caught it only at a very advanced stage. The tumor markers in your blood are at very high levels. This is the value here: the choriogonadotropin.”
    This is where I feel Paola’s “I told you so” glare stabbing me like a thousand daggers.
    â€œYour CAT scan shows numerous widespread metastases in your lungs.”
    I start to get annoyed: “Yes, I know that . . . would you get to the point.”
    â€œIf the circumstances were different, I would have suggested attempting the surgical removal of the primary neoplasia from your liver, but in your condition it would really be little more than an extremely dangerous palliative. As would a liver transplant. The percentages for a successful transplant are very low; the waiting list is very long; and in your case, the metastases have already thoroughly compromised the situation. Forgive me for speaking frankly, but I think it’s important to be clear on this: there is no therapy that can really help you.”
    Silence. I look at Paola, who lacks the strength to lift her eyes. I’ve had the question locked and loaded for ten minutes and I let it fly:
    â€œHow long?”
    â€œThat’s a hard answer to come up with, Signor Battistini . . .”
    The bastard hesitates. Goddamn it, live up to your responsibilities! I need you to tell me how long it will be before they turn out the lights around the field.
    â€œHow long?”
    â€œWe’d need to see how your—”
    â€œHow long?!”
    â€œFour or five months,” he specifies. “It depends on the resilience of your liver. And the treatment you decide to undergo.”
    Silence.
    â€œCases range widely, though,” he explains; “there are some who have lived as long as five years.”
    â€œ ‘There are some . . .’; like how many?”
    â€œLet us say . . . very, very few.”
    Very, very few. A very, very encouraging percentage.
    I ask my second question.
    â€œHow long will I be healthy?”
    â€œWhat do you mean by ‘healthy’? You’re already a sick man.”
    â€œYou know exactly what I’m asking. How long will I be able to live a normal life?”
    â€œHere too it all depends on—”
    â€œMore or less!” I drill in, aggressively.
    â€œA little over three months. Then the dose of painkillers you’ll have to take will render you insensible and the final phase will begin.”
    A little over three months to live. To live a real life, I mean to say. More or less.
    â€œA hundred days,” I say under my breath.
    â€œI beg your pardon?” asks the doctor.
    â€œI’ve got a hundred days left.”
    â€œI told you that it could be longer, if . . .”
    I pay no attention to him. A hundred days. The number echoes through my mind.
    Paola breaks in.
    â€œIs there anything we can do to prolong the time? Anything at all?”
    â€œChemotherapy, Signora, can be an excellent aid in blocking the proliferation of pathogenic cells,” he explains. “But it has countless side effects that make everyday life quite complicated.”
    I tune back in to the medical consultation still under way.
    â€œWhat kind of side effects are we talking about?”
    I know perfectly well that chemo makes your hair fall out, gives you nausea, makes you vomit, and leaves you exhausted. Everyone knows it—we’ve all seen it in lots of documentaries and movies. And nearly everyone has had some secondhand experience of it from watching the slow demise of a grandparent or an uncle or aunt. But the truth is very different and much worse.
    â€œChemotherapy, Signor Battistini, isn’t a very sharp tool. It kills healthy cells as well. In effect, it is a poison we inject into the body in order to kill the main enemy, but on the way to its objective, it causes a bloodbath. There are many more side effects than you may know about.