The diagnosis dates back to May 20, 2021. Leading up to that time, I had experienced some difficulties.  In August 2020, I lost my mother, and the following months were difficult. Between November and January, in the midst of COVID, the work was hard: I am a doctor (an oncologist), and our shifts increased in intensity and duration.  I had lost weight, but in times of prolonged stress, this always happens to me. In April, I felt a lot of tiredness, not only physically but also mentally, and it was then that I started to worry.

On the night between May 19th and 20th, I felt a strong pain under the right rib, intense and short, like a stab. The following day, although the pain had disappeared, I performed an abdominal ultrasound on myself, which showed a surprise: a mass occupying almost the entire left side of the liver.

I didn’t have much time to understand. I was hospitalised for diagnostic investigations: MRI, blood tests, biopsy, and insertion of the central venous access catheter. I had liver cancer, specifically, intrahepatic cholangiocarcinoma. Seven days later, I was at the day hospital to start chemotherapy.

The hardest thing to do was inform my husband and my daughters, aged 15 and 18 at the time.

I remember that, while I was in the hospital alone (because we were in the COVID era and we couldn’t receive visitors), I used that silence to find the strength to face the start of treatment for an illness with such a severe prognosis.

I found strength in faith and the people close to me. Few knew of my situation, but they encouraged me with genuine messages of hope.

I was scared during the first cycle of therapy. A friend accompanied me, and at the time of the chemo infusion, she gave me an apricot. “Eat,” she told me. Without asking, I bit the fruit, and I understood that the sweetness of the fruit had changed the bitter taste of the therapy. I could, therefore, change the flavour of things, transforming waiting into hope.

In September, I underwent an enlarged left hemihepatectomy: a huge possibility. I approached this difficult moment confidently, and in January 2022, I managed to return to work. It was an incredible emotion to wear the lab coat again.

The illness gave me time: I participated in my eldest daughter’s school graduation to go to her chosen university and in the confirmation of my youngest. I went on holiday enjoying carefree moments. My passions were cooking and knitting, my English course, my friends, and my family supported me.

I continued until October, when a lymph node and suspected bone recurrence occurred. I resumed the treatment with quite a bit of difficulty, achieving complete remission at the first re-evaluation. In April 2023, I resumed work.

In November, a spinal cord compression occurred. That was a very severe pain to experience. Pain kills thoughts, time, and movements and is blinding. Then it passes, but it’s hard.

Now I’m having chemotherapy again. I’m working on a project for my patients. I’m slow, but I’m moving forward. Faith and family always support me. We must have faith: in drugs, doctors, in the least dark moments and the dark moments.

Since I got sick, I have been writing a diary. It’s called “Only Beautiful Things” and contains thoughts, memories, smiles, and everything that strikes me as good during a moment that isn’t beautiful. I know it sounds crazy, but it helps. It also helps to ask for help, to rely on, to be carried away by positivity, dreams and projects, and the trust of others when you think you no longer have it.

Very often, cancer patients are seen as hopeless, without a future. In reality, planning in the long term is challenging, but for us, the present expands… the days have a different meaning. Every moment pleasantly spent with a friend, a smile, an unexpected phone call, or a good book has precious value.

The future is built in small steps, without pretensions, one day at a time. It isn’t easy. Life changes a lot; it is slower but has a sometimes broad horizon. You need to know how to look at it.