On 31 October 2017, a decidedly unpleasant radiologist sent me off with the words, “You’d better find a surgeon”. It was official: I had a tumour of the pancreas. I was at the Regina Margherita Hospital in Rome’s Trastevere quarter, where my family doctor had arranged for me to undergo an urgent, total-body CT scan. I was there with Gloria. Of all my friends, she seemed best able to handle eventual bad news. Until then, no one else had been aware of my doubts, or of any of the medical examinations I’d already done. Two days earlier, I’d gone for an ultrasound exam all by…
