Roma Therapy

There are a number of things people say that I may never comprehend in full. Topping the list: the seemingly obligatory descriptive gauge of just how Italian a person is. It seems no one is ever just someone of Italian heritage or not. They are either "oh, VERY Italian" or "yeah, a little Italian, I guess". It simply evades my understanding. 

My best theory is that it's really just people quantifying the degree in which someone fits a pre-programmed model of an "expected" Italian-American, as defined by television and movie stereotypes. Do they have dark hair, dark eyes, and a big nose? Do they speak loudly, laugh loudly, and gesture almost just as much? Do they fist bump at dance clubs, eat big pasta dinners with family, and make offers people can't refuse? "Oh, they're VERY Italian." 

For me, this is so far off I barely know where to begin. See, the thing everyone seems to be missing is that the essence of being Italian is purely about feeling everything, well... more. 

Food is for devouring with vigor, music is for dancing with abandon, life is for loving and risking and taking and trying... basically I couldn't BE more Italian.

This would help explain why most things for me, and especially these days, are so much more... amplified. My highs are stratospheric. My lows gutting. 

A week ago I got the news that the doctors weren't seeing sufficient progress from my chemotherapy in order to move forward with surgery. This AFTER I'd already basically celebrated my completion of the phase. It was as if my legs could actually feel the gravitational pull to the earth I was so paralyzed. And I spent nearly a week coming out of shock. 

Then it was time for the long-awaited meeting with my plastic surgeon to discuss reconstructive surgery. This was when I received my second blow. I learned that being as thin as I am, although a positive thing for preventing future cancer recurrences, was a showstopper for receiving the all-natural tissue transfer I'd been hoping for. My options had become two-fold: move forward with a bilateral mastectomy with no reconstruction at all. Or become comfortable with the prospect of a foreign body implant. 

This is where I must warn you, Dear Reader, if you care about whatever relationship we've got, I implore you NOT to give me any advice and most especially NOT to tell me any horror stories. I can assure you, if you were in my shoes having to confront only one viable yet undesirable option, you would not want to throw fuel to the fire of fear. It's already all-consuming and I, for the sake of self-preservation, have to shift gears to blind faith that this is all going to work out. 

I learned 3 in 10 women have complications from the surgery I'm about to endure. Please let me be one of the 7. That is a lucky number to Italians after all...  

I learned I will have two surgeries. The first will be a bilateral mastectomy on September 12th. The second will be reconstructive surgery roughly 6-8 weeks following. My recovery will take weeks from there.

Italy will have to wait until December at best. I imagine strung lights and choirs singing familiar carols to my babies as they walk the piazza arm-in-arm. My Roma therapy. Sooner or later.