This chapter covers the time when George had failed to get into remission after the first line of treatment and had just started a clinical trial.
Weeks. Weeks and weeks of planning it had taken us to book our flights to Naples for Christmas. And less than a minute to cancel them. One day we were planning our next adventures and chasing our dreams, the next our cheeks were stinging from the violent slap life had dealt us. I wanted to stamp my feet in protest, to shout to the world how unfair this was, to pull my hair out. But I knew that would just upset us both even more.
Wrapped in our warmest jumpers one freezing December evening, while chatting over a mountain of spaghetti aglio, olio e peperoncino, I closed my eyes and let out a long sigh. George pushed a rebellious spaghetto into his mouth and swallowed.
“Mariacristina. What’s up? What crazy thoughts could possibly stop a chatterbox like you in mid-flow?”
