100 Days of Happiness by Fausto Brizzi Page B

doesn’t even answer his cell phone. You start to think he’ll never get there. And instead, once the risotto is overcooked, the candles have all burned down to stubs, you’ve spilled wine on your white shirt, and you figure out that the milk you used for cooking is a week past its sell-by date, there it is: the criminal doorbell.
    â€œSorry I’m late, my friend, I know it’s unforgivable, but you can never find a parking place in this neighborhood!”
    Try to put up with me, I’m rambling more than usual, so . . . we were talking about side effects. I know them by heart, like a poem you learned in elementary school.
    â€œExhaustion, digestive problems, vomiting, loss of appetite and alteration of taste perceptions, fever, coughing, sore throat, headaches, muscle pains, jangled nerves, weakening of the hair follicles, and loss of sexual appetite.”
    Little by little, straggling in, nearly all of them show up.
    Loss of appetite.
    Only now does it occur to me that I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday at lunch. I’ve never skipped an appointment with a meal in my life.
    Got it!
    Alteration of taste perceptions.
    I force myself to eat an apple. It tastes a little sour. But it’s just my mouth decoding it wrong.
    Got it!
    Coughing.
    Not fair, I had a cough even before. Still, got it!
    Digestive problems.
    I can already taste the apple coming back up.
    Got it!
    Sore throat.
    You know that little itch that tells you tomorrow morning you’re going to be hoarse?
    Got it!
    Headaches.
    Ibuprofen, six hundred milligrams, and my headache’s gone. But it’ll be back.
    Got it!
    Loss of sexual appetite.
    In effect, I no longer seem to be obsessing over sex. I used to think about it a thousand times a day, like all males.
    Got it!
    Muscle pains.
    Only now that I’m doing this inventory, I realize that my sciatica has come back. The sciatica is terrible, like a front door buzzer making contact at three in the morning.
    Got it!
    Jangled nerves.
    I’m a volcano ready to erupt.
    Got it!
    Nausea.
    Got it!
    Vomiting. The apple.
    Got it!
    Exhaustion.
    I don’t feel all that different from yesterday.
    I’d say I don’t have that.
    Weakening of the hair follicles.
    I have a luxuriant head of hair, not a single white hair.
    Not that one either.
    The collection of side effects is still incomplete. I spend the day sitting on our little terrace. I can’t even imagine going to our water polo team practice. I even lie to Oscar.
    â€œHow’s it going, big Lucio?”
    â€œFine, so far everything’s fine. I drank my chemo for breakfast.”
    â€œOutstanding. You’ll see, you’re going to beat this.”
    â€œYou’ll see, you’re going to beat this.” A phrase that reeks from afar of pity and commiseration. It sounds like an encouragement, but it’s actually an epitaph.
    We finish the phone call with some idle chitchat. Then I try to do some exercise. I’m sure of it: I’m going to feel better tomorrow.

−88
    T omorrow is today.
    I do an inventory of my side effects.
    I can’t even get out of bed. I’m a man in such poor shape that I flop around on my back, lacking the fine-motor skills to get up. It shouldn’t be hard, left leg on the floor, pop your torso upright, right leg on the floor, push with both arms, and
alley-oop
! You’re on your feet. But I look like a robot whose batteries are running down.
    Exhaustion.
    Got it.
    I walk unsteadily down the hall, and I rinse my face.
    I notice a few hairs scattered in the sink. I run my hand over my head, and a lock of hair magically detaches.
    Weakening of the hair follicles.
    Got it.
    The complete assortment.
    Now I can’t tell you for sure how many of these symptoms are real and how many of them are the product of autosuggestion.
    The fact is I don’t feel a bit well.
    Paola notices it, and for the first time since I’ve been allowed