My grandmother’s last months

Thu Aug 11, 2016 9:24am EDT
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By Gaia Squarci

MILAN (Reuters) - My grandmother's life and mine overlapped for 27 years. I always called her "Nonna."

Our age difference and profoundly contrasting values and way of thinking did not prevent us from developing a strong bond and a relationship punctuated by mischievous games and moments of tenderness and humor. We were amused by our differences.

"You know, I was still young when you were born," she told me a few weeks before she died. "It's a little like we grew up together."

At a lunch table a few months earlier in Milan, I learned from my mother, her daughter, that Nonna, 85, suffered from incurable liver cancer. Years before, she had survived two bouts of breast cancer.

Nonna would tell me time and time again that the news of my birth had given her the strength to fight.

When I learned that she was sick again, I had just landed in Italy, where I would be for only three days before flying back to New York.

Even more heartbreaking than the fear of saying goodbye to her was the fact that my grandmother did not know how sick she was. My mother and aunt believed she could not bear the thought of a third bout with cancer, this time, affecting her liver. Nonna was told by family members that her liver was sick.

No one ever mentioned the word “cancer.”   Continued...

Chiara Micheletti helps her mother Marisa Vesco take a shower in Cossato, Italy, June 7, 2015. REUTERS/Gaia Squarci