THE STORY OF FRANCESCO DAMIANO AND HIS IMMENSE LOVE FOR LIFE

In recent months, I’ve spoken a few times with Eugenio, Ciccio’s father. He entrusted me with their story, and I share it with respect, because the pain that unites us is the same, but so is the immense love for our children. It’s a story of “Speranza e Coraggio“.

Ciccio, my 34-year-old son, loves his job: he’s a psychotherapist, has patients all over the world, and, due to the time zones, works a lot, from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. He’s good. A few years earlier, he managed to help an autistic child walk, and his parents, to reward him, gave him a week’s vacation in Greece. “Greece is beautiful,” he later said.
On their honeymoon, on November 24, 2024, he feels ill. He’s blind on one side, speech is muddled, he’s experiencing noises in his ears, confusion, headaches, and projectile vomiting. He’s in Thailand with his wife, in Phuket. He’s admitted to a good hospital, and an MRI reveals a 3-cm mass in his left temporal lobe.
“I can’t believe it,” he says, “I’ve always worked.”
We arrange for his repatriation and contact a neurosurgery center in Rome, where he lives. They recommend Professor Olivi of the Gemelli Polyclinic. The doctors in Phuket decide he can’t travel by scheduled flight, but an air ambulance is needed. The travel insurance company takes a few days to organize it. On December 3rd, Ciccio is in Rome.
Everything is ready: they operate on him on December 5th, 2024, everything seems fine, and he’s home on the 9th. The histological result indicates IDH-wt grade 4 glioblastoma.
Before treatment could begin, the MRI on January 3, 2025, showed 3 cm of regrowth, the same as the previous month. Ciccio felt a slight throbbing in his head.
They decided to operate again on January 15, 2025. This time, a complete removal. He was discharged on January 18. Professor Olivi warned: “I rarely experienced such rapid recurrences in such a short time when I was in America, where I lived for 33 years—maybe a couple of times.”
We asked for molecular analysis, Optune, and inclusion in a trial. But they decided to go with standard therapy: we’ll see later, they said.
In any case, the boy is doing well, he believes in it. He faces radiation and chemotherapy with determination. “It’s bullshit,” he said.
Privately managed by nutritional oncologists, he adds a strict ketogenic diet, which also involves a daily fasting period of at least 14 hours, which he heroically follows for over six months. He adds ozonated oil and, later, systemic ozone therapy. I ask him if he wants us to go abroad for more advanced treatments, but he has other plans. He wants to “give his wife a child.” And so they do. The baby is due in December. He doesn’t want me to stay at his house for now; “it’ll be needed later,” he says.
He gets organized. He returns to work, carrying a hiking backpack full of medications and supplements: every half hour the phone rings asking for some medication he needs to take. When he works, he feels much better; he has no symptoms at work. He welcomes his patients in the office hallway with a joyful “Here we are!” and, when he dismisses them, he bids them farewell with “Let’s move on, good luck!”
In July 2025, he begins to feel unwell. He has confusion, difficulty speaking and understanding, and seizures. He needs three visits to the emergency room. He can’t continue the temozolomide due to low platelet counts.
He asks me to stay with him. I move into his house. “You couldn’t save me,” he tells me. I give him all the love I can. I accompany him everywhere.
After seeing the MRI, Professor Olivi decides to perform a third surgery, telling us, “I’m not even thinking about throwing in the towel.” Immediately after the surgery, the Professor informs us that the tumor is very aggressive and invasive, and that this time the strength in the right side of his body will significantly decrease; he hugs us and says, “We’re fighting so he can see his son.” In intensive care, Ciccio realizes something is wrong; the right side of his body isn’t moving. “No!” “Why?” he shouts.
It’s early September 2025. He finds himself in a wheelchair. His eyes are very sad. “I wasn’t expecting this!” he says.
In October, his enthusiasm returns. How he makes his way through the corridors of the rehabilitation hospital with such energy! At 8 a.m., he’s already at the gym entrance, where he stays all day, spending hours on the pedal board. He even regains some mobility: he can stand up on his own, walks with a walker, and learns to read again. He starts regorafenib.
Ten months after the diagnosis, the results of the molecular tests arrive (alterations found: RB1 – TP53 – NF1 – TP53 – NF1 – CREBBP – PIK3R1 – PTEN) and MGMT (unmethylated): a terrible mix.
Anyway, at the end of November, he’s in the delivery room with his wife in a wheelchair, holding their newborn baby in his arms.
In December 2025, he’s out of office: he has to stop the regorafenib due to low platelet counts, increase the cortisone dose due to difficulty speaking, and no longer has he been able to continue.
He no longer walks, he sleeps a lot.
“What a shame,” he says while sitting in his wheelchair soaking up the last of the sun, looking out over the little garden of his beloved home. “Your son is here,” I tell him.
Because of the severe headache, he begins the continuous administration of morphine.
On January 3, 2026, Ciccio passes away in my arms and those of his wife.
13 months after the diagnosis.
He fought, the boy, he fought. GBM was a unique rarity. He heroically kept it at bay for six months with diet, with enthusiasm at work, with the zest for life he wanted to generate.
How many memories we have made with him in these months. How beautiful it was when he called me “idiot.”
And when we played with words and listened to music. And I made him walk by holding his arm. And I gave him physiotherapy exercises on his legs. And we laughed at the words he couldn’t say, because I understood him!
He bit his lower lip and a tear came out; it was his way of crying.
He liked it when I combed his hair; it relaxed him. And I stayed for a long time.
“Okay, okay,” he said to the doctor who was starting to administer the morphine, not fully understanding that he would never wake up.
“Okay, okay,” were his last words.
We fought and we lost.
I regret not having done more to save him, for having slept while he was awake because he couldn’t sleep, for having expressed my exhaustion when he couldn’t rest.
We were completely trapped by an unjust fate.