The pilgrimage of my dreams included a suitcase full of diapers, extra pants, and a quiet prayer for dignity. Italy has always been a dream destination for me. As a Catholic, I consider Rome the Holy City of my faith, and this year’s Jubilee motivated me to visit the four Holy Doors. I also love art and culture, and Italy is home to many historic sites and great works of art. When I was diagnosed with prostate cancer this summer, I knew it was time to stop fantasizing and make this dream a reality. But when I finally boarded the plane to Italy, I carried a burden I had never predicted. I had just undergone surgery for my cancer and was still new to navigating the unpredictable challenges of urinary incontinence. Yet, I was determined not to let this hinder my dream.
In addition to the diapers and extra pairs of pants, I’d paid for a first-class seat in hopes that the first-class bathrooms would be roomier than the economy-class ones. To my dismay, the situation turned out to be quite different. The first-class bathroom was as small as any airplane bathroom I had ever encountered, making it extremely difficult for me to change my absorbent briefs on the plane. I grunted as I twisted around and balanced on one foot at a time, trying to replace my wet briefs with a fresh pair. I realized that it would be nearly impossible for a person with disabilities to maneuver in such a tight space.
Once in Italy, each day began with a mental checklist. Are the diapers packed? Are the backup pants folded? Do I have plastic bags for emergencies? I became a master at discreet layering, choosing shirts long enough to cover any mishaps and pants that were dark enough to hide them. My travel bag now carries absorbent pads, wipes, and diapers as essential items. Through it all, humor remained my constant companion, making even the most challenging situations bearable.
While passing through airport security, the security agents asked me if I had anything to declare. “Not right now,” I said wryly. An inside joke only I understood about the fact that, at the moment, my adult diaper was dry. Imagine my surprise when the airport body scanner went off, detecting a “suspicious package” in my pants. It was a moment of unexpected comedy in an otherwise serious journey, a moment that brought a smile to my face and the faces of those around me. I sweated but also laughed as I explained my surgical recovery and incontinence to the agents, just in time to avert a pat-down search of my nether regions.
Italian bathrooms weren’t designed with post-surgical maneuvering in mind. Many buildings are old, long pre-dating accessibility laws, with bathrooms tucked behind tight counters or down winding staircases. Many are barely wide enough to turn around in, let alone change a diaper. There was a moment in Rome, standing beneath St. Paul’s shadow, when panic struck. I had miscalculated my need for supplies, and I was running low on them. The pharmacy I found in my panic didn’t carry what I needed, and the language barrier made matters even more difficult. I stood there, sweating and gesturing, trying to explain my need with hand signals, while the rest of our group was busy contemplating Renaissance works of art. Eventually, a kind pharmacist guided me to a shelf of adult diapers, a different brand from those I used in the States. I bought them with the reverence of a pilgrim receiving relics. The experience of purchasing these products in Italy was significantly different from what I was accustomed to in the United States. The pharmacist was understanding and respectful, and the other customers in the store didn’t bat an eye, treating it as a regular part of life.
My trip opened my eyes to both strengths and weaknesses in how America accommodates conditions like mine. On one hand, our airlines are clearly failing; I don’t know how anyone who isn’t fully non-disabled could ever use those restrooms. Yet, our trains are succeeding: on a recent trip to visit family on the East Coast, I was delighted to find bathrooms that were not just big enough for me, but for anyone using a wheelchair and a service animal. Italy’s situation is tricky and complicated: remodeling all its venues to be accessible for people with disabilities would mean knocking down a great deal of ancient architecture. Yet its handling of absorbent briefs is admirable: I found the Italian brand more comfortable and less irritating than the American brand, and soon learned that the briefs recommended as “Amazon’s pick” when ordering adult diapers globally were from an Italian company. This was a revelation in my journey.
As the trip progressed, I realized that my trial was making me more mindful of challenges I should have considered long ago. I am a doctor with many disabled patients; yet I might not have noticed how completely inaccessible to wheelchairs much of our pilgrimage route was. This realization was a wake-up call, prompting me to reevaluate the accessibility of the places I visit and the experiences I offer to others. It also deepened my empathy for those who face similar challenges on a daily basis. The cave where St. Michael the Archangel appeared 1,500 years ago was only accessible by climbing down 86 steps into the dark depths of the Earth and then back up them to exit. The Basilica of St. Francis in Assisi and the Shrine of Padre Pio required hiking through seemingly endless hills. I wondered how many would-be pilgrims were unable to access it.
Traveling through Italy with incontinence taught me that vulnerability doesn’t negate joy; it deepens it. Every bite of tiramisu, every glimpse of basilicas and cathedrals, and every laugh shared with strangers, even in the most unexpected moments, became a small act of defiance against shame, against the desire to remain safe and invisible at home. I returned home not just with souvenirs, but with stories to share. Stories of resilience, awkward triumphs like finding a bathroom just in time, navigating conversations about my condition with fellow travelers, and discovering beauty even when my body felt broken are shared.
Francisco M. Torres is an interventional physiatrist specializing in diagnosing and treating patients with spine-related pain syndromes. He is certified by the American Board of Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation and the American Board of Pain Medicine and can be reached at Florida Spine Institute and Wellness.
Dr. Torres was born in Spain and grew up in Puerto Rico. He graduated from the University of Puerto Rico School of Medicine. Dr. Torres performed his physical medicine and rehabilitation residency at the Veterans Administration Hospital in San Juan before completing a musculoskeletal fellowship at Louisiana State University Medical Center in New Orleans. He served three years as a clinical instructor of medicine and assistant professor at LSU before joining Florida Spine Institute in Clearwater, Florida, where he is the medical director of the Wellness Program.
Dr. Torres is an interventional physiatrist specializing in diagnosing and treating patients with spine-related pain syndromes. He is certified by the American Board of Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation and the American Board of Pain Medicine. He is a prolific writer and primarily interested in preventative medicine. He works with all of his patients to promote overall wellness.
