Y's Revenge. Lou Bihl

increasingly necessary to maintain my shape and fight the formation of rolls. One of nature’s dirty tricks is to let the male beer belly appear more disfiguring than the tummy of a mature woman.

      I said, “Why don’t you just let me exercise as long as I am still able to do so?”

      Irmgard surprised me by apologizing and asking me to invite her for a protein shake after the workout. Years of matrimonial dispute had taught me to accept peace offerings even without understanding the reasons for conflict.

      “We’ll have a smoothie,” I offered.

      I chose the treadmill for warmup, and some minutes later, my weariness had disappeared.

      Rüdiger tapped me on my shoulder. “Looks excellent! You have a perfectly elastic flow.”

      Rüdiger was a physiotherapist with strong educational ambitions. He had recently discovered some potential for improvement in my running style. His remark about me having a typical runner’s body, with my slender athletic shape, had instantaneously motivated me to accept his recommendations on how to harmonize my shoulder and hip movements.

      After twenty minutes of burning fat, I joined Ramona’s course of Pilates for advanced beginners, where, as the only male participant, I enjoyed the instructor’s special attention. Feeling stiff and immobile, I found it rather arduous to bend my 1.78 meters into the graceful positions the ladies achieved so effortlessly.

      Several minutes before the time we had agreed on, I headed for the shower, but Irmgard was already waiting at the bar. While I had been having my Pilates work out, she had taken a sauna, so she smelled of mountain pine, whereas I exuded the scent of male perspiration. I hoped the sauna might have melted away any of Irmgard’s grudge caused by unintended offense.

      “At my dinner invitation, you and Carla disappeared for hours and you talked to her alone. Moreover, you met Maren without me. As a colleague, I’m good enough for treatment of trivial issues, but when it’s getting serious you don’t even discuss things with me …”

      “Sorry. Aren’t you a bit touchy? As a colleague, you should know that I do have other problems to worry about.”

      A shadow of remorse appeared on her face. “I am aware of that,” she replied. “And I do know that you never want to need anybody. That’s okay for a healthy single person. Single with a potentially life threatening disease is something else, though. You should really think about how to manage your life, in case things don’t go well.”

      Her remark, so to the point, gave me the creeps. “You mean I should write a patient’s provision?” I asked. “Just to reassure you: I have already drawn up my will.”

      She straightened up, and her voice was like an icebreaker. “Shame on you, Kristian! First you make me feel guilty, so I am no longer mad at you, and then you roll over me with your sarcasm.”

      I apologized, and we silently sucked our smoothies.

      Irmgard put her glass down and twitched at her shirt. “Kris, I want to tell you . . .” Her voice faltered. Her gaze flickered.

      “Even though our marriage was not what I had hoped for,” she continued, “we are still friends. So, I meant it when I said I’d be there for you if you need me. And if your treatment should make you too sick to be self-sustaining, you can stay temporarily at my house and I’ll take care of you.”

      Her opening the door to her ex-husband who just had behaved like a bull in the china shop made me speechless. We embraced and I felt deeply grateful, even though her offer was beyond my conceptualization.

      “Don’t tell me you’ve resumed smoking.”

      Wolff sniffed and shook his head with the indignation of an ex-smoker.

      “That’s my cancer diet,” I said. “Freely adapted from Frank Zappa”

      “Dumb ass!” Wolff scoffed. “Frank Zappa would even have died without cigarettes because his diagnosis was hopelessly delayed until his cancer had already grown beyond any resection possibility. Your tumor is locally confined to the prostate, and it’s easy to remove.”

      Taking a deep breath, I informed Wolff about my decision for the three months of neoadjuvant hormonal therapy before the final determination for the definite treatment. I concluded my lengthy explanations with a request for a recommendation, such as Viagra, in case the bicalutamide should impede potency.

      “Are you crazy?” Wolff shook his head and tried to make me change my mind. If I refused surgery, I should at least accept a “proper” hormonal treatment.

      I remained stubborn. No castration.

      The tendons of his neck tightened. Gritting his jawbones, he asked, “How does a scientifically educated pathologist do his thinking with his dick when his survival is concerned?”

      I leaned back and steepled my fingers. “As if you’ve never used any brains when your dick was concerned! I bet you’ve never heard of psycho-oncology? Not to mention that even a urologist would understand that the penis is not made just for fucking, but it’s also for peeing—when and where its owner prefers to, and not involuntarily into his pants or Pampers?”

      Wolff shook his head without replying.

      I stared at the Eiffel Tower—a bulky lamp on his desk, a present from Kriemhild after habilitation. Déjà vu of the old days when we were young, yet already caught up in the rivalry of our student clique. Wolff and I were rarely in the same room without getting involved in some verbal slugfest. Wolff was the kickboxer, dead on target in terms of hitting vulnerabilities, whereas I was more of a foilsman, distributing ironic barbs and thereby having the audience’s laughter on my side. I didn’t even want to imagine how roughly Wolff would have treated Kristina.

      “Starck, you are a dickhead, but the patient has the sovereign rights over any treatment decision.”

      When I asked him if additional staging was necessary to exclude metastases, he answered there was no indication. For my PSA level, the guideline did not recommend further imaging— even less so, as I was going to use systemic treatment. I perceived his statement as reassuring and unsettling at the same time but refrained from digging deeper.

      Wolff made me promise to re-check my PSA in six weeks and forward the result, then he gave me the prescription with the comment that treating medical doctors as patients was god’s worst punishment. He insisted that I get in touch right after my trip. “Or any time you need me,” he added, grumbling.

      After getting and exchanging a handshake, I was overwhelmed by relief for sticking to my decision.