Y's Revenge. Lou Bihl

like a shotgun. The bad weather had left the Straße der Erinnerung deserted except for a lone jogger. Unimpressed by the rain, he trotted past the statues of Edith Stein’s half-split visage to the poignant gaze of Käthe Kollwitz and the defiant Georg Elsner. Without decelerating, he stretched out his fist and knocked twice on the heads of each statue—except for the head of Ludwig Erhard, whom he apparently disdained.

      No one will ever put me on a pedestal, not even in their memories. And, above all, I want no gravestone.

      When my parka was soaked, I quit my purposeless hike and walked into the next bar. A flush of odors of alcohol, stale frying grease, and unwashed bodies overwhelmed me. The few male guests sat staring into half-empty beer glasses, their grey faces emanating exhaustion. The greenish flickering of a neon lamp provided dim light, while Helene Fischer’s voice jingled “Breathlessly through the Night.”

      I ordered a pils, along with two meatballs that I saw sweating on the bar beneath cling wrap, together with a portion of potato salad covered with an incipient incrustation of mayonnaise. My new perception that cancer dispensed with concerns about hygienic matters was an amusing insight. As a precaution, I requested a schnapps, deliberately ignoring the fingerprints on the glass.

      After the third beer, I went to the unisex restroom. Urine trickled tardily, as if Wolff’s diagnosis had already clamped my urethral flow. Passing the cigarette machine on my way back, I spontaneously decided to buy a pack and couldn’t help wondering about the requirement for verifying my age. When I was young, by inserting two Mark coins, twenty cigarettes could be delivered to any sixteen-year-old boy without objection.

      Back home, I found matches next to the tea light candles and greedily inhaled the smoke for the first time in twenty years. The subsequent tussive irritation did not impair my indulgence, nor was the vertigo unpleasant. What did bother me were the subsequent hiccups, combined with a regurgitation of beer, meatballs, and Marlboro. Fortunately, I remembered the emergency ration of Underberg and found a tetra pack of 2 cl bottles in the back of the wall cupboard. The bitter’s pungency burned its way through my esophagus and cleared my stomach.

      I opened my laptop and clicked on PubMed, where I found what I was looking for. As expected, the scientific literature revealed no statistically significant differences in survival between surgery compared to radiotherapy, while the rate of incontinence and impotence was lower for irradiated patients. My search for the terms gender-affirming surgery and prostate cancer revealed one article stating that patients with prior pelvic surgery or radiotherapy should be counselled on the substantial challenge for the dissection of the neovaginal canal. And that the complication rate increased with smoking. I dumped the cigarettes into the garbage can.

      The blinking of my email notification distracted me.

      How was it with Wolff? I’ve been waiting for hours! Fondly, A.

      Alex, whom I had completely forgotten. I clicked on the response button.

      Dear Alex,

      You are the first to receive Job’s news: it is prostate cancer. I kick myself for having the fucking medical routine check at the beginning of my sabbatical instead of enjoying my freedom and writing my book.

      Shouldn’t I have known that Saint Y would punish my in gratitude for his chromosome? Prostate cancer! I’ve never felt so out of place inside my body. It’s as if I’m watching a surreal movie. On the pathology report, I read Kristian Starck. I guess that should be me, but this individual seemed like a complete stranger. Unfortunately, Kristina was also hiding in a waft of mist, not letting me feel her. Taking out my perplexity on Wolff, I bullied him with sarcastic comments. This time, he couldn’t even strike back. I enjoyed watching him writhe and stammer as he searched for the appropriate words.

      His recommended surgery: radical prostatectomy. Whether the artist manages to spare decisive nerve cords remains uncertain until after surgery. ‘Decisive’ refers to preservation or loss of erectile function. Another risk is urine incontinence, implying the need to wear Pampers. Therefore, surgery is more or less out of the question. Then, I almost disclosed my secret by asking him if prostatectomy was a contraindication for gender-affirmative surgery. I took it back instantly, asserting it was just a joke. Thanks to his limited phantasy, he remained clueless. Kristina called me a wimp, but I just couldn’t bring myself to introduce her to Wolff just then.

      By the way: one potential side effect of neoadjuvant hor monal treatment preceding radiotherapy is breast development. Tits by prescription!

      Sorry, dear. I’ll call it a day, since I’m a little bit sick from beer, Underberg, and Marlboros. Otherwise, I’m feeling better now, after dumping all this shit on you. So, everything is under control. Please save any psychobabble for your patients and spare me your pity. I’ll get an overdose of compassion from my ex-wife, whom I unfortunately married instead of YOU.

      Fondly, K.

      Alex promptly replied:

      Merde alors!!!! Awful to have cancer confirmed. I’m aware this is not about me, but as a person who loves you, I certainly am entitled to commiserate when imagining cancer inside you. For once, the term ‘psychobabble’ is forgiven, considering the mitigating circumstances, as Underberg has always evoked your crudest manners. However, it is all but ‘psycho’ that I am concerned about YOU and not about your brilliant handling of dumb-ass Wolff. With the tiny exception of discussing gender-affirming surgery just now, and with him of all people. For the moment, I have no objections to your boozing bitter, and the situation justifies short-term cigarette abuse, even for a militant ex-smoker. I trust this soon will pass. However, once you’ve recovered from your hangover, please TALK to me and unfasten your armor of sarcasm. Big hug and luv, A.

      I put out my cigarette. Humming “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” I realized my cheeks were wet.

      Bedazzled by merciless morning light, I felt my head throbbing. Fortunately, yesterday’s booze made brain metastases unlikely. My stomach was revolting, and my tongue was sticking to the palate as if pasted with nicotine chewing gum. Even the chirping of the birds was obtrusive; they were singing as if life was just going on. It didn’t help keeping my eyes closed to stretch out the merciful moment of semi-somnolence and to delay the return of recollection.

      No dream. Wolff’s Job’s news. Cancer.

      The bladder allowed no respite. I crawled out of bed and headed toward the bathroom. The toothbrush produced instant nausea. I stumbled into the kitchen and switched the espresso machine on—and then off again. My sickness clearly required chamomile tea.

      At least it was Saturday: no appointments, no need to call in sick. Sabbatical—the year off work I had been longing for to finally take the time to write my book, to go on a road trip and realize different dreams. Apparently, the tour operator had unexpectedly changed the agenda into cancer treatment. Dreams were postponed, at best—if not cut to pieces by a scalpel or atomized by an accelerator and eventually castrated by hormone ablation.

      No decisions today, my rotten brain transmitted. Things will take care of themselves.

      “Anyone else I would kick down the stairs,” I mumbled, when Alex rushed in.

      She threw a bag of rolls and a bunch of flowers onto the table. Then she hugged me in a fervent embrace and tousled my stringy hair. Her perfume was comforting but made me self-conscious of my own stale smell.

      “Petit déjeuner!”

      No objection was allowed, so I sat down obediently, without even offering help, and just enjoyed watching her lean body with its sinewy shoulders smoothly spinning around in the kitchen.

      My dear Alex, the only one who knew me with all my deficiencies and loved me nonetheless—the fearful Kris