Y's Revenge. Lou Bihl

patients shouldn’t be forbidden their bad habits.”

      “If at all, that only applies to incurable cancer,” my family doctor objected.

      Carla threw the pack onto the table. “No matter how thing go, the disease presents an opportunity for Dad to finally do all the things he’s always wanted to do.”

      I held my breath and again asked myself whether this might be the moment. Then, I heard Maren say, “All vices permitted, as long as Dad isn’t gay or a child molester.”

      Which was a decisive signal to say goodbye. On my way home, I wrote an SMS to Alex.

      While, or because, everything was the same as always, I felt so alienated. I do believe they want to be there for me all the time, but I doubt whether it will help.

      She answered immediately.

      To be honest, you are a bit ungrateful and premature. Having someone who is there for you at any time is much more than most people can count on.

      The word “ungrateful” made me grin. By contrast, the term “premature” made me shiver.

      The next morning, the long-awaited free time ahead already felt like a black hole—sucking me in and transforming the quiet I had longed for into oppressive silence. I made an espresso macchiato but poured it down the sink as the milk was sour. Finally, I found a cereal bar and a Coke.

      Message from Alex:

      Dear, as I am not a Wolff follower, I looked into the guidelines for treatment of prostate cancer to get my own impression of the current recommendations. I did not fully understand the issue of hormonal treatment. Did I get it right that you poor guys formerly used to get your balls cut off but something similar is now performed using drugs?

      Can you explain how it works—and why, for heaven’s sake you, would be happy to endure that treatment?? Luv, Alex.

      Out of the clinical routine for years, Alex had taken the trouble to work herself through the guidelines for me!

      I responded:

      Beloved pain in the neck,

      Testosterone not only renders males aggressive but prostate cancer cells as well. Instead of removing the balls, a kind of chemical castration is used now to prevent testicular androgen production. My preference is a drug called bicalutamide, which does not suppress the androgen level. The side effects are milder, except for gynecomastia, which is what I mentioned as “tits on prescription!” I guess you now understand my preference. Thanx for your concern. Luv, Kris

      With this text, my energy was spent. I left the rest of the emails unanswered. In exhausted restlessness, I wandered around the flat. According to the principle of curing something with something alike, I treated myself to Leonard Cohen’s “You Want It Darker” and reached for one of the remaining cigarettes. Remembering Frank Zappa’s statement: Tobacco is food, I clicked on YouTube and looked for his last interview, recorded several days before he died. At the age of fifty-two, his former exuberant vitality had given way to a grand fragility, but even close to death he radiated an unbreakable intensity. When asked if there was anything in his life he regretted, his answer was: I am totally unrepentant. His reply to being asked what he would like people to remember about him had been: I don’t care. It’s not important to be remembered.

      Lacking a handkerchief, I reached for a dishtowel instead. Searching for my own regrets, I found that omissions rather than done deeds deserved ruefulness. Not much worthy of memory, either. Assuming that it is, indeed, futile to be remembered by others, shouldn’t the account of one’s own memories at least be stockpiled, as a kind of virtual investment in one’s remaining life? For example, a road trip.

      Whenever I fail to sort out my pending tasks or to find a sensible way to get started, I draft a to-do list. Writing down one’s tasks creates the illusion of getting things done, even if nothing is actually accomplished.

       Preparation for the trip

      •Radiation oncologist—Second opinion

      •According to the result—second consultation with Wolff

      •Farewell party at the department

      •Petra finissage

       Road Trip

      •Stuttgart: class reunion. Test outing #1?

      •Manfred—(health care proxy for mother)

      •Heidelberg: Mathias—(support for the statistics in the book; test outing #2!)

      •Köln: Otto—lecture, guided church tour, test outing #3

      •Hamburg: Mother—health care proxy, test outing #4?

      •Hallig Hoge—Contemplation. Experiment: How will Kristina get along in the countyside?

      •Lisbon via France, Spain → BOOK

      Starting with the easiest task, I made an appointment with the radiation oncologist. Then I called my brother, who had virtually no time to see me during the weekend of my class reunion as his wife had planned an extended wellness weekend and he had to take care of the children, but finally he agreed to meet me. Once again, he was lamenting, and once again, I kept my mouth shut.

      I remembered his irritation at Mother when she had remarked, some years ago, that this was how life went when a man fathered children who could be his grand children with a woman who could easily be his daughter. A second spring had ocurred in his forties, with a blond bachelor aspirant for business administration doing an internship in his company. After her bachelor’s degree, she had abstained from a further qualification for the master’s and instead gave birth to two hyperactive children.

      Mathias had time for me on the proposed date and promised to support me in my book with his expertise in statistics. However, I detected little enthusiasm from my old student buddy about our first reunion after ten years. Moreover, I was concerned about his cryptic remark that his physical shape was only fit for scrap.

      At least, Conchita and Otto expressed their happiness to see me. And I felt the pleasure of finally getting some tasks underway.

      “Professor Schön is expecting you. May I offer espresso, green tea, or an iced soft drink?”

      The nametag of the lanky young man with the neatly combed dreadlocks read: J. F. Lemontin. The Black secretary guided me into the light-flooded office of the radiation oncologist, who looked even more athletic without his white coat. His handshake was warm, and his smile conveyed empathy without commiseration when he greeted me and said he would have preferred a bar for our first meeting—a statement I fully agreed with.

      Above his desk was one of Josef Alber’s thousand homages to the square, in yellow.

      “Is Alber’s yellow study supposed to acquaint the spectator with your rays?” I asked.

      A surprised smile curled the laugh lines around his eyes. “The title of the picture is Joy, but I’m thrilled you associate it with rays.”

      After a moment of unperturbed silence, Schön grabbed my medical record. “I guess you want me to give you some basic information about radiotherapy. Wolff most probably recommended prostatectomy?”

      He seemed surprised at my preference for primary definitive radiotherapy and did not comment on my reservations against surgery. I was pleased at his emphatic nod when I mentioned that preservation of potency was an issue. He then put some water in that wine by stating that, at my age of only 55, he would rather tend to recommend primary surgery. If the cancer recurred after surgery, salvage radiotherapy was no real challenge, but prostatectomy for recurrence after a radiation treatment would be a significant problem for the surgeon. Moreover, maintaining erectile function was in no way