Lou Bihl - Y's Revenge

Alex won our usual competition about the check by cunningly excusing herself for the bathroom and paying on her way there. She accepted my ritual rebuke afterward. Hungry for fresh air, we made our way to the next taxi stand by foot, hand in hand, each of us silently absorbed in thoughts and memories. Once again, I asked myself why we had not become a twosome for life. We shared an understanding of the essentialities of life and an agreement on most issues we regarded as priorities—unchanged for more than thirty years since the amicable failure of our student love affair.

We had both recognized the long-term incompatibility of our erotic preferences. Alex was turned on by machos—guys who were utterly unsuitable for a relationship outside the bedroom. I preferred women with androgynous behavior—tough broads who were submissive to their men by subduing them. Irrespective of these discrepancies,we had shared several episodes of seeking comfort in bed in the further course of our life, mostly after wrecking one of our relationships. Each time, we reconsidered whether our friendship might not turn out to be an ultimate emotional homeland after all. But we never did, as we felt that our almost fraternal familiarity was permitting no passion—which we still regarded as precondition for a relationship. Once, after several drinks, we had agreed to reevaluate the issue at the age of seventy.

Our farewell embrace was deep and heartfelt.

I saw her at the total abdominal trainer, one of the club’s recent acquisitions that supported six-pack shaping as well as modeling of the flexors of the hip. Since Irmgard’s newly purchased segmental body composition scale had revealed an unfavorable ratio of fat to muscle, she now attended the fitness club two or three times a week. I had long ago thought about changing my gym.

I interpreted her glance as a sign of the torture being inflicted on her abdominal muscles.

“Good afternoon, Kris,” she greeted me, and I immediately understood that my interpretation had been wrong. When Irmgard said anything other than “Hi,” she was definitely upset. Even though I was not aware of any misconduct, my reflex was to switch to appeasement mode by innocently asking how she was doing.

“I’m only your ex-wife and your family doctor,” she said, unclasping the handles of the abdominal trainer and letting them jerk upward. She was quite touchy about the issue of being a general practitioner. After all, she had dreamed of a career as a medical specialist, but then she had gotten pregnant. Maren had not only been an interruption of her medical career but she had terminated her band leadership of the Pankower Freiheit as well, both drawbacks that had caused ill feelings for both of us.

“Once again, you don’t even realize what you’re doing to people who care for you,” she complained.

I was tempted to just go home, and I would have, had I not needed the endorphins so badly. Moreover, regular physical effort was becoming 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.