Lou Bihl - Y's Revenge

Unwrapping the gift paper with red hearts revealed an emergency backpack, equipped with everything needed for first aid. I was stirred by the team’s well-meaning intention.

I thanked Assistant Professor Kalkofen for reminding me of my remote youth and emphasized feeling flattered for the confidence that, even as a pathologist, I would have preserved the ability to perform emergency first aid. Then, I faced Kalkofen and toasted him. “You kindly expressed your hope to see me soon again after my sabbatical. I will not disappoint you.”

Kalkofen’s eyes flickered.

I put my glass down. “Rumors are like ambrosia, growing wild and causing disaster,” I announced. “So, this is for the record. At the beginning of my sabbatical, I had a routine medical check and, as an incidental finding, I was diagnosed with prostate cancer stage T2N0, which I will have treated according to the state of the art. You all know the prognosis. In case you don’t, this is an excellent opportunity to refresh your knowledge. I certainly had better plans for my sabbatical, but the therapy will be completed in these months that I am gone. Therefore, I assume that my work performance will not be influenced either by the carcinoma or by its treatment. So, tonight, let’s all enjoy an untroubled party.”

My short speech was acknowledged with affectionate applause. Nevertheless, I still missed the lightheartedness I had enjoyed at former parties. Only in Leo’s eyes did I rediscover a little cobalt.

At least one more item was ticked off the to-do list.

“As a cancer patient, it is legitimate to be a little late, as long as one shows up at all?” I asked, hoping for benevolence about joining Alex at our table at the French restaurant late as usual.

“ Imbécile , you are a mean manipulator,” Alex grumbled over her already half-empty glass of champagne but sounding affectionate. Her preference for French swearwords was a relic from her failed marriage to a Belgian war correspondent.

We kissed, and I enjoyed the coolness of her hand on my cheek. Alex wore a moss-green suit made of cashmere silk, and booties in matching green with black stripes. I was stunned by the stiletto heels, since she usually preferred flats or sneakers. Her new layered hairstyle made her face appear softer, and the concealer she recently had pilfered from me in mutual agreement covered her periorbital dark circles.

“You’re looking gorgeous tonight,” I said. “I feel we should have sex once more, before I become impotent.”

Alex grinned. “I’m flattered, and, besides, I would love to see your consternation if I did accept your offer.”

“How about doing it soon, on my road trip?” I asked. “I’ll dress in my sexiest girls’ outfit, and we’ll go rambling through the trans bars.

Though Alex had been my confidante in trans matters, she had never accompanied me to my “trans woman escapes.” Now, my trip presented an opportunity for us.

“Trans bars sounds fine,” she said, but in an airy tone that hinted that she was either not serious or not excluding anything. Her elfish grin made her look decades younger and reminded me of the time of our love as students, when I had confessed to her what she then called my “trans tendencies.” Alex had found them exciting, without reserve, and had encouraged me to live accordingly. The total naturalness of her acceptance made me even hope she might be familiar with such a predisposition from her own biography. When I asked her whether she had ever wanted to be male, she shook her head, laughing. No, at best, she had fantasized about becoming the first female chief of a wild Indian tribe or the first captain of the male national football team.

Now, 30 years later, I had not gained any ground—persisting in a sporadic dual life, at times unable to tell whether my trans dreams had degenerated into a flirt with the option, an option I was no longer seriously striving for. But, at least it had been a possibility I was free to decide upon and that I did not want to let go. That is, until cancer had intruded my leeway of decision, thus destroying the convenience of a life that—even though lacking fulfillment— had not been unhappy as long as I indulged in my regular escapes.

Chatting cheerfully, we enjoyed the appetizers, swiping foie gras and frog legs from each other’s plates. Then she wanted to know whether I had decided on surgery or radiotherapy as my cancer treatment, and if the road trip was going to be my reward.

“Probably my preference will be radiotherapy,” I said. “Trip first, hormone treatment simultaneously.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That isn’t what Wolff recommended, is it?”

“As you learned from the guidelines, both options have valid arguments.”

Before Alex had a chance to comment, we were served the blood sausage and veal’s cheek, requiring our undivided attention.

After some minutes of comfortable silence, Alex broke in. “What we were talking about lately—about giving up secrecy concerning your trans tendencies. Did anything change in the course of your cancer diagnosis?”

I jabbed my fork into the veal’s cheek. On the one hand, it was now or never. Facing the fear of dying should evaporate all other anxieties. Alas, in theory only.

Alex nodded contemplatively.

“Do you think one must get cancer to become mature?”

“ Maturity is not accomplished until you’ve surpassed yourself,” she replied . “That’s a quotation I recently found in my proverb calendar.”

I choked on my veal’s cheek. “ Surpassing myself? That is indeed a consoling prospect.”

Shaking her head, she replied, “ Surpassing oneself does not mean you’re dying! You can easily pass away without ever having reached a state of maturity. Instead, surpassing yourself could imply you’re no longer concerned about what people may think of you—or Kristina.”

“Right you are, once again,” I said. “All I need is a prescription for how to implement such insights.”

We continued to enjoy our meal. After a while, Alex resumed. “The prescription could suggest starting with the test outing of your trip, with everyone involved living far enough away. And when will you introduce Kristina to your family?”

I took my time to answer, remembering Maren at the Klopse dinner. I was not as brave as the protagonist of the dramedy series Transparent, where Mort Pfefferman’s decision to live as Maura at the age of seventy is nonchalantly accepted by his self-centered children, who from then on just call him “Mapa.” But he had no granddaughter who was growing up as a fatherless child and who loved her grandfather. I doubted whether Micky would appreciate another grandma instead. Her mother might even restrict our contact.

Alex held on, asserting that I had procrastinated on the trans problem and let professional strain diverge me. Now, after being diagnosed with cancer, I should mainly focus on cure; however, she did understand that I was running out of time, if I wanted to spend the rest of my life as a woman. Especially as the course of the disease was not predictable. Breaking away, she took my hand and we sat in silence.

“You hit the point,” I said. “Right now, I’m totally clueless. Maybe the trip will provide new insights.”

Alex sipped her Bordeaux. “So, it will be your Zarathustra trip.”

I did not get her immediately.

“Philistine! Nietzsche! Thus Spoke Zarathustra . ‘Become who you are’ . ”

Though her philosophy citations were sometimes a bit unnerving, this one was a perfect motto for my trip.