Lou Bihl - Y's Revenge

Y's Revenge is an exclusively fictitious story

and any resemblances with real events or persons are coincidental.

First edition 2021

© 2021 Unken Verlag GmbH, Karlsruhe

Cover design : Daniel Horowitz, Paris

Typesetting: Buch & media GmbH, Munich

Set from the: Neuton and Segoe

Printing and processing: CPI books, Leck

ISBN mobi 978-3-949286-05-6

ISBN epub 978-3-949286-06-3

www.unken-verlag.de

As long as you live, nothing is final

Arnold Zweig

Berlin

This time, she avoided my eyes.

“Professor Wolff will be with you in a minute.” The secretary of the Department of Urology guided me to the office of her boss.

A moment later, Wolff rushed in and lounged his big body in the leather armchair. He poured two glasses of water from a crystal carafe and handed one over the table. “Sorry,” he said. “It turns out that it is not prostatitis but prostate cancer after all.

I took the glass and put it down.

“Good match with the weather,” I heard myself say. I stared at the giant raindrops splashing at the windowpane.

“Weather will pass by,” Wolff muttered and pressed the print button of his computer.

“Thanks for the awesome comfort. Life will pass by as well.”

I kept on gazing at the window and watched the pouring rain. The laser printer ejected a sheet of paper.

“Sorry, didn’t mean that.” Wolff handed the page over to me.

I read:

Prostate biopsy Prof. Dr. Kristian Starck, Adenocarcinoma of the Prostate cT2c, Grade 3 (ISUP) . The rest was almost undecipherable, as I had no glasses on. Anyhow, I didn’t care but was amused by a handwritten note: Attention, the patient is a pathologist!

“One more unprofessional report by the competitors,” I stated.

“Next time, I’ll refer your specimen directly to you,” Wolff mumbled.

“How do you know next time isn’t already over?”

“Your irony doesn’t help. Let’s try and be positive.”

“Yes, sir. Be my leader and guide me to the realm of positivity.” To my surprise, I enjoyed being rude to my former student buddy.

Wolff sat up straight and switched to his consolation mode. “Look, as you can see, the tumor is restricted to the prostate, indicating that we have several treatment options and a fair chance to cure the disease.”

At least something! I decided to control myself and, for the next half hour, I listened to his explanations about the different ways to treat the tumor, such as surgery or radiation therapy, including the probability of cure and potential side effects. His personal recommendation was total prostatectomy, which meant removal of the gland and surrounding lymph nodes. Proudly, Wolff emphasized, the surgical technique had dramatically improved with his brand-new robotic device called da Vinci, which permitted much better sparing of normal tissue.

I could hardly concentrate, imagining myself tiny and defenseless, belted onto an operating table, while the folding boom of a monster robot rammed a knife into my crotch.

In childhood, I had discovered the dichotomy switch and used it whenever I was overwhelmed by fear—for instance, of father’s castigation. Turning on the switch, I took a step outside my fearful self and watched the scene as if through a telescope. In the painless distance, fear dissolved, and I observed the other Starck pretending perfect coolness, like Sean Penn in Death Sentence . Sitting opposite, I observed the chief of urology, normally a hardboiled macho, but now with sweat on his upper lip. He for whom dealing with a death sentence is no more than daily routine, just as it was for the pathologist. No threat—even da Vinci looked friendly, with its big baby eyes, like ET’s.

Wolff kept on explaining the advantages of surgery, apart from urinary incontinence as an exception, and especially the chance of instant scheduling, whereas radiotherapy required three months of hormonal pretreatment.

“Great! Can I have this neoadjuvant hormone therapy before surgery as well?”

Wolff shook his head, with a flabbergasted look on his face. “Nope. One decisive plus of surgery is that no hormones are needed to improve treatment results. So, why in heaven would you go to the trouble?”

“Because I need a reprieve. You know: my sabbatical, my book, some projects I’ve really been wanting to do and have kept putting off …” With my voice fading away, my hands sank onto the armrest.

“No need to decide today,” Wolff replied. “Take your time. Any more questions about surgery?”

A plump housefly was crawling on the naked breast of the South Sea Islander girl in Gaugin’s lost paradise. “Can you guys still perform gender-affirmative surgery after someone’s had prostatectomy?” I heard myself ask, biting on my tongue. “Just kidding,” I added.

Bewildered by my stare to his lateral background, he turned his head and also caught sight of the housefly that was now surrounding the nipple of the islander woman, whose unflinching gaze did not meet the eyes of her male companion.

When the fly took off, Wolff shook his head. “Absurd question. I have no idea if gender-reassigning surgery is doable after prostatectomy. As far as I know, the prostate is needed for lubrication.”

“Gender-affirmative surgery,” I corrected reflexively.

Drumming with his fingers on the table, Wolff said, “No matter how you call it. I guess you are a bit disoriented, my friend. Or is it your bizarre sense of humor again that makes you have such nonsensical ideas?”

“Just scientific curiosity. I recently read an article about prostate cancer in transgender women.”

Wolff shook his head and checked his watch. “Well, that’s not my area of expertise. However, prostate cancer is, and I’ll be glad to take care of yours. Call me any time when you’ve made up your mind. Maybe check with the radiation oncologist.”

Our farewell handshake failed to alleviate the emotional strain. Backslapping did, somewhat, as we embraced, while keeping distance like sweating boxers.

The rain kept on pouring. With fogged up specs, I headed for my car. The metropolitan traffic jam permitted no more than a walking pace, and it took an eternity to arrive at Spreebogen.

Unlocking the door of my apartment, I prepared for the recognition of how nothing would ever be the same, but I somehow failed to concentrate on the right sensation. In the mirror, my grey hair looked stringy from the rain; otherwise, there was no visible sign of transformation.

The empty fridge offered no comfort, and the early time of day prohibited red wine or schnapps. I peeled off my soaked clothes and slipped into my favorite jeans and a hoodie. Then, I threw on a parka and headed out again, feeling a vague desire to diverge from my habits.

Rain was perforating the surface of the river Spree 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.