And I gave him my word E-Book

Rainer Stoerring

• Herausgeber: R.G. Fischer Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Deutsch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 436

Beschreibung

"Malignant cancer" and "aggressive", these were the words none of us had wanted to hear. We had expected anything but this. All of a sudden, we were confronted with a seemingly hopeless situation, and it required decisions. Determined to start fighting back against the cancer, my father asked me to accompany him on this final stretch of his journey. Without any experience regarding which task lay ahead, which challenges would present themselves, and which painful decisions would ultimately have to be made, I accepted his request – "And I gave him my word." A very emotional book about fears and desperation, about confidence and hope. With a lot of sensitivity and almost infinite sympathy, this story provides an insight into the life of a cancer patient and the feelings of the people by his side. It quickly becomes clear that every period in life is also a part of one's own story.

Leseprobe

Rainer Stoerring

And I gave him my word

Each life has its story

“Malignant cancer” and “aggressive”, these were the words none of us had wanted to hear. We had expected anything but this. All of a sudden, we were confronted with a seemingly hopeless situation, and it required decisions.

Determined to start fighting back against the cancer, my father asked me to accompany him on this final stretch of his journey. Without any experience regarding which task lay ahead, which challenges would present themselves, and which painful decisions would ultimately have to be made, I accepted his request – “and I gave him my word.”

A very emotional book about fears and desperation, about confidence and hope. With a lot of sensitivity and almost infinite sympathy, this story provides an insight into the life of a cancer patient and the feelings of the people by his side. It quickly becomes clear that every period in life is also a part of one’s own story.

Rainer Stoerring was born in 1966 in Frankfurt am Main. After a sabbatical year in the USA, he was confronted with this father’s cancer. Rather than resuming his career as a banker, he embraced the opportunity to support his parents. Owing to his experiences during that time, today, in addition to his mandate on the Board of Directors of the Katharina-Stumpf-Stiftung, he works in a voluntary capacity for a variety of charitable and humanistic institutions and organizations.

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek:

The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de

© 2020 by R.G. Fischer Verlag

Orber Str. 30, D-60386 Frankfurt/Main

Cover photo: Wavebreak Media Ltd © 123rf.com

ISBN 978-3-8301-9577-1 EPUB

Inhalt

Preface

Epilogue

Preface

Death is the last experience in everyone’s life.

The unexpected loss of a loved one is awful. The clear knowledge of losing a person and being powerless is just as awful, but in a different way.

In memory of my late father, Adolf Stoerring, and his final journey.

The year came to an end. Autumn drew in the nicest colors. A summer that had kept all promises made by spring slowly moved on. Strengthened from the past months, nature expects the winter. In its perfect strength, winter will cover us gently. Its silence ends the year.

How often has every one of us experienced these times. Year after year, nature shows us her perpetual rhythm. For millions of years, she has returned, again and again. Nothing can stop her. She nurtures us, lets us blossom. She warms us, invites us to pause. And, most notably, she gives us life.

“I’m worried about your father.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lately, he behaves so strangely; quite different from how I know him.”

“Mother, you are imagining things. I haven’t noticed anything unusual about him."

“How should you? You haven’t been here for the past year. I am together with him every day. There is something wrong with him. Would you please talk to him?"

“What do you think he will tell me? If he doesn’t talk to you about it, he will definitely not talk to me."

My mother looked at me. Her face did not reveal what she was thinking. All I saw was an expression of anxiety. Worry about the fact that something was going on, something she could not specify. Did she feel helpless, facing something she did not know? Something she did not know how to gauge? Of course, because it is exactly in these instances that we recognize we have forgotten something. Something we could have learned throughout our lives: paying attention. The difficulty lies in finding the right time. Every day, we are confronted with demands. We meet most of them without giving them much thought. The human being is a creature of habit. Regularity arranges most aspects of our lives into order for us. From the moment we are born, a role is assigned to us. This role has been predetermined over the past millennia. Created by the experiences we have gained from it. Humans have not changed that. On the contrary, in the course of our evolution, we have reaffirmed our roles, over and over again. The man is the leader. The woman is his companion. Actually, she is not only his companion; she does not only stand by his side. She looks after his welfare. She gives birth to his children. She organizes his home and keeps it in order. Puts her own needs behind the man’s. And she is much more. She is the power behind the throne. What would a man be without the woman by his side?

My father. My roots. Not only that. A father is not just the father of another person. He is the leader of the pack. He ensures that the family stays on the right path. He keeps the family safe. As a solitary hunter, he is responsible for the procurement of food. He is the final authority for decisions. His basic task is to lead the family.

My mother. The woman who carried me in her womb for many months. She gave birth to me. She showed me the light of the day and the light of the night. She gave me my role and my place in the community. She gave me my life. Not only that. She always made sure that everything my father provided was put to use towards the family. She organized the internal life of the family. She kept the family on the track that my father had decided to be the right one. It has always been a mystery to me where she gained the knowledge to do that. Because she never had the privilege of learning it.

“Good morning, father. Everything okay? You’ve looked a little sad in the past few days. Are you concerned about something in particular?”

My father looked at me. His face showed his attempt to decipher the words I had spoken. I had never asked him this kind of question before.

“What do you mean by that? Everything is as it always is. I can’t complain.”

“Mother thought you are concerned about something. You are different from your usual self.”

“Your mother. Did she ever care about my worries? She shouldn’t brood and exaggerate so much. I’m fine.”

“I can imagine she notices changes and that she reflects on them. If you don’t want to tell me what’s going on, I can’t force you. However, nothing can be solved by keeping it to oneself. So, either you talk about it, or you don’t.”

My father nodded and ended the conversation, as always, with an evasive question. I had to be satisfied with that. In situations like these, further conversation about the actual issue was impossible. I had learned over the years that he needs to let some things sink in first. He needs time to contemplate certain situations. Not that he would bring it up voluntarily at a later time. He had his special way of showing now I’m ready, let’s continue to talk. Later, as we were sitting together at lunch, he looked at my mother, then at me. My mother noticed and started the conversation.

“You didn’t tell Rainer anything either. What is the matter with you? Do you really believe I don’t notice when something is bothering you? You are concerned, and I am not blind. I notice things. Besides, I also noticed that there is blood in your underwear. Please, talk to us.”

My father glanced at us. He continued eating, slightly embarrassed. My mother directed a demanding look at me.

“Father, tell us what’s going on. If you don’t tell us, how can we know? Blood in your underwear. What’s causing it? Do you have problems urinating? Mother didn’t tell me about that. She’s worried. We talked about that. So, what’s going on? Perhaps you’re not the only man with this problem. Think about Uncle Heinz. Sooner or later, I, too, may end up in the same situation. You have problems urinating. The sooner we address this problem, the better things will go.”

“It’s a little strange. I notice that I have to go, but nothing comes out. Although I have the urge, I can’t go. This happens a few times a day. Eventually, the pressure is so bad that nothing flows at all. I strain; first a little blood comes out, then I can pee. I think I’ll buy some bladder tea at the pharmacy. That’ll flush everything, and the problem will take care of itself in the next few days.”

The ice had broken. His face brightened with a certain amount of optimism. Whether it was related to the presumed solution, the bladder tea, I could not and did not want to answer. Today, I believe that he felt better because he was finally talking about his problem.

“What do you mean, dad? Do you believe the bladder tea can work miracles? I think you should see a urologist and have yourself examined. Heinz had these problems, too. I would guess that it has something to do with your prostate. I don’t know exactly how such cases are handled, but I think the topic is no longer a taboo and it’s not as bad as it used to be.”

“I don’t know any urologists. And I am not going to a hospital either.”

“Ignorance may protect you in some instances, but this is a matter of health, your health. Set an appointment with your family doctor. We’ll talk with her about everything. She can give us a referral. Don’t be concerned about the hospital. Some procedures cannot be performed at home. Nowadays, many hospital stays after surgery last only a few days. Afterwards you’ll be glad that you made the right decision. You are not the only man at your age with this problem.”

Two days later, the appointment with Christiane B. had been set for 8:00 a.m. We sat in the waiting room and leafed through magazines. My father’s nervousness was obvious. Thousands of questions went through his head. But they couldn’t be answered before the conversation with the doctor. In order to relax somewhat, my father started talking.

“I don’t think she can help me. We should have called Professor D. after all. Our neighbor told me he is very good in that field.”

“Wait a minute, you discussed this topic with a stranger? Why then did you make it so difficult on yourself to talk to me or mother?”

“I didn’t talk to anyone about this. He had told me about his operation. We’ve known each other for a very long time but hadn’t seen each other for a while. Werner told me about it on his own accord.”

“And why not. As I said, a lot of men your age are affected by this illness, some even younger than you are now. Medical science is based on many years of experience. Sure, we don’t know the full extent of medical science, but there are enough doctors you can trust. Trust is the foundation of everything. There will always be some kind of problem you cannot solve yourself. When you’ve reached the limits of your own knowledge, you have to consult a specialist. With respect to your current troubles, you need a doctor. So the logical conclusion is to consult one. You’ve made the right decision by scheduling this appointment. You’ll see, after the consultation you’ll know more.”

My father stared at me as though I had uttered these words in a foreign language. He looked directly into my eyes.

“Not just I, but we will know more.”

His words sounded very determined. Very rarely had I seen my father like this. How had I perceived him up to then? Who was he? Strangely, this was the first time I pondered this notion.

“Please come.”

The receptionist nodded at us. We got up and followed her. This wasn’t easy for my father.

“Based on what you have described to me, I will refer you to a urologist. Don’t be too concerned; he will help you. According to my diagnosis, you are clearly suffering from prostate enlargement. The respective surgery will be performed in a hospital. Should no complications arise, which is what I presume in your case, everything will be just like it was before.”

A definite statement, but I wanted to know more about this topic. Until now, I had not been exposed to it. Several years ago, my uncle had had prostate surgery. I hadn’t noticed anything particular back then. I never talked to him about it, though. I wished I had, because I would have understood more about the current conversation. I wanted to know more.

“What causes the occurrence of this illness?”

“It’s not an illness. Over the years, the prostate can become enlarged due to benign growths. These growths obstruct the urinary flow. Therefore, problems occur when passing urine. It is accompanied by pain. Of course, the narrower the urethra the more force the body has to expend to transport the urine.”

My father was watching us. He seemed more interested in the manner of our conversation than its content. I interrupted and turned toward him. He inhaled and looked at his doctor’s desk.

“For next week, I need an appointment to have blood withdrawn. I will schedule that on the way out. Let’s see how my cholesterol is doing. Although I have no problems. Everything has been fine lately, anyway. I eat and drink everything.”

Christiane B. and I looked at each other. I could tell that she felt the same way I did. Neither of us knew how to interpret his statement. The doctor nodded, looked at my father, and continued.

“Your blood test? Yes, we can do that next week. Schedule an appointment. When we meet next week, perhaps you can tell me whether you have any unanswered questions. I believe you’ll think of one or the other. Don’t hold back, questions are there to be asked.”

We got up, said goodbye, and left the room. My father walked ahead, straight to the reception desk. I followed him through the door.

“Rainer.”

Christiane B. called me back to her office.

“Give him time to absorb everything. He seems to be overwhelmed by it. It’s not easy for a man. To talk about it, and with a woman, is often even more difficult. Wait for him to say something. But don’t wait too long; he’s in pain. If you have any questions, call me or stop by.”

She held out her hand, smiled, and nodded.

“Thank you. This was a very informative conversation. I don’t know yet which questions may arise. I haven’t had to confront this problem up to now. An uncle of mine had this operation years ago. We’ll see, maybe I will talk to him about it.”

“Good idea. Perhaps your father can talk to him, too. Man to man. That’s often easier. Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

Even at home, my father did not want to discuss the topic immediately. He took off his coat and went into his room. It was time to watch TV. My mother had a questioning look on her face. I asked her whether he had not mentioned anything at all to her.

“No. When he arrived, he said everything was fine and he had to see a urologist. That’s it.”

“Somehow he has a huge problem discussing it. Even at Christiane’s, in the middle of the consultation, he started talking about scheduling a new appointment for his blood test. He’d be better off using the time to contemplate the issue at hand. The more he knows about it, the less he has to fear it. Strange, when we were children, nobody made such a big fuss over anything. We had to face every challenge and deal with it. But today? You always prefer to close your eyes and ears to things. Anything unpleasant is simply cast aside. We’ll just pretend this never existed. Great motto, only this time you’re dealing with Nature. She does not care whether and when you like something or not.”

I could have gotten worked up over this matter even more. How can one assume that something doesn’t exist just because one doesn’t talk about it?

“Wait a minute. Your father has always been this way. Whenever you ask him, he’s doing fine; he has no problems or worries; he enjoys the food, and everything’s alright at home. What does his silence have to do with me?”

“Mother, you always hear only what you want to hear. You only react when a challenge seems pleasant to you. Problems are dismissed from your lives. They simply don’t exist. The fact is, father has to have prostate surgery. Like thousands of other men his age. We either confront this challenge together or not. What needs to be done next? Who is the appropriate point of contact? What are the surgical options? How exactly is the operation performed? Which problems can occur after the surgery? Once all these questions have been clarified, we take the next step. There are things we cannot take into consideration because we are not aware of them. That’s what doctors are there for. When everything has been addressed, most questions have been answered, then comes the surgery. Afterwards, everything will be alright. You’ll see. Running away doesn’t solve anything.”

“This is how you should talk to your father. Nobody talks to me about it. I just notice things on my own. I saw when there was blood in his underwear. I hear when he complains about being unable to pass urine properly. If I say something, I get no response, or I’m told that nothing is wrong and I should mind my own business. I can’t get through to him. What can I do?”

“You know he’s like that. If you haven’t been able to get through to him, then it must have been the wrong approach. But I can’t tell you what the correct one is. Father and I have never had this problem. The two of you have to talk to each other. Perhaps now is the time for you to learn exactly that. Our fate has a purpose. Be attentive, some things are difficult to understand, but they are recognizable. Right or wrong will be determined afterwards. Until then, we want to do our best, we meaning the three of us. We can confront it together or not. I’ll have a talk with him.”

I was surprised at my own words. Did I actually talk to my mother about fundamental issues? Correct or incorrect method. I’d always used the correct approach in communicating with my parents. Or so I thought. It was impossible to discuss the meaning and sense of life’s situations with my mother. To her, it was simply a matter of things are the way they are. Sounds quite calm and equal to the task. But people who know her also know that this is not the case. She is very contemplative. Her brain is always active. She scrutinizes problems from all angles. She tries to understand why things are the way they are. However, she always encounters the question “Why?” when there is no answer to this question. That annoys her. She looks for a reason why she can’t find an answer. Finds the reason in herself and her personality. A terrible cycle. Hard to imagine a person does that to herself. Martyrdom takes over. She is a person full of love, care, and helpfulness. She puts her own desires behind those of others. The wishes of others are to be satisfied. That’s what she considers her duty and the fulfillment of her purpose. My father. We never had profound communication. Why? We don’t have much in common. Why? Our relationship has always been respectful and carried by the love between a father and his son. Why? I have pondered this question frequently over the past two years. I have felt a lot of sadness. Sometimes I had to be content with an internal “hmm”. I would never have given up. Why did my father and I have such a normal relationship? Why didn’t we live out our obvious similarities during all these years? Were we really that estranged?

My father was the firstborn in his family. Three years later, my grandmother gave birth to a daughter, his sister. Consequently, my father always held a privileged position in his family. He was a quiet boy, a pleasant child. He always avoided conflict. It simply didn’t exist for him. He had great intuition. He made the best of every situation. He accepted things the way they were and never complained. Because of this demeanor, he always succeeded at what he did. Nobody was able to deny him anything. Before he had even finished a thought, his mother had implemented it for him. Was this the right way to learn independence? That’s debatable. But I think her motivation was love. There was a soul connection between my grandmother and her son, my father.

Now the time had come. My father had to make a decision. Nobody else could have done so for him. He needed two days to come to terms with it. He informed my mother and me during lunch. He tried to make it appear insignificant. He was certain that he would have to see a urologist. He would discuss everything with him. By and large, he was approaching the matter casually. What was the worst that could happen? After all, he was not the only man with this illness. Things worked out well for others. So why not in his case? I was to schedule an appointment for him immediately in the next few days. According to my parents’ neighbor, Professor D. was a highly-regarded expert in the field of urology. A man with many years of experience, one who could be trusted. After coordinating with my father, I scheduled an appointment with Professor D. The appointment was set for two days later.

My father didn’t say much that morning. His eyes spoke louder than words. A mix of uncertainty and fear. After parking the car, I checked my watch. We had 45 minutes until the appointment. As usual, my parents had allowed for plenty of additional time. They’d always believed that one had to arrive on location very early in order to avoid being late. Personally, I feel that a long wait is more uncomfortable than the possibility of being late. We checked in with the receptionist. She asked us to be seated. So there we sat. The temperature in the waiting room was kept relatively chilly. And why not, one doesn’t intend to spend much time there. Shortly afterward, another assistant approached us. She handed my father a cup and asked him for a urine sample. My father looked at her in embarrassment. She nodded towards the end of the waiting room. A smile appeared on her lips. She left the room.

“Anything would be easier than that. I went to the bathroom at home. I don’t know if I can go again already.”

“Just take your time. If you can’t go, then let’s have a cup of coffee. When we arrived, I noticed a café at the front. Try first; if it works, great. If it doesn’t work, we’ll go for coffee.”

My father was relieved. He had just been confronted with an unresolvable problem. It took several minutes. My father returned without having accomplished his task. He felt uncomfortable. I shrugged. Before he could sit down again, I got up, and we walked towards the café. We took two cups of coffee and found seats. I consciously avoided focusing our conversation on the here and now. My father was fine with that. Our cups were empty.

“It’ll still be impossible to go. What should I do? We’ll be called shortly, and I still haven’t been able to pee.”

“Don’t worry about it. We have plenty of time. Have another cup, or a bottle of water. The more you think about it the more pressure you are putting on yourself. Mental pressure, that is, not bladder pressure.”

I smiled. My father could not manage a smile. What seemed to be going through his mind? Was he that stressed out about being unable to go? Was he simply too nervous because of the appointment? How could I best distract him?

Noise from outside entered through the windows. The entrance building of the hospital was being demolished. The external wall in the rear was already gone. Rooms of varying sizes were visible. Torn wallpaper on some of the walls. Tile or bare plaster on other walls. No color theme was discernible. It seemed each room had been a separate unit.

“That looks terrible. Each room has a different color. Even the tiles differ. It doesn’t look like these were real apartments. It seems as though each room was a unit by itself. The rooms with tiles must have been bathrooms or kitchens. Only two on each floor. Perhaps they were shared apartments.”

My father’s eyes remained on the demolished building.

“Possibly. But the walls haven’t been repaired for a long time. Colors like these haven’t been used for many years. Where will they take all the construction debris? Then again, I noticed on other occasions that it gets crushed and is re-used afterwards to fill or level the construction pit. That’s a good idea.”

For a few minutes, we talked about what we observed outside. My father described his time as a painter. That was 30 years ago. In his narration, he connected to the present. He enjoyed talking about the experience and knowledge he had gained in his trade. Especially the tricks he had learned during all those years. His thoughts drifted away from the present. He forgot about the urine sample for a moment. I smiled.

“The coffee is fulfilling its purpose. Let’s go back. I can go now.”

When he returned from the bathroom, he had achieved success. With satisfaction, he placed the cup on the cart and sat down in the chair next to me. Shortly afterward, he was called. He rose and gave me a nod. I got up and accompanied him.

The conversation with the physician went very well. Definitely a likeable man. A very pleasant, calm voice and manner. After he finished explaining to us what the cause of the problem was, which exams he would perform, and how the procedure would be carried out, we trusted him completely. He asked my father to first remove his pants and sweater, and to lie down on the examining table. The doctor scanned my father’s lower abdomen with a transducer. On a screen, black, dark gray, light gray, and white areas were visible. It was incomprehensible to me how a physician could recognize anything useful in these images.

After the examination, we sat together and discussed the upcoming steps. Surgery was necessary. Individual aspects were clarified. How necessary? When? How long? Where? Which problems? Chances of success?

For the time being, no further questions arose. Neither my father nor I could think of any. We thanked the physician and left his office. The door had barely closed when my father took a deep breath. It revealed a certain amount of satisfaction.

“This was the right thing to do. A very competent doctor. He knows a lot about his specialty. A real expert, a great man.”

“I’m glad you feel this way. Now you, we, know more. If you can think of any additional questions, note them down. Professor D. offered you to call him. In case you don’t want to do that, we can send him an email. I think your decision was right. You can trust the professor. Or would you disagree?”

“No, everything should work out fine. Do we want to get a piece of cake to take home? I’d really feel like one now.”

During the trip home, my father did not say anything. I was unsure how I could have interrupted his silence. Perhaps I didn’t want to do so, anyway. He used the time to think. Which was what he was supposed to do. Shortly before we arrived at home, he asked me not to tell my mother too much about the examination. I agreed with reservations, but promised nonetheless that I wouldn’t. At the same time, I asked him not to keep her uninformed for too long. When we arrived at my parent’s home, my father seemed to have reconsidered his plan. On his own accord, using his own words, he told my mother about our consultation with Professor D. My mother had only a few questions, which we were able to answer. The following days went by rather quickly. My father didn’t have any further questions. Neither could I think of anything else that required clarification. The appointment for the surgery was set. The respective preparatory tests and examinations were performed the day before.

The day had arrived. As is the case when one finds oneself faced with an important step, we were nervous. We checked everything multiple times. Did we forget anything? Did we pack all important items? Are all our documents complete? As though he was traveling to another world. No opportunity to go back for forgotten items. The moments stretched. The doorbell rang; my uncle had offered to take us to the hospital. Large bag, small bag, current newspapers, nothing forgotten, everything stored in the car. We got in and rode to the hospital. The word alone was something my father dreaded. Up to this point in his life, he had only been to the hospital twice. An institution he could have done without. But why? Isn’t it a place where we receive everything we need in a particular situation? Aren’t we looked after in the best way possible? Do we lack trust? Is our individual case not entitled to the appropriate attention? Thousands of times a day, various surgeries are performed. We are not alone with our medical problems. And we are not an isolated case. So, let’s trust the experts. Let’s trust the medical knowledge and experience of the doctors. Let’s trust the technical competence of the specialists. Let’s trust our fate. It means us no harm. Everything it has planned for us has been subjected to the most extensive contemplation. Every single situation we are to face has been considered very carefully. Each one in its own right. The associations are made by us humans.

My father entered the hospital full of enthusiasm. How could it have been any different - he never showed weakness. People who knew him well, however, knew that he was scared. Fourth floor, last room on the left. A double-occupancy room, painted in bright colors, yellow curtains, private bath and toilet, telephone, TV, and balcony, a very pleasant room. My father felt comfortable. After all, he wouldn’t have to settle in for a long stay. My mother unpacked the bags. She placed his items into the closet carefully, shaking her head repeatedly and complaining about the lack of space. She criticized the temperature in the room, the large glass window to the balcony, the limited space in the bathroom, and the bright lighting in the room. She was dissatisfied. The closets were not too small, and none of her other complaints were warranted either. She simply did not want to leave my father there. She felt deprived of her responsibility to care for him. Regardless of what the next few days would bring, she had to let it happen without her influence. But there was more: she was afraid. Afraid of dropping her husband off, having strangers operate on him, and then getting back a different man. She clung on with everything in her power; she could not let go. Had she not had to let go of too much that gave her the comfort and security of love? For as long as she could remember, she had longed for this comfort and security. For the love that the members of a family give her. The early years of her life had left their mark.

Her mother was a very beautiful young woman. Protected by a very strict home. At a dance, she met a man. The man’s words and that evening’s feeling of freedom robbed her of all senses. Her heart was in flames. What was bound to happen did happen. Today we call it a great one night stand. Back then, it was absolutely unimaginable and against all decency and rules. For nine months, my grandmother lived with a heavy heart full of shame. She never heard from the man again. My grandmother’s mother felt that the family name had been ruined. A young woman, pregnant and without a husband. The wretched result of desire did not have a right to live. The pregnancy was too far along for an abortion. She decided to give away the fruit of shame immediately. My mother was born. Her birth was registered in the official records with the name Maria. Immediately afterward, she was taken to a convent. Nuns were to care for her from then on. Her name was changed to Gundula at once. The nuns felt someone like her was not permitted to be named Maria. She grew up a sad girl. Her heart longed for a mother and a father. For a warm and caring life in a family. She yearned for the comfort and security of love. But she knew she would never find that. Life at the convent was tough and devoid of affection. The girls were punished for everything. Strict discipline and order, as it was called back then, served as a constant reminder to the girls that they were unwanted. They were made to pay with the blood of their souls for what their mothers had done. My mother was presented to strangers and paraded in front of them for many years. None of them decided in her favor. To her, it felt as though nobody loved her. At the age of eight, she was sent to a foster home. Note that it was a foster home; adoption was precluded. As my mother was told years later, the reason for precluding adoption was to exclude her from the line of succession. After all, she was not their own flesh and blood. She lived with her foster parents until she turned 21. She looked back on a life of having been forced into Christian beliefs. Every day was ruled by the word of God. Not one day passed without prayer and mass. She was one of those - a person of whom everybody demanded that she ask forgiveness. Forgiveness for her origin. Whether God has forgiven her remains uncertain to this day. It is also unclear whether God wanted the humility that was forced on her. My father had taken a job in the foster parents’ neighborhood as a craftsman. My mother met my father. The town gossiped about this indecency. The topic was not my father as a man; rather, people were upset that he had a different, wrong religious affiliation. My father was a member of the Lutheran church. Inconceivable for the community. My mother’s foster mother saw no other escape except confession and the related plea for God’s forgiveness. Which other options did my mother have but for giving in to the demand? My mother confessed without mentioning my father. At the end of her confession, the priest asked my mother directly about her sin. The right moment had come. My mother informed the priest that it was none of his business and that she had absolutely no intention of asking forgiveness for her love towards this man. She passed on the blessing, got up, and left the church. Not only that; on the very same day, she left the town in which she had lived for the previous thirteen years. She left as she had arrived – a stranger.

“Mother, take it easy. You don’t have to give father away. He’s having prostate surgery. This operation cannot be performed at home.”

“It’s true, isn’t it? Who will take care of him here?”

Her words showed resignation.

“Look, we’re in a hospital. This is where patients are taken care of. Who is better at that than the people here? Be a little more optimistic, will you; otherwise, father won’t go through with it, and we’ll have to take him back home with us.”

“I’d prefer that. I have a bad feeling about this.”

“That’s enough. The operation is necessary. It will be performed. By tomorrow evening at the latest, you will agree.”

My mother said goodbye to my father, promising to call him as soon as possible. Her eyes were filled with tears. This was one of those special moments. My parents never exchanged exaggerated displays of affection. Both were convinced that it wasn’t necessary when two people were certain of their love for each other. My parents never doubted this certainty. A nice couple, actually. My mother had looked for a man like him. My father was happy to have found a woman like her. They complemented each other in many ways. Each accepted the other with no reservations. They left individual tasks to each other. Fundamental decisions were made together. Even if one of them sometimes laid out the path for the other. They didn’t necessarily agree on everything but always found common ground in the result.

I stood next to them and smiled. It won me a mildly annoyed look from my mother. While her eyes were on me, my father winked at me, pursed his lips in a pouting gesture, and shook his head slightly. His way of telling me “Leave her alone, she’ll be fine.” I laughed, my father laughed, and so did my mother. We left.

The surgery went very well. My mother and I checked with the physician on duty. Just like Professor D. had diagnosed, my father had to undergo a transurethral resection of the prostate (coring or peeling of the prostate). He explained in easy-to-understand terms how the procedure was performed and what lay ahead for the coming days. We felt satisfied. Professor D. was unavailable for the next two days. He had traveled to a conference. He would contact us as soon as he returned. We were not surprised. After the conversation, we went to my father’s room. He was lying in his bed. His eyes were closed. A double cannula was attached to his left hand, a single cannula to his right hand. A urine bag was hanging beside his bed. A mixture of urine and blood was flowing through a catheter into the bag. Not unusual after this kind of surgery. My father became aware of us. He opened his eyes and blinked at us. He tried to prop himself up. My mother helped him. He told us in his own words that everything had gone well and he would have to stay for only a few more days. He would leave the hospital once the catheter could be removed. We could see his confidence and joy. My mother was relieved. The next two days were easy. My father was recovering well. The tubes had been removed. My father even found the courage to get out of bed and walk the hallway with his urine bag. This was absolutely unthinkable for him on the first day; however, he quickly noticed that almost all other patients of this ward were also equipped with urine bags. My mother brought cake. When my father noticed it, he forgot everything around him. Not the urine bag nor the surgery nor the hospital itself could dampen his mood. It was time for a piece of buttercream cake. With a cup of coffee. What could be better than that?

The following day, my mother received a telephone call from Professor D. He asked that we, my mother and I, meet him in his office for a talk. It was to take place that same day. My mother called me.

“Professor D. called me. He wants to talk to you and me. We are supposed to see him at his office this afternoon. I’m so worried. What does he want? I bet something terrible has happened.”

“Hold on for a moment. You don’t know that. What did the professor tell you? Was there a problem during the surgery? Has something unforeseeable happened now, during the post-surgical care? Try to remember, what exactly did he say?”

“He called. He said that the surgery went well. Now he would like to discuss it with us.”

“So why are you immediately expecting the worst? After the surgery, he attended a conference for a few days. He hasn’t had time to talk to us about it yet. Perhaps this is completely normal. When are we supposed to be there?”

I wasn’t sure whether my words got through to my mother. I felt uneasy myself. Did her fear get to me? What would be the subject of our conversation with Professor D.? Was this the usual procedure after surgery? How should I prepare for it? I could no longer shake the uncertainty. I picked up my mother on time. She was upset and would have preferred to bawl. I repeated what I said to her during our telephone conversation. That was all I could think of. We entered the office, checked in at the reception desk, and waited for the professor. He greeted us in a friendly fashion and asked us to follow him. We did so, full of anticipation. We sat down in his office. He closed the door and sat with us.

“I am glad that our appointment was possible on such short notice. Would you care for something to drink?”

My mother and I declined. My mother’s eyes were glued to him and followed each motion. Her face showed impatience.

“Please tell us what’s wrong. What happened?”

Her nervousness was obvious.

“As I already told you, the surgery went very well. Your husband’s prostate was greatly enlarged. Big deposits had formed. We had to resect a little more than we initially expected. The urethra runs through the prostate. In that portion of the urethra, we found a lump. After various tests, we have concluded that it is a carcinoma. The peculiarity about it is that it is very aggressive, fast-growing, and malignant.”

Carcinoma and malignant. These were the words neither my mother nor I wanted to hear. We expected everything but this. Not in our wildest dreams did this thought cross our minds. My father has cancer. The word raced through my head. And manifested itself insanely deep within myself. My mother sat next to me and looked at Professor D. with an expression that said “impossible, this can’t be the case.” She shook her head as though she wanted to sort the words she had just heard.

“You must be mistaken. My husband is here because of his prostate; he had surgery.”

Her eyes filled with tears. Her facial expression changed to bewilderment. Her look was full of hope, with a shadow of helplessness. Both of us looked at Professor D.

“No, I’m sorry. Your husband has cancer. This type of cancer is relatively unknown. Medical science doesn’t know much about this cancer. As I mentioned before, it is a very aggressive, fast-growing, and malignant type. I’m sorry, your husband has cancer.”

My mother was no longer able to hold back her tears. She allowed her dismay to take its course. Only once before had I seen her like this. She was sitting there in tears of distress and desperation. It was almost 20 years ago. Back then, my parents returned from the hospital at night and struggled with the news they had received from the physician a few minutes earlier. My brother had passed away that night. Did she see herself confronted with the loss of a human life again? Did she ignore what Professor D. had just said, and did she already picture, at that moment, the finality of the illness? Her eyes focused on me. Tears ran down her cheeks.

“Why is this happening? Your father is such a loving person. He never did anything bad. Everybody gets along with him so well. Why does he have to suffer from this?”

“Mother, that’s not the point here. What you refer to as “this” is called cancer. It’s a disease. My father, your husband has cancer. Now we have to see what we can do about it. Your question about justice will not be answered. This question shouldn’t even be posed in the context of an illness.”

She shook her head. Her desperation weakened her.

“Your father, my husband, will die. Do I have to lose another loved one so soon? What have I done to deserve this?”

“You are already thinking about his death. You are already grieving. Listen, we haven’t lost anything yet. The time is not right. You have the right to cry. You should cry; it’s good for you. But you don’t have to grieve yet. First, we have to see what we can do. When the time has come for father to die, then you can grieve. Not just you, we will all grieve, then. But now is definitely not the right time.”

Professor D. looked at me with admiration. What exactly did I say to cause him to do that? Did I misunderstand something or repeat it incorrectly? Didn’t I feel like weeping, too? I would have preferred to bawl myself. Allow my tears to flow freely.

“Your son is correct. At the moment, you are overwhelmed by everything. It’s not easy to hear a diagnosis like this. You have to accept it. Now that we have found the carcinoma, we have to think about what the best treatment will be. This type of cancer is relatively uncommon. Unfortunately, not much is known about it yet. But that doesn’t mean we can’t do anything. I have already spoken to your husband. I think you should go see him now, and we will meet again in the next few days to discuss everything further. I will extend his stay here by two days. We need the additional time to administer another examination.”

My mother looked at the floor. She shook her head. She just wanted to get rid of this thought. What was going on in her mind at this moment? Professor D. said goodbye to us. His face showed both sympathy and sensitivity. We waited for the elevator to arrive. Never before did a wait feel so long to me. My mother was completely lost in thought. I put my arm around her.

“What will I do without your father? Where do we go from here?”

“You don’t have to worry about that yet. First, we have to see which treatment options Professor D. has to offer. Medical science has made considerable advances in the field of cancer. I assume that he will find a treatment method. Don’t be too distressed for now.”

“He said this type of cancer is rare. What kind of treatment options do you suppose he would be able to find?”

“The type of cancer is rare, that’s correct. On top of that, aggressive and fast-growing. But in principle, it’s still cancer. That means there can’t be treatment of the symptoms; something has to be done at the core. Neither you nor I know much about this subject. We have to rely on what the doctors tell us. When we visit father now, we have to see what he says and how he reacts.”

“What do you expect him to say? He’s just as shocked as we are.”

“Exactly, you are right. What matters now is the We. Not just me, you, he, or she. The best attitude is We. We can do this. Have a little hope.”

My mother looked at me doubtfully.

“Just how is that supposed to help us? It has never helped me before. Hope - this kind of crap is useless to me.”

That was the end of our conversation. We stepped out of the elevator. In front of us lay the ward’s long hallway. I recognized my father at the other end, in front of his door. He saw us, too. With heavy steps, we approached each other.

Silently, we looked at one another. My father seemed helpless. My mother was composed. We paused for a moment. Neither of us knew what to say. My father started the conversation.

“It’ll be okay. Don’t worry about it.”

My mom burst into tears.

Over the next two days, we had several meetings with Professor D. He pointed out the existing treatment options. The information was extensive. It included the pros and cons as well as an explanation of the medical background. Again and again, our ability to comprehend was stretched to the limit. But we didn’t want to feel as though we missed out on a piece of information or lacked a piece of knowledge. We listened carefully. We took in everything we were told about the illness. It entered our lives so suddenly; we had to confront it completely unprepared. We would have been glad to do without it. However, what else could we do but familiarize ourselves with it? The more we knew about it the better we could recognize its weaknesses. And we wanted to use every single one of the weaknesses to our advantage. This advantage was only temporary for my father and us; we realized that. We are still grateful today that the physicians communicated with us in precise, intelligible statements. The kind of cancer my father had was unbeatable. Regardless of what would be undertaken or administered, nothing could heal this cancer or its effects. Fully aware of this fact, we understood from the beginning that we would have to say our final goodbyes.

My father was discharged from the hospital two days later. He had been waiting feverishly for this day since his admission. Now the day had arrived. Marked by the events of the past few days, it wasn’t easy for him to leave the hospital. His perception had changed. Although he had always thought of a hospital as a prison, he didn’t want to turn his back on it now. What would he find outside its protective walls? He recounted his childhood to me.

As soon as the reconnaissance airplanes were visible in the sky, they had to go to the basement. There was no bomb shelter near his parents’ house. They had to seek shelter at an aunt’s house. Her house was located only a few yards across the street. Every time he had to climb down the stairs to the basement, he was hit by anxiety. He became aware that he would have to spend a long time down there again. Cut off from the outside world, the world in which he lived. Would he be able to live in that world again afterwards? What would happen during these hours? Would they survive the bombing? Were all his family, friends, classmates, or neighbors able to get to safety as well? Did everybody have enough time? How would things change? Would they, would he be able to cope with the changes? Again and again, this fear burned in his soul. When they were able to leave the basement, he would have preferred to stay. Had it not over the past hours provided him the safety he would lack on the outside? What should protect him with thick walls now? His childhood was spent during the years of war. Years in which a person learned to live. Which prepared a person for his or her responsibilities. They were supposed to be carefree years. The memories of his childhood were overshadowed by an ubiquitous fear, prevalent during these times: The fear of whether there would be a tomorrow.

This was the first time my father told his story in such detail. I listened attentively. What captivated me so much? For the first time, I felt the emotions in his words. They were not just the funny stories, told at birthday gatherings; they were experiences of a profound nature. My view of the old times became clearer. The veil of personified bravery was lifted. The main characters in the stories were given faces. They were equipped with emotions. My father’s words gave each of them something special. They brought them to life. Life which they were afraid to lose. It was worth the bravery of the people, the elderly, the young, and the children.

Was my father trying to tell me he was afraid? That was exactly what he was doing. He did so in his own way. And I understood.

We left the hospital. We had agreed with Professor D. that in the coming days, my father would inform him on which treatment he had decided. We had sufficient information about the respective procedures.

I would like to emphasize again with how much dedication Professor D. assisted my father, my mother, and me during that time. He was available time and again whenever new questions arose. During all the expert and medical discussions, he was a calming influence. At no point in time did we feel as though we were just a number in a matrix of patients. Naturally, that’s what one expects of a physician treating a patient. Especially in times like these. But his commitment was greater. It was compassion.

We had just passed the sign for the city limits. A few more minutes, and we’d be back at home. My father looked out of the window. He was searching. Even if one’s absence lasted only a few days, one always looks for changes that may have taken place in the meantime. A silent question is followed by a silent answer.

I wanted to connect with him somehow.