asked. “What can you tell me?”
“Now first I have to ask you a simple question, if you don't mind.” He started out. “I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me that you never had severe stomach cramps in the last six months, and make it convincing so that I can call you a liar to your face!” “Well,” I started to answer, “I've had some really bad cramps and bad diarrhea afterward, but I always chalked it up to some bad Turkish Kebab. I mean I'm always eating Turkish food, especially Kebab, because I simply love it. But I figured that some of the places didn't take hygiene very serious, so I always blamed it on that!” “And how did you explain the blood in the feces? He asked. “'And don't tell me you didn't notice it because everybody looks when using the toilet brush afterward!” I had to smile at that remark and asked; “and if I told you that I blamed it on all that hot chili stuff they always use as toppings for the Kebab's, and sometimes it's a lot, would you believe me?”
The doctor only shook his head in disbelief, then put his glasses back on and asked me; “and if I told you that you only have about two years with Chemotherapy or with luck, one year to live without it, would you believe me?”
Now I sort of figured that something wasn't quite right down south, I mean, it got so bad that I could barely get out of bed sometimes in the mornings, (and once was totally paralyzed with a cramp in the middle of the street). But as with all of the human species, I played the ignorant one and thought that it would be something that could be solved with a simple operation. In on a Friday and back home on the next Monday, a sort of `wham, bam, and thank you man' type of operation where one could already be at the bar on Monday night. Drinking a cold beer and eating (naturally!) a Kebab. This is not the normal SNAFU (Situation Normal All F***ed UP) from my former military times, no, this was the nuclear catastrophe falling straight down on my head. “Hello! Earth to Mr. Bennet!” He said. “Did you understand what I just told you?” “Two with Chemo or one without, if you even make it that far down the road.” “Yeah,” I answered slowly. “But I didn't expect you to ask me what I wanted for my last meal, as if I was on death row or something!” “Mr. Bennet, you are on death row and to be perfectly honest with you, the whole problem is that we didn't meet each other two years ago, or last year for that matter!” Now he was sounding like a preacher, and he kept on preaching with; “as the saying goes Mr. Bennet, `you can pay me now or pay me later'. It comes from an old television advertisement about changing the oil in your car. You should have seen me last year for your oil change!”
2010
“That's basically when all this shit got started.” I told Walter Lentz, my lawyer, as we were sitting in the interrogation room at the Stammheim prison. He with his notebook, digital voice recorder, and two ink pens laid neatly next to both on the table. Me with my IV and my Morphine dispenser periodically giving me a welcomed shot of relief from the pain. He seemed to understand where I was coming from and told me that he wanted to hear it all from A to Z, and this time, the absolute truth...and not the bullshit I talked about during the court trial! “You got enough time for all this?” I asked. “More time than you do in any case, but I only ask for two things. First that I can record this all, and second, that I have your permission to write a book about this case after you're deceased.” “You think it will be a bestseller?” I asked jokingly. “From what I've heard so far it sounds like a Cold War spy killing spree in modern times”, he said, “and that don't happen much anymore since all the walls of communism fell down!” “No problem with that.” I said, “I won't be around to make anymore problems, so make some profit off of it and send all of your kids to college.”
2009
When I left the hospital that day, I was at first in a dazed state of mind and couldn't even start to think clearly enough to make any kind of decision about the Chemotherapy! I was doing fantastic just to make it back home without accidentally stepping in front of some streetcar on the street while making my way back to the train station. I was so out of it that I actually found myself sitting there waiting for the train and eating a Kebab. Can you believe that? I found out later that they seen me walk away without paying, but since I'm a regular there, they knew I would pay it up the next time. But I didn't get on the first train heading back towards Kornwestheim, where I had my pad.
It was a simple little eighth floor apartment in the high tower apartment complex next to the public indoor swimming pool. I shared it with the only one which really mattered to me, my tomcat! My luxurious apartment has only a living room with a pull out couch for a bed, a small kitchen with one sink, (no space for a dishwasher, but then, who needs one), and a combination toilet/shower with a midget sized sink for shaving. I did have a nice balcony though, with enough space for two small plastic stools and a miniature round table. That's where my tomcat Sabertooth and I, weather permitting, spend quite a lot of our evenings. From my balcony one had a wonderful view over the spreading landscape, which to the left was the town of Kornwestheim. To the right side was a view all the way to the city of Stuttgart on a clear day, and looking straight ahead one could see the old Army Airfield in an area they called Pattonville, from the Army stationed here before they closed everything down and left. One could quietly enjoy the setting sun, ( if Sabertooth was not on the rampage!) on warm summer evenings while sitting on my balcony. I found my lovable little kitten while jogging one morning. Usually I try to get in a good run of about twenty kilometers each morning and while taking the shortcut across the now defunct airport, I damn near stepped on him. Apparently he was so worn out that he simply lay down in the middle of the runway. Weak, wet and cold, I looked around but the nearest house was a long reach from where the kitten laid. So I carefully picked him up and stuffed him into my sweatshirt, and he immediately started to bite and fight with me. That was when I noticed that his back leg was badly injured, but after a few minutes he quieted down an enjoyed the heat and the company I suppose. At my apartment I laid him on my couch bed and took a closer look at the back leg. He didn't put up a fight when I touched it, but he couldn't move by himself. So I showered, dressed, put him into a cardboard box, and off to the veterinarian we went. Must have gotten himself into a heap of trouble, because the Veterinarian and I had to make an important decision between euthanasia, or for her to amputate his back leg. I told her that she should treat the cat with the same Hippocratic Oath as if it were a human being, and do the amputation, for which I would naturally pay for. This of course, when I picked him up at the end of the week, took a big chunk out of my bank account! So that’s how I had unwillingly adopted a now three legged cat. After splurging some more for the taxi back home, when we got into the apartment I set his box on the floor by the glass balcony door. I set a bowl of milk down by the box and left to go out. When I came back in the evening I had totally forgotten about him, and when I seen that the box was empty, I had a shock. When I looked around the apartment, I saw that he was cuddled up between the two pillows on the couch. Both of which would have to be disposed of due to the big post-OP orange colored betadine spots. The milk bowl was licked as clean as if I hadn’t put anything in it in the first place, so I now put some cut lunch-meat in it, and he had suddenly hopped over there as if I had called him for dinner. I ended up falling for the little boy, and all the expensive trips to the Veterinarian, but he's become my trusted companion. He never tried to escape from our apartment, though he loves to sit with me on the balcony. I know it sounds weird but if I'm reading on the balcony, his favorite spot is on the table, and thankfully he leaves my coffee cup alone. But he will always put his paw on the paper. And every time it will be exactly on the word I was reading, as if he knew where my eyes were looking at the moment! I called him Sabertooth due to the fact that most of the time he was a cool chilled out cat. But sometimes he gets the `Crazies` and starts bunny-hopping around, biting and scratching on the couch upholstery. I've learned that his insanity needs to run its course, for yelling at him only brought his wrath upon me. He would start hopping around m
e as if I were the prey, and if I didn't be careful, a brutal attack to the leg was on the plan. He definitely had no qualms against biting with full force into my shins! Normally I think it's overdoing it to associate names to house pets, and for a long time he had no name. Till the crazies started! Hence the name Sabertooth! Somebody should have told me that stray cats have psychological disabilities! Or maybe on those days his missing leg hurt like hell and he couldn't find it to lick his wound? Who knows what cats have going on in their heads
So I was just sitting there at the train station in the big city of Stuttgart where I had seen the Proctologist and his best buddy Oncologist, and the trains which were going in the direction towards home just came and went without me even taking notice. You see, one has to get his head straight to consider such an important decision as Chemotherapy, or if not, what to do with ones time when it is now cut short. It took me a long time to come to the first decision that with or without Chemotherapy, I was a walking dead man. If I did the