The Ruined House

by Ruby Namdar

  The thought of Ann Lee entering the bathroom, turning on the light, and literally catching him with his pants down was almost as humiliating as the thought of her smelling the laundry hamper in the morning. What should he do? A new pain in his bladder sent him staggering back to the toilet, whose open mouth was like a crow of derision in the darkness. More urine spurted out an instant before he could aim it at the toilet bowl, cauterizing his penis in hot, sporadic bursts and spraying him again, this time on the thighs and knees. It took more effort than before to make it stop. For a moment, he stood helplessly in the dark; then, lowering the toilet seat carefully to keep it from banging, he crouched on it quickly and hunched forward to pee in the bowl. His urine dripped slowly, hitting the water with a soft tinkle that he feared could be heard throughout the apartment. Eyes shut, shivering from the cold seat despite the warm night, he concentrated on its slow, painful release.

  A vague memory nagged at him like a stubborn mosquito. It was of something recent, something unimportant but unpleasant . . . but what? Why was it trying to surface now, in the middle of the night? His urine kept dripping drop by drop, sometimes more and sometimes less quickly. The disconcerting something was looming into sight like a strange, outlandish geological formation. Yes, he remembered. It was the saggy, wrinkled skin hanging from the belly of the man urinating yesterday at Equinox.

  Andrew had seen him once or twice in the past. It was hard to overlook him: an aging, ridiculous-looking fellow whose hair, cut like a teenager’s, was dyed a monstrous yellow. He was a regular on the gym’s first floor, where he lifted weights with the votive dedication of a priest at the altar. Although he looked reasonably strong and his posture was erect—it might be stiff from age, but nonetheless—the problem was his skin: totally decrepit, it hung in loose folds from firm muscles like an old sack. This was most pronounced around the abdomen, where it made Andrew think of a tattered curtain, suspended from the rib cage as though in an amateur theater production. Worse yet, the man perversely insisted on wearing odd, feminine crop-tops that exposed his stomach grotesquely. He was preposterous, in a narcissistic world of his own, a walking oxymoron strutting about the locker room like an old, tragicomic rooster with his comb of yellow hair and his shamelessly Semitic hook nose. Just as unreal was the way he peed. Its upsetting memory passed before Andrew’s sleepy eyes. The misshapen, youthfully geriatric body had been propped against a wall with its left shoulder flattened against it. His face was hidden by the right arm, pelvis thrust forward; the shrunken penis, aimed at the toilet bowl, held carefully in the left hand. Laughable, defenseless, and touching, the man had stood for a long time, his sheltering arm like a bird’s wing, groaning by the white wall like an old Jew at prayer. He was surrendering to his own decrepitude, to the perverse enjoyment of feeling his thin liquid waste make its frightfully slow exit from what was once his very manhood.

  Andrew could feel the trickle of urine subsiding. The burning stopped, yielding to a dull after-pain. What was he supposed to do with such a memory? How should he think of it? It was best to forget it and go back to sleep. Flush the toilet quietly, mop up the last drops with a towel, return to the bedroom, put on clean pajamas, and slip noiselessly back into the double bed. And the wet pants? He couldn’t very well leave them in the sink. He would throw them in the hamper after all—they weren’t that wet. Could it be prostate cancer? What an idea! Since when was he such a hypochondriac? Still, it was time he saw a doctor for a checkup: heart, digestive system, liver functions, kidneys, yes, prostate, too. At his age, one mustn’t put such things off.

  9

  June 6, 2001

  The 15th of Sivan, 5761

  Four ten p.m. His appointment had been for 3:15. Something urgent, apparently, was holding Dr. Gutman up. Andrew grumbled with what seemed to him legitimate annoyance and went back to reading an article about the dangers of abdominal fat in men. There were, it said, two types of weight gainers, the “Apples” and the “Pears.” The Apples, who put on weight at the midsection, were subject to illnesses caused by the hormonal secretions of abdominal fat cells. The Pears expanded farther down, in the pelvis and thighs, which was apparently less unhealthy.

  But why was he reading this when he had brought a book with him? Such articles drew you in; there was something addictive about them. Whole alternate universes lay concealed in hospitals and doctors’ offices, waiting in ambush for everyday life; other worlds in which everything revolved around bodies, diseases, and death. When we’re there—that is, here—we think that’s all life is really about and that our daily existence, with all its trivial enjoyments and lofty ambitions, is nothing but an empty dream, a foolish illusion for the indulgence in which we’ll pay dearly.

  The office’s location on 65th and Madison should have made seeing a cardiologist less onerous—it was four blocks from Barney’s and two blocks from the Belgian chocolate shop and the MoMA design store. And yet the East Side made Andrew feel intimidated. He wasn’t used to feeling threatened, especially not by material status symbols like polished marble counters, thick, emerald-colored glass dividers, and heavy cherrywood doors with brass handles that once, no doubt, had graced some mansion torn down to make way for a skyscraper.

  What was taking so long? It was already 4:20. What a waste of time! He should never have pressured Dr. Nesselson for a referral to a cardiologist. There had been no need to insist on it. Was the fat, bored-looking man across from him waiting for Gutman, too? The man sat perfectly still, not reading or even reaching for his cell phone or PalmPilot, sprawled in a chair too small for his broad, spreading bottom, blinking with lifeless eyes at the cold, bright neon ceiling light. Was he a Pear? He looked like one, even though “a pear” was far too luscious a term for him. And what about the thin, nervous man facing him? There was something odd about him, too. Did he dye his hair? No, he plucked his eyebrows! Two grotesque black arcs ran above his eyelids, framing his darting, roach-like eyes and making him look like the villain in an old movie.

  Was hostility toward other patients an integral part of the waiting-room experience? A defense mechanism meant to protect one’s boundaries from invasion by the Other? Someone must have written about it; he couldn’t imagine that no one had. In general, one was always on the defensive. Frightened middle-aged men told pointless jokes and hid behind salacious descriptions of occult medical procedures. It’s like having an umbrella shoved up your ass and opened! Wasn’t that the ultimate male fear, having to go down bare-assed on all fours while awaiting the inevitable penetration? The doors of the clinic opened and shut. Young nurses and interns came and went. Modernity’s most humiliating rite of passage was the colonoscopy, marking the transition from being a virile male to a harmless old man who stayed behind in the tent to do housework, chat with the women, and beg for sweets like a baby while the potent young warriors went hunting for game and scalps.

  Four thirty. There was no choice but to wait patiently. Andrew put down the magazine and leafed through a pile of medical notices on the low table beside him: “Cancer of the Large Intestine: Early Detection,” “Arteriosclerosis: Causes and Prevention,” “Cancer of the Prostate: Facts and Explanations.” Dr. Nesselson had ruled out a prostate problem; there was no symptomatic indication of one, he had said, calming Andrew’s fears. He had interviewed Andrew at length, asking for a detailed account of his pain and his difficulty urinating, and had even inquired whether he had had sex earlier that evening. (As a matter of fact, he had—for the first time in a while, to tell the truth.) Andrew had felt uncomfortable. The doctor’s penetrating gaze had torn aside a curtain of propriety drawn over his expanding, deteriorating body and Ann Lee’s young, compact one. Their sex life had lost its ecstatic dimension and had become mechanical, uninspired. Not that the doctor had been in the least interested in any of that. Andrew was projecting his own anxieties onto him. But Nesselson did suspect that the problem might be dried semen in Andrew’s urethra. He recommended urinating immediately after sexual intercourse. Al
though it was probably, he said, a onetime occurrence, Andrew should contact him if it happened again.

  The fat man emitted a quick, dry cough and relapsed into stony silence. The roach man kept fidgeting in his chair, his nervousness crackling around him like a field of static electricity. Andrew pulled out a brochure on prostate cancer and began reading at random.

  In the course of the rectal examination, the doctor checks for an enlargement of the prostate—a common phenomenon among older men. This examination can serve as an early-detection procedure for cancer of the prostate and intestine.

  Dr. Nesselson had not bothered with such an examination, no doubt for good reasons. One thing he said had stayed in Andrew’s memory. “I’d rather not detect prostate cancer early because then I have to start treating it—and the damage caused by treatments and operations can be much worse than the cancer itself, which is generally a friendly one.” What a devilish paradox: a friendly cancer! Yet the formulation was reassuring. He went on scanning the brochure with an almost compulsive pleasure, as though picking at a sore.

  The problem of erectile dysfunction after a radical operation for prostate cancer is a common one. Approximately half of those operated on suffer from it significantly. One way of minimizing its occurrence is by nerve-sparing surgery. Recovery of sexual potency can take from 6 to 24 months. This period should be utilized for physical and drug therapy to preserve the function of the cavernous nerves of the penis, which play an erectile role. Among the many factors that may lead to impotence in the aftermath of a prostatectomy is how radical the operation is, that is, how much of the prostate and its surroundings have been removed and how many of the nerve clusters and blood vessels responsible for an erection are preserved. The factors influencing a full recovery of erectile function are: youth, pre-surgical sexual potency, and damage to nerve clusters and blood vessels. The younger one is, the greater the normality of previous sexual functioning, and the less damage there is to nerve clusters and blood vessels, the greater are the chances of preserving potency. Unfortunately, the surgical need to clear away as much potentially cancerous tissue as possible can lead to such damage, and post-radical prostatectomy rates of impotence range from 25% to 89%. In cases of successful nerve-sparing surgery, erectile and orgasmic function can be gradually recovered, but often the orgasm is not accompanied by ejaculation. The operating urologist will explain this to the patient in order to minimize the psychological difficulty of adjusting to a dry orgasm.

  Andrew imagined the surgically removed nerves, a snarled, wriggling mass of enfeebled worms. A pale, swollen sac lay on a nickel operating table, its sick, bluish blood vessels hanging loose like tails or antennae. He shut the brochure and returned it quickly to the pile. But the excised gland went on twitching before his eyes, straining to eject semen. The harder he tried banishing dry orgasms from his mind, the more stubbornly they remained there, smarting like a fresh wound. A 25 to 89 percent rate of impotence after radical surgery: what meaningless numbers! What could anyone learn from such a statistical spread? It was antiscience, not science! What was the goddamn time? How could patients be kept waiting so long, with no explanation or word of apology? Where the hell was Dr. Gutman? The minute they classed you as a patient, your time lost all value. You would think you had nothing better to do with your life!

  10

  Success, so it seemed, had not spoiled Dr. Gutman. He had an appealing modesty, a warm handshake, and a pleasantly singsong voice like a kind grandfather’s that quivered at times with a slight stammer. For a moment, Andrew let his hand rest in the doctor’s as though drawing strength and sustenance from it. Dr. Gutman was unmistakably Jewish-looking with soft eyes that blinked behind thick-lensed bifocals, a case of early-onset baldness, and smooth-shaven cheeks squarely meeting prominent sideburns from which Andrew could imagine a heavy beard descending. The doctor’s hands were soft, too, their long fingers resting on Andrew’s wrist while taking his pulse with a reassuring competence. Andrew, eager to cooperate and please, dutifully answered the doctor’s questions like a kid in grade school. Although taken aback by his feeling of dependence, his awareness of it didn’t lessen, as it might have done in the past.

  Dr. Gutman refused to be rushed by the lengthening queue in the waiting room. His reputation for thoroughness, which had crossed Central Park from east to west, was the reason Andrew was here. Gutman took his time, asking detailed questions and listening patiently to the answers like an old-fashioned family doctor. Andrew’s family’s medical history? There were no special illnesses. Cancer, heart disease, strokes? No, there was nothing worth mentioning apart from Ethel’s Alzheimer’s. Andrew’s eating habits? They were healthy, although lately, it was true, he had gone a bit overboard on the carbohydrates. “Yes, we need to watch out. At our age it’s easier to put on excess weight than take it off.” (Our age? Could the two of them be the same age?) Exercise? On a regular basis, more or less. Lately, a bit less. “Yes, one has to keep it up! At our age it’s easy to fall out of shape and hard to get back into it.” Alcohol? His consumption was average. Average? A drink or two a day, sometimes three. Dr. Gutman’s eyes widened behind their bifocals. “Two or three?” Well, generally no more than two. At our age, at our age . . . How old was he? He seemed so elderly, organized, and responsible.

  Andrew watched as the doctor let go of his wrist and consulted his notes. He studied his face, hair, and skin. No, Dr. Gutman was not as old as he had seemed at first glance. Examined closely, he appeared to be forty-plus. The baldness, the bifocals, the expensive, conservative clothes (those of someone traveling first class or occupying an executive suite: striped shirt, gray suit, red tie with matching suspenders)—all were as misleading as was his quiet, gentle air of authority. Breathe deep. Deep. Why should it matter how old the doctor was? They weren’t in competition, were they? “Did you know you have a murmur?” The question tore Andrew from his thoughts. Dr. Gutman’s soft, owl-like eyes peered at him through their bifocals. No, Andrew had not known. “It’s nothing serious. There’s no need to worry about it.” The doctor’s kind, grandfatherly manner. The word “murmur” coming from his mouth sounded like the silent flutter of a dove’s wings.

  11

  Gentle Dr. Gutman was accustomed to dealing with the anxieties of heart patients. As soon as the intake was over, he switched to small talk, asking Andrew about his work while wrapping a scratchy blood-pressure band around his arm. Andrew answered as best he could, grateful for the doctor’s excellent bedside manner but exhausted by the role he felt he had to play and the nagging sensation that he was misrepresenting himself, pretending to be a reputable professional every bit the doctor’s equal when he was in fact just a patient awaiting good or bad news from an omnipotent authority. When left alone in the examination room to pedal an exercise bike for fifteen minutes, he felt relieved.

  To his surprise, his heart sped up and he began to sweat sooner than he had expected. He pedaled clumsily, as if unused to riding a bike. Why was he perspiring so much? He was a seasoned cyclist and used the bike regularly at the gym. Yet sweating felt healthy there, part of the regimen, whereas here it seemed a symptom of illness. His brow and neck were soaking wet. And only five minutes had gone by—he still had ten to go. Why had he insisted on this examination? He had had to pressure Dr. Nesselson for the referral. All he needed now was an attack of hypochondriac hysteria! A hideous image kept running through his mind. It came from a photograph he had seen in a book about the social construction of death. A swollen dead human body lay like a monstrous beach ball in a puddle of sewage in Calcutta. Tautly stretched skin shone with a blinding, inhuman white light. According to the book, the body had undergone a chemical process similar to bleaching, making it lose all its pigment. Fellow beggars had stripped it bare and left it to rot by the roadside, abandoning it to the sun, the rain, and the teeth of rats and pariah dogs. A senseless life, a meaningless death. And the carcasses of men fall as dung upon the open field, and as the handful after the harvestma
n, which none gathereth. The sweat dripped down his chest and stomach, lathering his abdomen. The fat cells there were secreting toxic hormones, slowly poisoning his body. Cancer, diabetes, heart disease, erectile dysfunction. A diseased organ lying on an examination table, glistening like a dead animal, blue veins sticking out like lifeless antennae. Five more minutes! He couldn’t stop now, he had to keep going. He had to keep his heartbeat steady, in the right cardiovascular zone. When had he last cycled in the park? Spring was over. It was so much easier to pedal on a moving bike. He felt he was carrying the whole earth on his shoulders, the shoulders of a a puny, defeated Atlas. Enough histrionics! Five more minutes and he was done . . .

  The stiff, semitransparent paper on the examination cot chafed beneath him when he lay down, sweaty and exhausted, his naked flesh pale in the cold glare of the overhead light. The sound reminded Andrew of another, long-forgotten one: the crinkle of the parchment paper that his mother had used to line her baking sheets to keep her cookies from sticking. Lying in his underpants, covered in goose bumps, he let childhood memories come and go. He wasn’t feeling nostalgic. He felt far too depleted for that. He was just a conduit for senseless, arbitrary impressions that passed through him as though on their way to somewhere else. The last vestiges of his autonomy gone, he lapsed into the anonymous existence of a helpless medical patient and settled against the hard surface beneath him.