The dispossessed father
When our son was born, I was 36 years old. Today I'm even older. My hair is almost completely grey for genetic reasons, and when I'm out and about with my son, people sometimes think I'm his grandad. But that doesn't bother me. Because as a grandad I am judged much more mildly.
For example, if our son falls off the climbing tower in the playground or is almost run over by a lorry on the road, they attribute it to my age and not to sloppy attention. If I buy him ice cream or candy floss, they don't think I'm irresponsible, but rather touching. And when I tell him off, they don't see an overburdened psycho dad losing his temper again; no, it's the old guard putting their foot down. Yes, that's how it is. If I didn't have grey hair, I'd dye it.
From the age of 40, fatal illnesses increase dramatically. What causes panic attacks.
Something else is causing me a lot more headaches. I am now at an age where many illnesses are becoming more and more realistic. Real illnesses. Not the cold I've been carrying around with me since our son started nursery school. I'm talking about cancer, heart attacks and strokes. From a purely statistical point of view, the likelihood of me suffering a fatal illness increases dramatically from the age of 40.
In other words: I could actually die at any time now. This causes panic attacks and/or physical examinations. So the other day, again for genetic reasons, I had a colonoscopy. «Thank you too,» I hissed to my son as I choked down the three litres of laxative and then spent the night on the toilet.
A pressure called responsibility
But what did I actually mean by that? It's not my son's fault that I have to have a colonoscopy. When I was still living alone, my life was a private matter. I remember falling down the steep stairs of a restaurant on a wine-fuelled evening when I was at university.
It was dark and the staircase was one of those spiral staircases you see in knights' castles. I could have broken my neck, but as it happened I didn't. It had never occurred to me that I could die. And if it had, it wouldn't have bothered me. «If I die, I die,» I said smugly and opened the next bottle.
My life now also belongs to my wife and son. It is in their interest that I stay alive.
With the birth of our son, I was emotionally dispossessed. My life now also belongs to my wife and son. It's in their interest that I stay alive, at least until the flat is paid off and my son is in possession of all the Matchbox cars.
This pressure is probably exactly what we call responsibility. It's the feeling, as beautiful as it is oppressive, that our lives have a purpose. So I do all the colonoscopies and blood tests, the ECGs and MRIs. I eat a healthy diet. I even do sport - or at least I plan to. The only thing I don't do is colour my hair. Sometimes I ask myself: why didn't I become a father much earlier? Then I think of my old self and it comes back to me: Oh yes, that's why.
