My husband and I are the hippies in the family. Deputies. Those who have flames. Those who go to the Aucas-Barcelona final will line up for Aucas (my team just in case). My cousin will say that he is a real rebel because he doesn’t like football, but football haters have company all over the country even if they don’t admit it out loud. Aucas fans occupy an exceptional niche: it takes a lot of personality to beat the same team for 77 years without winning a national championship.

Rebels and all, we go to the doctor every now and then – or donate our bodies to science, depending on how you look at it. Let’s politely take shelter somewhere in the doctor’s office, where we put on a robe, so that the doctor can then search everything she needs. The cape is really just a decoration. Putting it on implies a symbolic act by which we commit ourselves to the goal. In this ritual, we accept that we are simple people.

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We will all be people, but there are people and people. Men are reluctant to seek help and visit doctors less often than women. On this side of the court, it could be said that women are more strategic; Maybe that’s why we live longer. I think men also buy less food for the house and cook less, but I will not expose my skins to the sun. That’s what doctors are for.

My husband had to go to one of those doctors with the results of his follow-up tests. He got up very early, completely forgot the instructions he had been given, had an excellent breakfast, with juice and coffee. She left the house for an event at our oldest daughter’s school, where she met me, ate her morning dessert and drank another coffee. On top of that (for reasons I won’t divulge and are extremely none of my business), he went to the lab dead with rage.

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Late in the afternoon he called me and said that the doctor, who received the findings a few minutes ago, almost gave him 24 hours to live. Hypertension in the troposphere, glucose in the stratosphere, Kármán’s online triglycerides (don’t be embarrassed if you have to google it, I am). He asks what his habits are. Surprised, he tells him that he jogs almost every day, that he eats a lot of vegetables, that he takes care of himself, and that his belly is the result of years of life, and not because he often drinks beer, because he doesn’t.

The doctor, rightly, visibly in disbelief, prescribes exercise, food and medicine. She has little hope in her mind that she will ever see my husband alive again. They greet each other warmly. Already in the car, horrified, staring ahead, thinking about his last wishes, my husband remembers that he didn’t even remotely follow the instructions. The day before the tests, do not eat certain foods or exercise, do not eat at all before the tests and, I would add, do not let anyone spoil your mood. Not on the day of the exam, not ever. That’s what I’m for. (OR)