The Late-Night Call Before Remarriage: Why He Asked About Japanese Tengsu First

A-Kai's remarriage was set for the fall. The invitations were already printed, yet on a Wednesday night he called his old classmate A-Hong. The two had known each other since high school—one ran a crew at a construction site, the other scheduled truck routes at a logistics depot. Their usual conversations were about whose car had broken down again or which lunchbox place had raised its prices. They rarely talked about anything deeper. That night, A-Kai's first sentence was: "Do you think someone like me is ready?" A-Hong was stunned for a few seconds. He didn't press for details, only said: "If what you're afraid of is your body, then go get it checked out first. Don't scare yourself."

A-Kai's worry wasn't unfounded. In the later years of his previous marriage, he was buried in overtime, social obligations, and shift work. His energy dropped fast, and on weekends all he wanted was to lie down. After the divorce, he spent two years getting his routine back on track, but facing a new relationship, he always felt he was running a bit short on confidence. He didn't dare tell his fiancée, afraid she'd read it as not loving her enough. He didn't dare tell his family either, afraid of being laughed at. After listening, A-Hong only replied: "What you need most right now isn't an answer—it's to state the problem clearly."

That call lasted until 1:30 in the morning. A-Hong gave no advice, only asked three questions: Are you afraid of being tired, or afraid of being compared? Do you have a regular doctor you see? When was your last checkup? A-Kai couldn't answer a single one. A-Hong said that last year his health check was full of red flags, and after his wife dragged him to a clinic, he found out it was just long-term sleep deprivation and not drinking enough water. A-Kai laughed and said: "So you're telling me to go take a number and get in line." A-Hong replied: "Exactly. First know where you stand, then decide whether you need to buy anything."

After hanging up, A-Kai didn't go to sleep right away. He opened his phone and started searching page by page. He tried several different keywords and read all kinds of claims on forums—the more he read, the more confused he got. Some people described supplements like a miracle cure, some said they felt nothing after taking them, and others reminded him to check the packaging labels and source. He noticed the term "Japanese Tengsu" kept popping up, but found that everyone described it differently. Some treated it as a supplement, some as a medicine, and others said you should first confirm whether it's a prescription drug. A very practical question surfaced in his mind: if he couldn't even figure out what category it belonged to, how could he judge whether he needed it?

The next day at noon, A-Kai called a community pharmacy during his break. The pharmacist who answered didn't try to sell him anything—only asked whether he was taking any other medications, whether he had any chronic conditions, and when he'd last had a checkup. The pharmacist said that the classification and sales regulations for this kind of product in Taiwan depend on the packaging label; some are food, some are not. If the information isn't clear, don't buy it yet. If you really have concerns, you should bring a list of all the medications and supplements you're currently using and ask in person at a clinic or pharmacy. A-Kai copied that sentence into his phone's notes app, with the title: "Ask clearly first, then decide."

That weekend, A-Kai did two things. First, he booked an appointment with a family medicine doctor to catch up on the checkups he'd skipped for years. Second, he sat down with his fiancée for a dinner with no schedule. He didn't dump everything he'd found on her—he just said he'd been feeling a bit uneasy about his energy lately and wanted to get checked. His fiancée didn't press him. She only said: "You should have told me sooner. I'll go with you." A-Kai later told A-Hong that in that moment, he realized what he was truly afraid of wasn't the test results—it was being seen worrying.

After the checkup, the doctor only talked to him about his routine, sleep, and exercise. No exaggerated promises, no pushing him to buy anything. A-Kai put the list in a drawer and decided to first do two things well: sleep a full seven hours every night and cut back on his evening drinks. He didn't treat any product as the answer, nor did he rush to "boost" himself into some state before the wedding. Instead, he felt that being willing to speak his unease and willing to ask professionals brought him closer to the answer he wanted than piecing things together online.

Two weeks before the wedding, A-Kai and A-Hong talked on the phone again. This time he didn't ask "Am I enough?" He only said the checkup showed nothing major and that he'd be making adjustments gradually. A-Hong replied: "That's right. A relationship is about two people, and so is your body." A-Kai wrote that down. He didn't delete his search history from that night, because it represented a time he'd seriously faced his own unease. He also didn't treat any supplement as a pre-wedding necessity, because he knew that what truly put him at ease was the process of being willing to speak up, willing to verify, and willing to let his partner be part of it.