I was in my third year at a technical university and had become deeply interested in bodybuilding. Like millions of boys around the world, my idol was, of course, Arnold Schwarzenegger. Like many others, I studied Arnold’s training methods, tried to apply them in my daily workouts, carefully selecting exercises and diet.
My university provided facilities for strength sports and had its own gym — affectionately known among students as the “Square Gym.” I loved the atmosphere there: the focus on results, the rugged look of worn equipment that had clearly seen years of hard training, the determination of the people who came there, and the air that seemed saturated with the hormone of victory.
After workouts I would go into the locker room and see athletes thoughtfully opening plastic bottles filled with white protein shakes, swallowing tablets of “Methane,” hoping to quickly add a few extra kilograms of muscle. That was how I first learned about anabolic steroids and protein supplements used for gaining mass. It seemed impossible to succeed without them — all the successful athletes around me were taking them.
I studied the subject and made what felt like a decisive conclusion: protein was an essential part of a bodybuilder’s diet, but adding an anabolic steroid was also important. According to specialized literature, combined with protein they could produce fantastic results — up to one kilogram of muscle gain per week.
I began researching the options and concluded that the most effective one was Retabolil, a synthetically derived testosterone compound said to have minimal side effects because it was administered by injection rather than in tablet form. At least, that was what I believed at the time, and I wanted to try it.
I had always had a trusting relationship with my parents. I decided not to hide my athletic ambitions and asked my mother — a general practitioner with many years of experience — to administer the injections. At first she tried to talk me out of it, but I was determined to gain muscle at any cost.
“If you don’t give me the injections, I’ll find a way to do them myself,” I said.
To my surprise, my mother agreed fairly quickly. She asked me to give her the ampoules, and the very next day she began the injections.
For the next four weeks I felt a surge of strength and a slight increase in aggression. My deadlift and bench press numbers shot up. My body weight increased according to the scale, and my level of aggression also rose. I attributed it to side effects I had read about in medical literature.
My classmates also noticed the changes. During a break between lectures one of my fellow students — a friend from my hometown — asked:
“So what happened to you? You’ve grown a lot… and why are you so nervous?”
He knew how anabolic steroids worked. In the mechanical engineering dormitory there were real monsters of bodybuilding and powerlifting who were never shy about using various kinds of “chemistry.”
In the end, after a month of intense training, I managed to gain almost five kilograms. After that I decided to take a break from Retabolil. After resting, I never returned to those injections. The results had been so obvious that I began to fear other, more serious side effects beyond simple aggression.
Five years passed. I graduated and started working at a factory. My passion for bodybuilding and healthy living gradually faded into the past.
One evening while visiting my parents, we were having dinner together and I began reflecting on the mistakes of my student years. I talked about how inexperienced I had been and how I had allowed myself to harm my body with anabolic chemicals.
My mother added more boiled potatoes to my plate and began shaping her signature homemade cutlets while listening attentively.
After a while she calmly said:
“Son, don’t worry. Instead of Retabolil, I injected you with vitamin C.”
I shifted my stunned gaze from my thoughts to her and asked in disbelief:
“How is that possible? I saw the packaging and the ampoules.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” she replied. “I gave you vitamin C.”
I was completely shocked.
“Mom… thank you for not listening to me and for doing it your own way.”
She smiled and continued shaping her wonderful cutlets.
That’s what our parents are like. When convincing a child becomes impossible, they may accept the situation — but still find a way not to harm them, inventing an elegant workaround.
Thank you, Mom.
