It could have left a bitter taste. Lump — that’s what I call the tumour — I mean. But it didn’t. Since January, I’ve found more courage and gained more insight than I did in all the years before.
Lump was a shock. And it was mainly the seriousness of the type of tissue that frightened me. It made me start clearing things out — both in my heart and in my home. I wheeled the rubbish bin inside several times so I could throw things straight into it. I regularly drove to the recycling centre with a boot full of stuff. Old computers and kitchen appliances, broken energy-saving bulbs and batteries, boxes and boxes of old paper. I still need to tackle the attic room — you know the one: full of things I haven’t touched since moving house — and I’m halfway through the shed now. Behind the house, there’s already a small trailer full of stuff waiting for another trip to the recycling centre.
Clearing things out also made room for something new. I bought these lightweight, elegant duvets that don’t need covers and that I can wash in my own washing machine. I bought several, so there’s always a fresh one ready to go. A practical solution to a problem that wasn’t really much of a problem. But I’ve noticed that something more fundamental has changed too: the way I look at my world.
Because what became important when I still thought I might die in the near future? Writing. And the little things I do every day.
Not once did I think, “Gosh, I wish I could have attended a meeting today.” Or, “Maybe I should post something on LinkedIn again.” I’m quite sure all those meetings went ahead perfectly well without me. And of all my contacts on LinkedIn, there probably isn’t a single person who noticed that I haven’t posted anything since January.
So what is my life actually about?
“I love my work,” I always used to say. And I still do. But which part of it do I love? It isn’t the knowledge. Or writing reports after meetings. Or endlessly advising incapable managers. It’s about my contribution — and I mean my contribution, not the role somebody else has decided I should play — to another person’s life. And vice versa.
I love sitting together and talking. Laughing and crying. Coming up with solutions. Helping you when I have the space to do so. It’s about creativity, independence, freedom and, above all, authenticity. That last one is what made me stand out in all the encounters I’ve had at the hospital over the past few months. Those aren’t my words, by the way. They came from the hospital’s medical psychologist, whom I spoke to for the last time this month.
I hope I’ve inspired a few people by doing all of this in my own way.
Not: do it the way I did.
Quite the opposite!
Talk to yourself before you make a decision. There is often far more to choose from than you think. Choose the path that suits you best. And that doesn’t just apply when life is difficult. It matters just as much when life is good.
Like now.
Today.
Become your own best friend, and you’ll know that the choices you make are the right ones for you.
I’ll be going back to work soon. I’m almost fully recovered, but I still don’t have enough energy to concentrate for more than an hour or so at a time.
And maybe that’s okay.
Maybe it’s perfectly fine not to focus on getting back what I had.
Maybe the rat race is behind me. And maybe, from now on, I can make choices that pay the bills without the bonus or the thirteenth-month salary — but with a smile on my face every single day.
Life can change just like that… That’s what Lump taught me.