Sometimes I wonder if I will ever be able to tell her how much she means to me. It almost feels as if life sent her to me exactly when I needed her most – even though we have known each other for years. She is not a psychologist, a therapist or a professional counsellor to me. No, she is my friend. A woman who sees me as I am – with my strengths, my weaknesses and all the fears that I sometimes dare not speak out loud.
Sometimes I wonder if I will ever be able to tell her how much she means to me. It almost feels as if life sent her to me exactly when I needed her most – even though we have known each other for years. She is not a psychologist, a therapist or a professional counsellor to me. No, she is my friend. A woman who sees me as I am – with my strengths, my weaknesses and all the fears that I sometimes dare not speak out loud.
Our conversations have become a safe space for me. There aren't many people I can be so honest with. Maybe because she always shows me that it's okay to be vulnerable. And also because she never looks at me with pity. Her look is one that says, ‘I see you. And I see what you're going through. But I also see who you are – and that's never lost.’
Our conversations often start lightly, almost casually. We talk about memories, about the past, about things that make us both laugh. Once she told me how I made her laugh on a trip with my clumsy jokes, until she almost fell out of her chair. ‘Even back then, you had a tendency to make me lose my composure,’ she said.
‘I did it on purpose,’ I replied, making her laugh again. “I just wanted to test whether you could keep your nerve.’
‘And now I'm testing your nerve,” she said with a wink.
That's something I love about her – how she always reminds me that, despite everything, life still has moments that can be light. Moments when we can laugh, when we can just be without thinking of the shadows waiting on the horizon.
But eventually, we always come to the difficult topics. My children. My four most precious people. I tell her how I look at my oldest daughter and see how strong she has become. ‘Sometimes I wonder if she inherited so much strength from me,’ I say. ‘Or if she's just so incredible on her own.’
‘Both,‘ she often says, without hesitation. “She saw your strength, and now she is showing her own.’
I tell her about my grandson, this little miracle that makes me glow every time I just think about him running towards me and hugging me. ”He'll forget me,’ I say once, and the words almost break my heart.
‘He won't,’ she says firmly. ’Maybe he won't know every detail. But he will feel you in your daughter's stories. In the love you gave her – and that she gives him. Your traces will always be there.’
I'm talking about my younger daughter, who will soon be eleven. She's a happy, lively girl who still has so much ahead of her. ‘I want her to know that I'm proud of her,’ I say quietly. ‘But what if I'm no longer around to show her?’
Then she puts her hand on mine. ‘You've already shown her,’ she says. ‘Every time you listened to her. Every time you hugged her, encouraged her, was there for her. She knows. And she will always know.’
And then there is my ex-stepdaughter, who I never see as ‘ex’. She is part of my family, part of my heart. When I talk about her, she always nods with a knowing smile. ‘Sometimes I think you are a much greater father than you believe,’ she says. ‘You don't see differences. You just love. That's what makes you so special.’
But then there are those other moments. The quiet ones. The dark ones. When fear comes up and I don't know how to put it into words. She has the gift of recognising these moments before I voice them.
‘You're quieter today,’ she says, and I just nod.
‘Is it fear?’ she asks, and I feel how the words suddenly become more difficult. “Yes,” I finally say. ’I'm afraid that I'm not strong enough. That at some point I will burden them with my illness. I don't want them to remember me like that. I want them to remember the best of me.’
She looks at me, and in that moment it feels as if she can see everything – every thought, every worry. And yet she remains completely calm. ‘Do you know what I see?’ she finally asks. ‘I see a man who gives more than he can take. Someone who loves unconditionally. And that is what will remain. Not the glioblastoma. Not the disease. But the love you give them. The strength they have learned from you. That is what they will remember.’
I want to say something, but the words get stuck in my throat. She squeezes my hand, and in that moment I feel that she is right. That she really sees me.
There are moments when I think she is almost too good for this world. Maybe she is an angel. Maybe she is just a person with a heart that is bigger than I will ever understand. But I know one thing for sure: as long as she is by my side, I will find the strength to carry on. For my children. For the love I want to give them. And for myself – because she shows me that I deserve to be seen.