Archives de la catégorie : Partie 1

At first, it was just a lump.

I found it in January 2024.

I was watching television.

Nothing unusual. No pain. No great warning sign. No dramatic scene like the ones we sometimes imagine when, looking back, we tell the story of the moment everything began.

I was simply watching TV when my hand felt something in my right breast.

A lump.

I touched it.

Then touched it again.

That’s strange.

That was probably all I thought.

A lump in a breast could be so many things.

A cyst.

Hormones.

Something benign.

At twenty-six, my mind certainly didn’t go straight to the big C.

Cancer was something I knew as a healthcare professional.

But there is a world of difference between knowing that a disease exists and believing that it could be inside your own body.

So I let time pass.

January became February.

The lump was still there.

I checked it from time to time. I knew it existed, but my life continued normally around it.

Work.

Jean-Louis.

Ordinary days.

Plans.

Everything that had occupied my mind before the lump continued to occupy it.

Then, toward the end of February, I thought that maybe I should get it checked after all.

Why not?

Just to make sure.

I called my gynecologist.

She had known me since I was thirteen.

Throughout all those years, she had accompanied me through that very intimate part of my life as a woman, through appointments you sometimes make almost automatically.

This time, I was calling her because of a lump.

The examinations began.

And very quickly, we needed to go further.

A biopsy.

March 8, 2024.

The day before my birthday.

I think it is important to tell you what happened immediately after that biopsy.

Because nothing extraordinary happened at all.

I went back to my life.

The next day, I turned twenty-seven.

I was working during my birthday weekend.

My colleagues had made me a cake.

I was happy.

I smiled.

I celebrated my birthday with them.

For a few moments, I was simply a twenty-seven-year-old woman surrounded by colleagues who had thought of her.

The biopsy existed somewhere in the background, of course.

But I didn’t spend my weekend imagining the worst.

Why would I?

I was twenty-seven.

I had a lump.

And a birthday cake in front of me.

At that moment, the cake took up far more space in my life than cancer did.

The weekend passed.

Then Monday came.

March 11, 2024.

I was at work when my phone rang.

My gynecologist’s office.

They wanted to see me as soon as possible.

I was working.

So I asked if it could wait until the next day.

Yes.

The appointment could be scheduled for March 12.

And strangely, that answer reassured me.

In my mind, the reasoning seemed almost obvious:

If it can wait until tomorrow, it can’t be that urgent.

If it were really serious, they would have asked me to come in immediately.

Right?

So I carried on with my day.

I kept working.

Taking care of others.

Doing what I knew how to do.

The phone had rung, an appointment had been made, and yet my day continued like any other.

I didn’t know yet that it would be one of the last days when the word cancer would mostly refer to someone else’s illness.

The next day, I got into my car.

Alone.

I drove to the office of the gynecologist who had known me since I was thirteen.

I still believed there would be a reassuring explanation.

Something benign.

Something we would simply monitor.

Something that would allow me to get back into my car after the appointment and pick up my life exactly where I had left it.

After all, it had all started so ordinarily.

A couch.

The television.

A hand on my breast.

And that thought:

That’s strange.

A lump.

Just a lump.

Only the day before, I had been at work.

A few days earlier, I had blown out my candles over a cake my colleagues had made for me.

I was twenty-seven.

And because the appointment had been able to wait until the next day, part of me was still clinging to that thought:

It can’t be that serious.

I walked into the office.

My gynecologist was there.

She had the results.

And this time, there was nothing left to wait for.

March 12, 2024.

For a long time, I believed time was something we possessed.

Not something we could lose.

I had grown up. I had found my profession. And little by little, the big questions of adolescence had given way to the much more ordinary concerns of adult life.

Work.

Relationships.

Money.

Holidays.

Plans.

What we were going to eat that evening.

What we would do that weekend.

All those little things that seem insignificant while we are living them and that, in the end, make up almost an entire life.

There was Jean-Louis, too.

JL, as I will often call him throughout these pages.

His arrival in my life had not been welcomed enthusiastically by everyone.

My mother wasn’t happy about our relationship.

She had always played an important role in the decisions concerning my life, including those involving the people I could spend time with or allow into my world.

In a way, it was what I had always known.

There were the choices I made.

And the choices other people thought were better for me.

For a long time, I had tried to live with both.

I had followed the path toward medicine.

I had persevered through collège.

I had tried to become a nurse.

I had learned to listen, to respect, not to disappoint.

But as I grew older, something inside me began demanding more space.

The freedom to choose.

Even if I was wrong.

Even if people didn’t like my decisions.

Even if they weren’t the choices others would have made for me.

Then one day, I made a decision that would mark a real break from the life I had known until then.

I left my mother’s home.

And I went to live with Jean-Louis.

He welcomed me into his home.

At that moment, it wasn’t simply about moving in with my boyfriend.

For me, leaving also meant beginning to decide for myself what my life would look like.

It was exhilarating.

And probably frightening, too.

Because there is something strange about growing up trying to be the child everyone expected you to be: the day you finally gain the freedom to choose, you discover that you don’t always know what to do with it.

Jean-Louis was there throughout that transition.

When I doubted my professional future, he encouraged me to look for answers rather than remain stuck.

He was the one, in particular, who encouraged me to seek career advice at the Versoix town hall when I no longer knew which path to take.

That simple piece of advice would eventually lead me to my CFC as a healthcare assistant.

Then the months became years.

We built a life together.

Not a fairy tale.

A real relationship.

With routines, plans, arguments, reconciliations, shared meals, trips, difficulties, and those days so ordinary that you never think to remember them.

We grew up together.

Jean-Louis knew the young woman who was still trying to find her place.

Then the one who found her profession.

The one who was beginning to build her independence.

And I knew several versions of him, too.

Our relationship wasn’t perfect.

None are.

But it had become familiar.

Solid, I thought.

A presence so deeply woven into my life that I no longer really considered the possibility that one day, it might not be there.

I didn’t look at Jean-Louis and wonder how our story would end.

I looked ahead of us.

Because back then, whenever I imagined the future, I naturally imagined it in the plural.

Us.

What we would do.

Where we would go.

What we would build.

There were still so many things to decide.

But that didn’t matter.

We had time.

I had time.

That was probably one of the things I was most certain of.

I also had a body I didn’t think about very much.

And that feels strange to write now.

Because before our bodies become a problem, we often forget they are even there.

We complain about them, of course.

We want to lose a few pounds.

Change something.

Be prettier here.

Thinner there.

We look into a mirror and, with almost remarkable ease, find everything that could be improved.

I had my insecurities, too.

I didn’t always like my reflection.

I could criticize my body as though its only purpose was to match the image I wanted to see in the mirror.

But I trusted it.

Without even realizing that I trusted it.

I went to work assuming my legs would carry me.

I made plans assuming my body would follow.

I thought about the following year as though it were naturally promised to me.

I didn’t wake up in the morning checking whether something had changed.

I didn’t yet know what it was like to touch your own body with worry.

I didn’t know the fear of waiting for a result.

The fear of a check-up.

The fear of a doctor remaining silent for a few seconds too long.

Back then, a medical appointment was simply a medical appointment.

A hospital was mainly a place connected to my work, or somewhere other people were taken for care.

Illness still existed at a certain distance from me.

Of course I knew it existed.

I was a healthcare professional.

I had seen fragile bodies, people losing their independence, families waiting for news.

I had cared for patients during moments when their entire existence seemed suspended by a few test results, a few words, a few medical decisions.

Professionally, I knew that a life could change in an instant.

But knowing something and imagining that it could happen to you are two very different things.

The patients were the patients.

And I was on the other side.

I wore the uniform.

I walked into the room.

I asked how they were doing.

I cared for them.

Then I went home.

I went back to Jean-Louis.

I went back to our everyday life.

I went back to my own life.

An imperfect life, sometimes exhausting, sometimes complicated.

But a life I believed was solid.

I thought the big decisions would be mine to make.

Change jobs.

Travel.

Get married or not.

Have children or not.

Move somewhere else.

Start something over.

Wait a little longer.

I thought I could put certain things off until later.

Take better care of myself: later.

Take that trip: later.

Deal with certain problems: later.

Say certain things: later.

Enjoy life more: later.

We use that word so easily when we don’t yet understand its value.

Later.

As though somewhere there were an infinite supply of tomorrows that already belonged to us.

I wasn’t unhappy.

I wasn’t constantly happy, either.

I was simply living.

And perhaps that is exactly what makes that period of my life feel so remarkable when I look back at it now.

Its ordinariness.

Being able to have a problem that was just a problem.

Being able to be annoyed by a bad day at work.

Being able to argue with Jean-Louis over something ridiculous and consider it the drama of the day.

Being able to look at my body and criticize the way it looked instead of wondering what was happening inside it.

Being able to plan something six months ahead without mentally adding:

if everything goes well.

I didn’t know yet that some ordinary things were privileges.

I didn’t know that one day, a day ordinary enough for me to complain about would become something almost precious.

I thought I had time.

For Jean-Louis.

For us.

For my plans.

For my body.

To become the person I wanted to be.

To understand certain wounds.

To travel.

To change my mind.

To make mistakes.

To start over.

To live.

I thought I had time to decide what came next.

After all, I was still young.

Why would I have thought otherwise?

I didn’t know yet that a life could split in two without asking permission.

That there could be a before whose value we didn’t yet understand.

And an after we had never imagined.

Back then, there was no before.

No after.

There was Jean-Louis.

My work.

My plans.

My insecurities.

My little worries.

My ordinary days.

And that almost innocent certainty that tomorrow would simply follow today.

I thought I had time.

I didn’t know yet that sometimes, life decides before we do.

I had chosen healthcare.

But choosing a direction and knowing exactly where it will lead are two very different things.

When I entered the École de culture générale—the ECG—I only spent one year there.

Before that, I had spent four years at collège.

Four years trying to stay on a path that, in the end, had led me nowhere.

At least, that was how it felt at the time.

Four years thrown away.

So when I arrived at the ECG, I found myself almost immediately facing that famous question again:

What are you going to do now?

With an ECG diploma, there were possibilities, but they weren’t endless. I had to choose between looking for vocational training, pursuing a CFC apprenticeship, continuing toward a specialized maturité, or trying to enter another school afterward.

I had chosen the healthcare track.

So naturally—or perhaps because the path was still being drawn around me—the next step seemed obvious.

I wasn’t going to become a doctor.

That door had closed.

So maybe a nurse.

This time, the profession had changed, but the pressure around me still felt very familiar.

For my mother especially, I needed to stay in healthcare.

Pastry?

There was no point in that.

Something else?

Why, when there was a serious, stable, useful path available?

Healthcare.

Nursing.

So I tried.

Again.

I applied for a specialized maturité so that I could continue on to nursing school.

And it didn’t work.

I didn’t make it.

Another failure.

By then, the word was beginning to feel familiar.

Collège hadn’t worked out.

Pastry hadn’t worked out.

And now, neither had the specialized maturité.

At that age, every door that closes can easily make you feel as though the problem must be you.

As though everyone else is moving forward while you are still trying to figure out where to go.

As though you should already know.

As though you should have found your place by now.

I was still searching.

I had to find something.

A training program.

A profession.

Another way forward.

It was during this period of my life that a man entered my story.

Of course, I didn’t know it yet, but he would remain in it for eight years.

He will appear often throughout these pages.

Not only because he was my partner for a large part of my adult life, but because he was there during many of the moments when that life was taking shape.

And at that particular moment, when I no longer knew which door to knock on, he was the one who encouraged me to ask for help.

At the Versoix town hall.

The idea was simple:

Go and see. Explain your situation. Maybe they’ll know where to guide you.

So I went.

And sometimes, the decisions that change a life begin far less dramatically than we might imagine.

No revelation.

No sudden calling.

No great inner voice telling me that I had finally found my place.

Just someone sitting behind a desk telling me about a profession.

Assistante en soins et santé communautaire.

ASSC.

A healthcare assistant.

They suggested I start with an observation placement in an EMS, a residential care home.

To see the profession.

To see what everyday life looked like.

To see whether I might like it.

So I agreed.

I walked into that EMS without really knowing what I would find there.

Elderly people.

Care.

Tasks I didn’t yet know how to perform.

Stories sometimes told more than once.

People who needed help with things most of us do without even thinking about them.

And something strange happened.

I didn’t feel completely out of place there.

Quite the opposite.

It felt… natural.

I didn’t know the profession yet. I didn’t have the skills, the professional vocabulary, or the technical knowledge.

But being around people who were more vulnerable than I was didn’t feel unfamiliar.

Paying attention.

Observing.

Helping.

Listening.

Being there.

All of it felt strangely like something I already knew.

Long before that placement.

Long before the ECG.

Long before I even knew what the letters ASSC stood for.

I had grown up with the idea that you took care of those who needed you.

First, my little brother.

Then others.

What had begun as an almost instinctive responsibility in childhood was suddenly standing in front of me in the form of a profession.

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel as though I was trying to force myself into a box.

I wasn’t trying to become a doctor.

I wasn’t trying to become a pastry chef anymore.

I wasn’t even trying to become a nurse.

I was simply there.

And I liked it.

Maybe all those closed doors hadn’t been time thrown away after all.

I wasn’t capable of seeing it that way yet.

At that moment, I only knew one thing:

I wanted to see where this door would lead me.

So I began my CFC apprenticeship as an assistante en soins et santé communautaire.

An ASSC.

A healthcare assistant.

Without knowing that one day, after spending years learning how to care for others, I would find myself on the other side.

In the bed.

With a hospital bracelet around my wrist.

Hoping that someone, in turn, would know how to take care of me.

Before the hospitals, the diagnoses, and the scars, there was a child who didn’t yet truly know that she had the right to choose her own dreams.

I was born in the Philippines, one of three children spaced almost perfectly apart.

Two years between each of us.

An older brother, two years older than me.

Me, in the middle.

And a younger brother, two years younger.

We were raised mainly by our grandparents, with a fairly traditional upbringing.

Old-fashioned.

We were expected to respect adults.

To listen.

To be grateful for what we had.

Above all, never to become ungrateful children.

And then, we were expected to succeed.

There was this idea that a child should grow into someone their family could be proud of.

Someone who studied.

Who worked.

Who made the right choices.

And for me, a future already seemed to have been chosen.

I was going to be a doctor.

At that age, I didn’t really ask myself whether that was what I wanted.

When you are a child, the dreams adults have for you can easily become your own. You repeat them whenever someone asks what you want to be when you grow up, until sometimes you forget that you never really chose them in the first place.

So I said it too.

I wanted to become a doctor.

That was the plan.

Then, at eleven years old, in October 2008, I left the Philippines with my two brothers to join our mother in Switzerland.

She was already living there with her partner, the man who would come to occupy the role of a stepfather in our everyday lives, even though it was never really made official.

For the journey, a flight attendant was assigned to accompany us from beginning to end.

For once, I wasn’t really the one holding the reins.

An adult knew where we needed to go, when we had to board, where we were supposed to sit, and what was going to happen next.

I followed.

While still keeping an eye on my brothers.

Had they been served?

Did they have a blanket?

Was everything okay?

Then we landed.

We had arrived in Switzerland.

And with this new country came many firsts.

A new school.

A new language.

A new way of life.

And, gradually, something I perhaps had never really done before:

I began asking myself what I wanted.

That was where my dream of becoming a pastry chef was born.

I wanted to make pastries.

I loved cakes, desserts, sweets—probably just as much imagining myself making them as I enjoyed eating them.

There was something about creating things with my hands that appealed to me.

Taking a few ordinary ingredients and turning them into something beautiful.

And, if I’m being fair, being surrounded by desserts all day seemed like a perfectly reasonable career argument.

For the first time, there was something different about this dream.

It didn’t come from what other people imagined for me.

It came from me.

But having a dream of your own doesn’t mean you immediately have the freedom to follow it.

The path that had been planned for me remained the same.

Primary school.

Cycle d’orientation.

Then collège.

Because collège was supposed to lead to higher education.

And higher education was supposed to lead to medicine.

So I went to collège.

And I tried to stay on that road.

I persisted.

Even when I began to understand that maybe it wasn’t mine.

Because leaving collège didn’t feel like simply changing direction.

It felt like disappointing people.

Like failing.

Perhaps even, somewhere deep inside me, like being ungrateful.

So I kept going.

Until the stress stopped existing only in my mind.

My body began to speak, too.

I developed an ulcer and had to be treated for it.

Eventually, I had to choose.

Keep trying to become the person I was expected to be,

or accept that perhaps that life was never going to be mine.

I left collège.

And I returned to the first dream that had truly belonged to me.

Pastry.

I looked for a place where I could complete a CFC apprenticeship.

I tried to find a company that would allow me to enter the world I had chosen for myself.

But it didn’t work out.

There were no places available.

And sometimes, that is part of growing up too.

Realizing that finding what you want is not enough to make life give it to you.

So once again, I had to choose.

To keep searching.

I enrolled at the École de culture générale.

And when the time came to choose a field of study, I selected healthcare.

This time, no one had told me to do it.

At least, not directly.

Maybe it really was my choice.

Or maybe the way I had been raised since childhood—taking care of those younger than me, helping people who were more vulnerable, making myself useful—had already planted something inside me.

Probably a little of both.

I wasn’t going to become a doctor.

I wasn’t going to become a pastry chef either.

I simply didn’t know yet what I was going to become.

But without realizing it at the time, I had just made a choice that would profoundly shape my life.

I had chosen healthcare.

And soon, taking care of others would no longer be something I had simply been taught to do since childhood.

It would become my profession.

Au début, ce n’était qu’une boule.

Je l’ai découverte en janvier 2024.

J’étais devant la télévision.

Rien de particulier. Pas de douleur. Pas de grand signe annonciateur. Pas de scène dramatique comme celles que l’on imagine parfois lorsqu’on raconte, après coup, le moment où tout a commencé.

J’étais simplement devant la télé lorsque ma main a senti quelque chose dans mon sein droit.

Une boule.

Je l’ai touchée.

Puis retouchée.

C’est bizarre.

C’est probablement tout ce que je me suis dit.

Une boule dans un sein peut être tellement de choses.

Un kyste.

Les hormones.

Quelque chose de bénin.

À vingt-six ans, mon esprit n’est certainement pas allé directement vers le gros C.

Le cancer, c’était quelque chose que je connaissais en tant que soignante.

Mais entre savoir qu’une maladie existe et penser qu’elle pourrait se trouver à l’intérieur de son propre corps, il y a un monde.

Alors j’ai laissé passer le temps.

Janvier est devenu février.

La boule, elle, était toujours là.

Je la vérifiais de temps en temps. Je savais qu’elle existait, mais ma vie continuait normalement autour d’elle.

Le travail.

Jean-Louis.

Les journées ordinaires.

Les projets.

Tout ce qui occupait ma tête avant elle continuait à l’occuper.

Puis, vers la fin du mois de février, je me suis dit qu’il faudrait peut-être quand même la faire contrôler, avec l’insistance persistante de JL, car il a toujours plus peur des choses que moi.

Pourquoi pas.

Juste pour vérifier.

J’ai appelé ma gynécologue.

Elle me connaissait depuis mes treize ans.

Pendant toutes ces années, elle avait accompagné cette partie très intime de ma vie de femme, avec ces rendez-vous que l’on prend parfois presque machinalement.

Cette fois, je l’appelais pour une boule.

Les examens ont commencé.

Et rapidement, il a fallu aller plus loin.

Faire une biopsie.

Le 8 mars 2024.

La veille de mon anniversaire.

Je crois que c’est important de raconter ce qui s’est passé juste après cette biopsie.

Parce qu’il ne s’est justement rien passé d’extraordinaire.

Je suis retournée à ma vie.

Le lendemain, j’avais vingt-sept ans.

Je travaillais pendant le week-end de mon anniversaire.

Mes collègues m’avaient préparé un gâteau.

J’étais contente.

J’ai souri.

J’ai fêté mon anniversaire avec elles.

Pendant quelques instants, j’étais simplement une jeune femme de vingt-sept ans entourée de collègues qui avaient pensé à elle.

La biopsie existait quelque part en arrière-plan, évidemment.

Mais je ne passais pas mon week-end à imaginer le pire.

Pourquoi l’aurais-je fait ?

J’avais vingt-sept ans.

Une boule.

Et un gâteau d’anniversaire devant moi.

À ce moment-là, le gâteau avait beaucoup plus de place dans ma vie que cette boule.

Le week-end est passé.

Puis le lundi est arrivé.

11 mars 2024.

J’étais au travail lorsque mon téléphone a sonné.

Le cabinet de ma gynécologue.

On voulait me voir rapidement.

Je travaillais.

Alors j’ai demandé si cela pouvait attendre le lendemain.

Oui.

Le rendez-vous pouvait être fixé au 12 mars.

Et étrangement, cette réponse m’a rassurée.

Dans ma tête, le raisonnement était presque évident :

Si ça peut attendre demain, ça ne doit pas être très urgent.

Si c’était vraiment grave, on m’aurait demandé de venir immédiatement.

Non ?

Alors j’ai continué ma journée.

J’ai continué à travailler.

À m’occuper des autres.

À faire ce que je savais faire.

Le téléphone avait sonné, un rendez-vous avait été fixé, et pourtant ma journée continuait comme toutes les autres.

Je ne savais pas encore que ce serait l’une des dernières journées où le mot cancer désignerait principalement la maladie des autres.

Le lendemain, je suis montée dans ma voiture.

Seule.

Je suis allée au cabinet de cette gynécologue qui me connaissait depuis mes treize ans.

Je pensais encore qu’il existait une explication rassurante.

Quelque chose de bénin.

Quelque chose que l’on surveillerait.

Quelque chose qui me permettrait de reprendre ma voiture après le rendez-vous et de continuer exactement là où j’avais laissé ma vie.

Après tout, tout avait commencé de manière tellement banale.

Un canapé.

La télévision.

Une main sur mon sein.

Et cette pensée :

C’est bizarre.

Une boule.

Rien qu’une boule.

La veille encore, j’étais au travail.

Quelques jours auparavant, je soufflais mes bougies devant un gâteau préparé par mes collègues.

J’avais vingt-sept ans.

Et puisque le rendez-vous avait pu attendre jusqu’au lendemain, une partie de moi s’accrochait encore à cette idée :

Ça ne peut pas être si grave.

Je suis entrée dans le cabinet.

Ma gynécologue était là.

Elle avait les résultats.

Et cette fois, il n’y avait plus rien à attendre.

12 mars 2024.

Il fut une époque où je ne comptais pas les lendemains.

Ils étaient là, simplement. Comme une évidence.

Je pouvais penser au mois suivant, à l’année suivante, aux voyages que je ferais un jour, aux projets que je réaliserais quand j’aurais davantage d’argent, de temps ou d’énergie. Rien ne pressait vraiment.

J’étais jeune. J’avais trouvé mon métier. J’entrais doucement dans cette vie adulte faite de choses importantes et de choses parfaitement insignifiantes.

Le travail, les factures, les vacances, les projets.

Mais aussi les courses à faire, le repas du soir, les programmes du week-end et ces petits problèmes auxquels on accorde une importance démesurée avant de découvrir ce qu’est un véritable bouleversement.

Et dans cette vie, il y avait Jean-Louis.

JL, comme je l’appellerai souvent dans ces pages.

Il était arrivé à une période où je cherchais encore ce que j’allais faire de ma vie. C’était lui qui m’avait encouragée à aller demander conseil à la mairie de Versoix lorsque mes différentes tentatives d’orientation avaient échoué.

À ce moment-là, je ne pouvais évidemment pas savoir quelle place il prendrait dans mon histoire.

Il était simplement JL.

Puis le temps a fait ce qu’il fait toujours lorsqu’on ne le regarde pas passer.

Les mois sont devenus des années.

Notre relation s’est construite à travers tout ce qui compose réellement une vie à deux : les bons moments, les disputes, les réconciliations, les habitudes, les repas, les voyages, les projets et surtout une quantité incalculable de journées dont je serais aujourd’hui incapable de raconter quoi que ce soit.

Parce qu’il ne s’y passait rien d’exceptionnel.

Nous vivions, dans le confort de ce qu’on appelait « chez nous ».

Et lorsqu’une personne partage suffisamment longtemps votre quotidien, elle finit par connaître des versions de vous que personne d’autre n’a rencontrées.

JL connaissait mes qualités et mes défauts, mes humeurs, mes habitudes, mes rêves. J’en connaissais autant de lui.

Nous n’étions pas un couple parfait.

Nous étions simplement nous.

Avec le temps, sa présence était devenue tellement naturelle que je ne réfléchissais plus à ce que serait ma vie sans lui.

Je n’imaginais pas notre histoire en me demandant comment elle pourrait se terminer.

Quand je regardais l’avenir, je pensais encore au pluriel.

Nous.

Nos projets.

Nos voyages.

Ce que nous construirions.

Il restait beaucoup de choses à décider et nous n’avions pas toutes les réponses.

Mais quelle importance ?

Nous avions le temps.

Et moi aussi, je pensais avoir le temps.

Cette certitude ne concernait pas seulement mon couple.

Elle concernait mon corps.

À cette époque, je pouvais passer devant un miroir et lui trouver une quantité impressionnante de défauts.

Quelques kilos en trop.

Une partie de moi que j’aurais voulu différente.

Une silhouette qui ne correspondait pas toujours à ce que j’aurais aimé voir.

Comme beaucoup de femmes, je pouvais être particulièrement sévère avec mon propre reflet.

Pourtant, derrière toutes ces critiques, il existait quelque chose dont je n’avais même pas conscience :

j’avais confiance en mon corps.

Je ne me formulais jamais les choses ainsi.

Je lui faisais confiance parce que je n’avais aucune raison de faire autrement.

Je me levais le matin en supposant qu’il allait fonctionner.

Je partais travailler en supposant que mes jambes allaient me porter.

Je prévoyais des choses pour l’année suivante en supposant que je serais là pour les vivre.

Je pouvais toucher mon corps sans chercher quelque chose d’anormal.

Un rendez-vous médical restait un rendez-vous médical.

Un résultat était simplement un résultat.

Je ne connaissais pas encore cette attente où quelques jours peuvent sembler interminables.

Je ne connaissais pas cette peur provoquée par quelques secondes de silence sur le visage d’un médecin.

Et pourtant, la maladie faisait déjà partie de mon quotidien.

Simplement, elle appartenait aux autres.

J’étais soignante.

J’avais vu des personnes perdre leur autonomie. J’avais accompagné des patients fragilisés, observé des familles attendre des nouvelles et vu des existences se modifier à cause d’un diagnostic.

Professionnellement, je savais parfaitement qu’une vie pouvait changer très vite.

Mais il existe une distance immense entre connaître cette réalité et imaginer qu’elle puisse devenir la nôtre.

J’étais celle qui entrait dans la chambre.

Celle qui observait.

Celle qui demandait comment s’était passée la nuit.

Celle qui aidait.

Celle qui prenait soin.

Puis ma journée se terminait, j’enlevais ma tenue et je rentrais chez moi.

Je retrouvais JL.

Notre quotidien.

Ma vie.

Et tout reprenait sa place.

Une vie pas toujours simple. Une vie avec ses problèmes, ses frustrations et ses incertitudes.

Mais une vie dans laquelle je pensais encore avoir le choix.

Je pouvais changer de travail.

Voyager.

Me marier ou ne pas me marier.

Avoir des enfants ou ne pas en avoir.

Déménager.

Changer d’avis.

Reporter quelque chose à l’année suivante.

Je pouvais même décider que certaines choses attendraient.

Je prendrais davantage soin de moi plus tard.

Je ferais certains voyages plus tard.

Je réglerais certains problèmes plus tard.

Je dirais certaines choses plus tard.

Je profiterais davantage…

plus tard.

C’est un mot que l’on prononce facilement lorsque rien ne nous oblige encore à nous méfier de lui.

Plus tard.

Comme si demain était déjà quelque chose qui nous appartenait.

Je n’étais pas constamment heureuse. Je n’étais pas constamment malheureuse non plus.

Ma vie n’avait rien d’un conte de fées.

Elle était simplement normale.

Et c’est peut-être ce que je comprends différemment aujourd’hui.

Je pouvais rentrer énervée à cause d’une mauvaise journée de travail et croire sincèrement que c’était une journée terrible.

Je pouvais me disputer avec JL pour quelque chose de complètement ridicule.

Je pouvais détester mon corps pour ce que je voyais à l’extérieur sans jamais me demander ce qui pouvait se passer à l’intérieur.

Je pouvais prévoir quelque chose six mois à l’avance sans terminer ma phrase par :

si tout va bien.

Je ne savais pas encore qu’une vie ordinaire pouvait devenir quelque chose que l’on regrette.

Je ne savais pas qu’un jour, la banalité elle-même pourrait me manquer.

J’avais du temps pour JL.

Du temps pour nous.

Du temps pour voyager, changer, comprendre certaines choses, réparer certaines blessures.

Du temps pour faire des erreurs et recommencer.

Du temps pour décider quelle femme j’avais envie de devenir.

Du temps pour vivre.

Pourquoi aurais-je pensé le contraire ?

J’étais jeune.

À cette époque, les mots avant et après n’avaient encore aucune place dans mon histoire.

Il y avait seulement ma vie.

Jean-Louis.

Mon travail.

Mon corps que je critiquais mais auquel je faisais confiance.

Mes projets.

Mes petites inquiétudes.

Mes journées sans importance.

Et cette conviction tranquille que demain arriverait, puis le lendemain, puis celui d’après.

Je pensais avoir le temps.

Je ne savais pas encore que certaines choses peuvent décider à notre place.

J’avais choisi la santé.

Mais choisir une direction et savoir exactement où elle mène sont deux choses très différentes.

Lorsque je suis entrée à l’École de culture générale, je n’y ai passé qu’une année.

Avant cela, j’avais passé quatre ans au collège.

Quatre années à essayer de rester sur une voie qui, finalement, ne m’avait menée nulle part.

Du moins, c’est ainsi que je le ressentais à l’époque.

Quatre ans jetés à la poubelle.

Alors à l’ECG, je suis arrivée presque directement à cette année où il fallait déjà répondre à cette fameuse question :

Et maintenant, tu fais quoi ?

Avec un diplôme de culture générale, les possibilités existent, mais elles ne sont pas infinies. Il fallait choisir entre chercher une formation professionnelle, trouver un CFC, poursuivre vers une maturité spécialisée ou tenter d’entrer ensuite dans une autre école.

J’avais choisi l’option santé.

Alors, naturellement — ou peut-être parce que le chemin continuait malgré tout à être dessiné autour de moi — la suite semblait évidente.

Je ne serais pas médecin.

Cette porte-là était fermée.

Alors peut-être infirmière.

Cette fois, le métier avait changé, mais la pression autour de moi ressemblait encore beaucoup à celle que je connaissais.

Pour ma mère, surtout, il fallait rester dans la santé.

La pâtisserie ?

Ça ne servait à rien.

Faire autre chose ?

Pourquoi, alors qu’il existait une voie sérieuse, stable, utile ?

La santé.

Infirmière.

Alors j’ai essayé.

Encore.

J’ai tenté d’entrer en maturité spécialisée afin de pouvoir poursuivre vers les études d’infirmière.

Et ça n’a pas marché.

Je n’ai pas réussi.

Encore un échec.

À force, le mot commençait à devenir familier.

Le collège n’avait pas fonctionné.

La pâtisserie n’avait pas fonctionné.

Et maintenant, la maturité spécialisée non plus.

À cet âge-là, chaque porte qui se ferme donne facilement l’impression que le problème vient de soi.

Que les autres avancent pendant que l’on cherche encore où aller.

Que l’on devrait déjà savoir.

Que l’on devrait déjà avoir trouvé.

Moi, je cherchais encore.

Il fallait bien trouver quelque chose.

Une formation.

Un métier.

Une autre manière d’avancer.

C’est à cette période de ma vie qu’un homme est entré dans mon histoire.

Jean-louis, mais il préfère qu’on l’appelle JL.

Je ne le savais évidemment pas encore, mais il allait y rester pendant huit ans.

Il apparaîtra souvent dans ces pages.

Pas seulement parce qu’il a été mon compagnon pendant une grande partie de ma vie adulte, mais parce qu’il était là pendant beaucoup des moments où celle-ci prenait forme.

Et à ce moment précis, alors que je ne savais plus vraiment quelle porte pousser, c’est lui qui m’a encouragée à aller demander de l’aide.

À la mairie de Versoix.

L’idée était simple :

Va voir. Explique ta situation. Peut-être qu’ils sauront où t’orienter.

Alors j’y suis allée.

Et parfois, les décisions qui changent une vie commencent de manière beaucoup moins spectaculaire qu’on pourrait l’imaginer.

Pas de révélation.

Pas de vocation soudaine.

Pas de grande voix intérieure me disant que j’avais enfin trouvé ma place.

Simplement quelqu’un derrière un bureau qui m’a parlé d’un métier.

Assistante en soins et santé communautaire.

ASSC.

On m’a proposé de commencer par un stage d’observation dans un EMS.

Voir le métier.

Voir le quotidien.

Voir si ça pouvait me plaire.

Alors j’ai accepté.

Je suis entrée dans cet EMS sans savoir exactement ce que j’allais y trouver.

Des personnes âgées.

Des soins.

Des gestes que je ne connaissais pas encore.

Des histoires racontées parfois plusieurs fois.

Des personnes qui avaient besoin d’aide pour des choses que la plupart d’entre nous faisons sans même y penser.

Et quelque chose d’étrange s’est produit.

Je ne me suis pas sentie complètement étrangère à cet endroit.

Au contraire.

C’était… naturel.

Je ne connaissais pas encore le métier. Je n’avais pas les compétences, pas le vocabulaire professionnel, pas les gestes techniques.

Mais être auprès de personnes plus vulnérables que moi ne me semblait pas inhabituel.

Faire attention.

Observer.

Aider.

Écouter.

Être là.

Tout cela ressemblait étrangement à quelque chose que je connaissais déjà.

Bien avant ce stage.

Bien avant l’ECG.

Bien avant même de savoir ce que signifiaient les lettres ASSC.

J’avais grandi avec l’idée qu’il fallait prendre soin de ceux qui en avaient besoin.

D’abord de mon petit frère.

Puis des autres.

Ce qui avait commencé comme une responsabilité presque naturelle dans mon enfance se retrouvait soudain devant moi sous la forme d’un métier.

Pour la première fois depuis longtemps, je n’avais pas l’impression d’essayer de rentrer de force dans une case.

Je n’étais pas en train d’essayer de devenir médecin.

Je n’essayais plus de devenir pâtissière.

Je n’essayais même plus de devenir infirmière.

J’étais simplement là.

Et ça me plaisait.

Peut-être que toutes ces portes fermées n’avaient pas été du temps jeté à la poubelle.

Je n’étais pas encore capable de penser comme ça.

À ce moment-là, je savais seulement une chose :

j’avais envie de voir où cette porte-là allait me mener.

Alors j’ai commencé mon CFC d’assistante en soins et santé communautaire.

Sans savoir qu’un jour, après avoir passé des années à apprendre comment prendre soin des autres, je me retrouverais de l’autre côté.

Dans le lit.

Avec le bracelet autour du poignet.

À espérer que quelqu’un, à son tour, sache prendre soin de moi.