"I don't care how long life is; I care about how wide it is." I heard this motto from someone yesterday, and it finally resonated with me. My impatient, always-on-the-go personality constantly seeks new experiences and knowledge, as if starting life anew. I've never found my place, never had a true home, despite owning multiple properties. But yesterday morning, a man on the radio shared his story and helped me understand who I truly am. I used to believe that I was mentally ill, that something was wrong with me. Now I know that I'm not alone. I'm perfectly normal, just uniquely me. I yearn to explore the vastness of life, and every opportunity fills me with excitement and happiness, even if only for a fleeting moment.
Everything I've done in the past has been like raising a child. I pour all my time and energy into nurturing my projects, watching them grow. And when they become independent, like a proud mother, I move on, content to see them thrive on their own.
But life, or God, or the universe—whichever you prefer to call it—decided it was time for me to learn a new lesson. It's a difficult lesson, one I'm currently immersed in, suffering through, and unsure if I'll ever pass the exam. At 50 years old, life kicked me in the ass and sent me back to the starting line. It's the complete opposite of 50 years ago when I was born, and my mother cared for me as a baby. Now, I find myself caring for her. Just six weeks ago, life decided I needed a major wake-up call. Perhaps because I hadn't learned my lessons before or simply because I hadn't been listening, life dealt me a harsh blow: go back to the beginning.
I've always run away from anything that could hurt me. I've never fought for anything in life; instead, I've always chosen to start over. And now, I find myself doing the same thing once again.
Six weeks ago, my life changed with a single text message. I remember waking up on a Wednesday morning, finally having slept well after two days of worry. My mother had been admitted to the hospital's emergency room after suffering from a fever for three weeks. They told her she needed gallstone removal surgery. The surgery went well, and she felt excellent. I saw the relief and happiness in her eyes after weeks of suffering. But everything changed that Wednesday morning when I received her message: "The doctor told me I have cancer." I can't even begin to describe the emotions that flooded through me at that moment. Shock, sadness, anxiety, anger—I couldn't believe what I was reading. How could she have cancer when she had felt so good just the day before? How was this even possible? Why her, and why now? What would happen next? How could I help her from such a great distance? She lives in Europe, and I'm in Canada. What would happen to my children? How long would she need me? So many questions, but no answers. I called her, tears streaming down my face, knowing that I had to be there for her, to protect and support her no matter what.
This morning, I called my ex and shared the news with him. I cried all day, making the hardest decision a mother can make. I gave up my life in Canada—my rental, my job, my dog, my life of 13 years—but most importantly, I had to leave my children. It broke my heart to tell them that I was leaving them with their father, not knowing when I would return. The week flew by in a blur. I bought a ticket to Hungary for Sunday, and the landlord kindly released me from my lease after hearing my story. Friends helped me pack up my apartment and store everything in my ex's empty condo. My children accepted the new situation, but I cried a lot. My mother was waiting for me, and I knew this was the only solution. And just like that, Sunday arrived. I found myself alone at the airport, bidding farewell to friends and family with a heavy heart. I moved through the motions like a zombie, unable to shed any more tears. I knew I couldn't break down in front of my mother; she needed someone strong, not a crybaby. By Monday evening, I had to become that person. I tried to sleep on the plane, desperately wanting to shut off my mind. I couldn't bear the thought of being separated from my children and all the people who had been so important to me in recent years. After 13 years in Canada, at the age of 50, I found myself back at the starting line. Everything I owned fit into a suitcase, and I had no job, no place to live. I was about to change countries once again, experiencing déjà vu. But this time, it wasn't my choice. Life forced these changes upon me, breaking my heart in the process. I felt like I might die. I tried to act like a tourist, focusing on the technical aspects of travel. I tried not to dwell on why I had to make this journey now. I clung to the hope of finding a quick solution, making plans in my head to resolve everything within a few weeks and return to my previous life.
At 7:30 p.m. on Monday evening, I landed in Budapest. Friends were waiting to take me to my mother. And that's when this nightmare truly began.
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