When I was diagnosed, I assumed I would die quickly.

Three people close to me had brain tumours, and they all died quite quickly. I assumed I would, too. I made all my plans to be ready for the big day, and so I wouldn’t leave my family in a difficult situation. I surrendered my CEO’s chair. I sorted out my finances. I organised my funeral (Dee, the best funeral director in Bristol, reminded me to put together my funeral playlist). I wrote my will. Then I went to sit down by the harbour with my little dog, and we watched the ducks. There didn’t seem to be anything else worth doing.

I wasn’t delighted with my prospects, but I was ready.

After a few months of this, I felt lost and didn’t know what to do next. Luckily for me, I bumped into two lovely Canadians online who had the same diagnosis as me. My diagnosis — gliomatosis cerebri — is quite rare. One in ten million. But one of my new friends, K, had the same diagnosis. My other friend, E, wasn’t quite the same — but close enough — and she had been enjoying her tumour for several years.

E helped us find a way back to normal living, even if we weren’t going to live forever. I went back to writing JavaScript and studying philosophy with the Open University. I also went back to visiting the Grain Barge for a regular pint of Butcombe Original, and we had a lovely week together in Tenerife.

I kept this up for another year until the MRI said my tumour had doubled in size. Six lobes! Almost a record! A few months later, I had a bit too much Prosecco at a party, and the day after I had my first seizure. After a few more days, I had another, and this one was big enough to take me to the hospital.

Anyway, here I am, after six months of chemo and a few more seizures. I am almost at the end of my philosophy degree, and I accidentally retired. What comes next?

My default plan was to sit in my armchair reading Plato and looking out at the harbour for the rest of forever. I am not allowed to drink any more, I can’t drive and my habit of having seizures makes it a dodgy prospect to go out on adventures on my own. But I can dream!

My friend E has had a tough time recently, and she decided there was not much point in keeping her savings if she wouldn’t have time to spend them all. Instead, she took her brother and sister on a trip to Scotland to enjoy the Edinburgh Festival and sing along at an Oasis concert.

I’ve had similar dreams pop into my head while I look out at the harbour. I made an Internet Friend here on Substack who moved to a tiny Caribbean island. Why can’t I do that? What about living in Totnes, in Devon, or a little town in Kent? My friend says that Portugal is nice, or even nicer, Madeira.

My latest dream is to go to Oxford for a master’s degree in Ancient Philosophy. Instead of reading Plato in my armchair, I could read him in the Bodleian Library. I wanted to go to Oxford when I was sixteen, but the Navy dragged me away to sea instead. Maybe I could have another try.

I have always dreamed of adventure, and I used to be good at following those dreams. Three careers. Four countries. Thirteen cities. I’ve backpacked around the world, and I‘ll finally get that degree in a few more months. And the dreams keep coming.

But the dreams are harder to follow now. It will be easier to just sit in my armchair, read Plato, look out at the harbour and dream some more.