I grew up in the tranquil 1950s in a suburb of the city of Bern in Switzerland. Life was quieter and more tranquil than it is today. There were still horse-drawn carriages and I learned to write on a slate with a stylus. We didn't have a car, a TV or a fridge and, as allotment gardeners, we were almost self-sufficient. I was a quiet, calm child - adapted, one would say today - but I had a vivid imagination and loved nature and all animals from an early age.

I learned to read very quickly because I loved words and started writing little poems in secret at the age of 10. Whenever something really bothered me, I put it down on paper and even then it helped me to process events in my life. I devoured everything I could get my hands on and read through almost every school library until I left school.

When I entered adulthood, my writing went to sleep. I was busy with my commercial apprenticeship, later working in the graphic design industry, met my husband, we got married, built a little house and everything seemed to be going well.

But the marriage broke down and after a few years of being alone, during which I tentatively started writing again, my girlfriend came into my life. We moved in together. She worked in her profession, I worked in mine, we had dogs, cats and horses and felt very comfortable in our life together. It could have gone on forever, we were very happy.

But fate had other plans: I was diagnosed with inflammatory bowel disease (ulcerative colitis/Crohn's disease). The disease progresses in relapses and during the third, very severe relapse, no medication helped me any more, I was out of therapy.

In a life-threatening operation with a 40% chance of survival, the removal of my entire colon and the insertion of a so-called artificial bowel outlet (stoma), courageous doctors saved my life for the time being.

This was followed by three years of suffering with many operations, near-death experiences, fears and unspeakable pain. I could no longer talk, could no longer open my eyes, could no longer walk. I was trapped in this illness, in my body, in this room. During this most difficult time of my life, one person was always and unconditionally by my side: my girlfriend. I know today that the doctors' art alone could not have saved me. Without her support, I would have been lost.

When I got back on my feet after many, many months, my body finally began to slowly adjust to the changed circumstances. But somehow my soul couldn't keep up and the unspeakable fear, the closeness to death, the helplessness and the dependency I had experienced paralyzed me and made it impossible for me to live my life again.

So I began to write down my story according to the tried and tested recipe, to relive it and suffer through it, just for myself. But this time, too, it helped me to find my way back to normality to some extent. After I had written everything off my chest, the report disappeared back into the drawer and was almost forgotten.

A few years later, when I thought about how my life had changed with the stoma and how complicated the path had sometimes been, I decided to conclude the story with an epilogue and tell how my life would go on again - albeit a little differently. I put the idea into practice and so I had found an ending.

My girlfriend and I had had a lifelong dream for some time: we wanted to move to Sylt after we retired, forever. But once again, fate had conspired against us. She became seriously ill and I found myself in a new role: now I was the stronger one and tried to help and support her. After a very turbulent last time in Switzerland, we finally managed to emigrate, albeit under difficult circumstances.

But on the very first day of our new life on Sylt, an accident happened and only then - after 10 years on my own - did I finally make the leap into freedom, into self-determination and out of dependency. I knew: now I had to do it, whether I could or not, whether I wanted to or not, I had to do it, and I had to do it now.

I had to write down this last, third part, because only then was I the person I was before, perhaps a little more mature and experienced, but my "self" was back, I finally recognized myself again.

My friend had already tried several times in Switzerland to offer my story to a publisher. All she got were rejections: "Doesn't fit into the program, too special, not our direction," were the reasons given.

She only told me that she tried one last time on Sylt and wrote to the "Deutsche Literaturgesellschaft" when the email had already gone. I was sure that we would get another rejection. But when I received the letter of acceptance a short time later, I was completely perplexed. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, I was just gobsmacked and couldn't believe that my story had been noticed.

The following weeks brought more work. I had to anonymize the whole story, as I had been very open with names, car numbers and addresses, as it was not intended for the public. But I didn't change anything about the actual story. It happened exactly as it did and I didn't embellish or leave anything out, not even the embarrassing scenes.

My friend contributed the cover photo, the publisher's proofreaders did their work, after a few weeks the book was printed and I was to receive my author's copies. I was really looking forward to holding my own book - printed and bound - in my hands.

The arrival of the box, full of books - with mine books - unfortunately I didn't experience it live. I was in hospital right then with a very severe Crohn's flare-up.

At least I got back on my feet enough to attend the book fair in Frankfurt and present my book. That was the first time I saw my books in the rack, among other books, which made me very proud. We also got to know the publisher and the author's advisor personally and it was a good feeling to now have faces to go with the familiar names.

Back at home, we wrote to the various contacts we were able to make there. I also got active on Facebook. I had resisted it for a long time, but my book had to be publicized.

We were also registered for the book fair in Leipzig, but unfortunately the coronavirus had something against it.