Keep the perspective

She looks at him and notices how his lips are moving. Very professional, pretty confident. But also, a bit human, a touch charming. How he sits behind his desk with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, his still dark hair neatly cut. His glasses are next to the keyboard. He rubs his eyes every now and then. He doesn't seem tired. Rather combative, satisfied, elated, self-assured.

“I realize that my message will come like a blow. But you know from your own experience how negative messages should be conveyed. Direct, transparent, honest. And that's what I do now:  there will be no place for you in the new organization. It says nothing about you as a person. It says no less about how you have done the work in recent years. This was more than excellent.”

Her world should be falling apart now. She would have to fight back tears now; she would have to hold back her anger. To prevent herself from getting up in a fit of emotion, scolding her boss. Because she invested so many years in this job, in all those projects. And how she loved it. The teamwork, the ambition, the presentations, the discussions, the analyses, the successes.

“The company will take a different course from the new year onwards. We will work more efficiently bet with fewer people. We will do fewer small projects. But we will execute much bigger ones. We are going to work smarter. More profit at much lower costs.”

The words drift through the thin air like dry white-headed moths. He looks at her. But he doesn't observe her. He looks at her like she's a mannequin. Het follows the rules of the game. Just as they learned in all those countless training sessions. It's about the message. Never get emotionally involved with your subject. Whenever possible, distance yourself. Keep the perspective.

“Personally, I will experience your departure as a great loss. But the outcome of the reorganization is just what it is. I'm only the messenger here. I would rather have told you something else.”

She unconsciously touches her stomach. Does she feel something? She never has told anyone at work about it. About her dreams for the future. About her plans. The hormone injections, the visits to the hospital, the guidance from the specialists, the silent prayers.

Although she sometimes spent a few hours in bed at home during the day, she was never absent, she continued working all that time. Where necessary, she completed any work during the night.

“In times of economic difficulties, it is simply a practice that the interests of the company take precedence over those of the individual. Ultimately, what matters is what is left at the bottom of the line each year. The actual sum of profit and loss.”

She and her friend hesitated for a long time. She loved her job so much. The challenges, the intellectual effort, her contacts with colleagues, the ambitions, the status. But at the same time also the freedom that such a position entailed. The money, the luxury. The holidays to Spain, the lease car, the expensive mobile phone. Would she just give that up? For a child? In a world where there is so much threat, so much pollution, so much meaninglessness?

“A solid arrangement has been agreed with the social partners. Of course, not such a generous compensation that everyone had hoped for. But the shareholders also want their money. After all, they take all the risk. They also want to be rewarded for that.”

And yet. They decided to choose for the new life. And when that didn't happen naturally, she had to undergo treatments. That turned out to be an ordeal. She has often wondered: is this all worth it? Isn't it much better to stop? So that she could again devote herself with heart and soul to what she loves most. Her job? Her career?

“Tomorrow you will receive a registered letter by mail. It contains all your rights, all your obligations. And it describes in detail also your compensation. That should be enough for now.”

This morning the hospital called and gave her the results of the latest tests. She hardly dares to believe it. She stares strangely happily at the man behind the desk who puts on his rimless glasses.