That Spot on the Left of My Chest ...

It was a little sad dropping Kiddo off at summer camp this morning.

Most days, like this one in Ireland, Kiddo is used to being an only child ...

Her BFF had been staying with us for her last three days in Qatar.  For three glorious days our house was a hustling, bustling madhouse of little people, with 4 kids ages 10 months to 9 years prancing about, dancing, crawling, crying, laughing, squealing.  There were lots of runny noses, some random vomit and diarrhoea, hot dogs and 3 types of Ben N' Jerry's ice cream (perhaps the culprit of said vomitus).  It was a 3-day sleepover, a first in our household.  Kiddo was over the moon.

It was beautiful.  We are so lucky.  We got to spend 3 days with a family of five we've come to love over the last four and a half years.  

But it's real quiet at home this morning.  That family of five left at 4:15 a.m.  We got up to wish them a safe trip, gave a few last hugs, and off they went, family in one car, bags in the other.  As I write this, they are a quarter of the way to where they're headed.

So I wasn't dropping Kiddo and BFF off at summer camp today.  Nope.  It was just Kiddo.  She didn't really want to go, but seemed quite happy once she was there.  As we walked in, I told her I was proud of her for facing the day even though she missed BFF.  And I assured her that BFF was still 'right there' (tapping her heart as I said it).

And she smiled sadly and turned those beautiful blue eyes of hers to mine, and said: 'Maman, I've figured out why my heart sits on the left side of my chest.'

'Why?' I asked.

'Because I need a spot for everything I love, especially once they've left.'

Then she giggled a little.  And that spot on the left of my chest grew tight.

These are the things my Kiddo teaches me.  These are the moments I realise how much this little miracle with the big blue eyes has filled that spot on the left of my chest.

The Moment a Man Makes a Difference ...

I'm not doing anything much special this weekend.  I'll just be here, in Doha.

My first-born nephew, on the other hand, will be doing something quite special indeed.  He's getting married.  In Canada.  

I could easily write a post about how it breaks my heart to not be there on his special day.  But that goes without saying, and I have a lifetime to agonise over it, so why use up this teeny tiny blogging platform for yet another vent?

Instead I'm trying desperately to find the right words to express how much the oldest nephew means to the youngest aunt.  But I'm struggling, because I can't quite put my finger on what it is, if anything, he might like or need to hear from me.

I keep on wondering what's going on inside that gorgeous 34-year-old head of his.  I imagine he's excited, slightly nervous, perhaps even stressed.  I know he's in love.  I hope he's happier than he's ever been in his entire life.

I especially hope he's slightly unsure of what the future holds and what this all means for him as a man.  Because as long as we're not certain of the answer, we keep on looking for the best possible one.  Not knowing how good it can be - not knowing how good it will be - keeps us striving to make it the best we possibly can.

I hope above all hope that when he looks into his beautiful bride's eyes, it's not firm answers he sees there but endless possibilities and promise.  I hope that she will see those very possibilities reflected right back.

And I hope that when he looks in the mirror, every day for the rest of his life, he realises what a difference he has made, what a difference he will always make.  Because from the moment of his birth, he made a difference to so many people in so many ways.  Not by 'trying', simply by 'being'.

I turned 10 years old on the morning of his birth.  Yet on the eve of my 10th birthday, I remember crying and telling my parents that I never wanted 9 to end because it had been the best year of my life.  My Dad assured 'dramatic Me' that no matter how good something is, there's always a possibility for something better.  I went to bed still crying and doubting that very much (yes, I know, I was most definitely a drama queen).

And yet, when my parents woke me the next morning to tell me that I had a beautiful, healthy nephew, and that he'd been born on my 10th birthday, well I just knew that my Dad had been right after all.  What a gift!  Not just my nephew, but all the promise he brought with him.  And the absolute firm belief he gave me that there IS always the possibility for something better, for something unbelievable, for something great.

I've not let go of that belief for 34 years now.  It's kept me going through times when all I wanted to do was give up.  It's kept me searching, convinced that no matter how bad or good something may be, I have to look forward to tomorrow.

That was my nephew's gift to me.  I hope he can steal it back now and step into this next part of his life certain that there is limitless promise out there, just waiting for him to move forward.

I look at him today, and I still see the beautiful 2-year-old with the wild head of curly blond hair and the limitless stores of hugs and kisses.  And yet he is now a man, with a whole new life as a husband before him.  And I wonder when exactly he became that man.

Was it when he graduated?  When he got his first job?  When he repaid his first loan?  When my then-5-year-old started looking up to him like a prince?  When he travelled the world?  When he held his dying Pépére's hand?  When he asked for his bride's hand in marriage?

I tend to think it was that very moment he was born.  That very first time he made a difference.  And it just grew from there.

To my nephew and his new bride/my new niece, I wish for you health, happiness, joy, love, peace, prosperity, understanding, wisdom, courage, patience, gratitude, grace and so much more.  I wish for you possibilities - endless, endless possibilities.  I love you.

They Say They'll Bury You Tomorrow ... (Ain't No Grave ...)

***Edited on May 28, 2014

I've removed the poem that was originally posted here.  It caused some confusion, and many people who wrote to me seemed to think it was a Johnny Cash tune.  It wasn't.  It was mine.  Smilin' Vic suggested I remove it to avoid that confusion, but I've left the Johnny Cash video below (Ain't No Grave ...)  for your viewing pleasure .... Enjoy!

"Ain't no grave can hold [your] body down ...."

Johnny Cash, aka The Man in Black ... 

I'm ok.  It's ok.  Time passes, it still hurts, but it's ok.  Because that's the way it should be :-). Ok. 

*  because of the extreme cold and frozen ground in Northern New Brunswick, burials cannot take place in the winter.  As a result, coffins are placed in a shed-like structure, or holding vault, until the ground thaws enough to make it possible to dig.  It is a process that extends a family's pain.  

My Dad will be laid to rest tomorrow, May 25, 2014.  I think he'd be happy that I think  of him when I hear this Johny Cash tune.  Bang on! 

Johnny Cash - Ain't No Grave Produced by Rick Rubin Associate Producer: John Carter Cash Recorded by David Ferguson Additional Recording: Greg Fidelman Assistant Engineers: Jimmy Tittle, Paul Fig, Dan Leffler Mixed by David Ferguson, Greg Fidelman Aint No Grave mixed by David Ferguson and Ryan Hewitt Mix Editing by

The Last Goodbye - through the eyes of an expat (Part 3 - The End)

I landed in Doha on Thursday, February 27, 2014.  I'd mercifully slept on the flight; this made the 1-hour wait at customs bearable.

Landing in Doha ...

My flight was two hours early.  Since Smilin' Vic hadn't checked the flight status online, this meant no exuberant greeting party at the airport for me.  That was ok.  I was truly beyond caring.  The last goodbye had depleted me.  I waited about twenty minutes outside the airport for Smilin' Vic and Kiddo to show up.

When they finally rolled up, the first thing Kiddo said to me was "You look so sad, Maman."

I decided then and there that I had to smarten up.  My Dad wouldn't want Kiddo worrying about me.  I put on a happy face.

We got home, and I unloaded the clothes and gifts I'd brought back for her and Smilin' Vic.  They had wine and candles set up and ready for me, and we spent a few hours catching up as a family.  

Then we put Kiddo to bed and I proceeded to get toasted.

Not a nice thought, eh?  That I would land after three weeks from home and get drunk on the first night back ...  

But let's be frank, getting drunk's not that foreign to expats.  Amazingly, it's probably more common to expats living in the Middle East than to expats anywhere else worldwide.  And I guess I figured "If ever there was a time to get loaded out of my gourd, tonight's the night".  Having said my last goodbye and all, you know?

I'll admit I was sloppy.  Cried all the tears I'd kept bottled up inside and then some.  Expressed my anger at the world and allowed myself to shout out "Life's NOT fair!",  and "Only the good die young!"

I got Smilin' Vic to YouTube "The Highwaymen" and just about every song Hank Snow, Hank Williams, Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash and Kris Kristoferson ever sang.  And I listened, and I drank, and I cried like a baby.

Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings and Kris Kristofferson perform the Jimmy Webb song "Highwayman" live. Filmed in March 1990 at Long Island's Nassau Coliseum. http://www.amazon.co.uk/Highwaymen-Live/dp/B000CIXDDG

I slept until about 2 p.m. the next day, while Smilin' Vic carted Kiddo around to a school festival and a birthday party.  I woke up with a head that felt like led and a true sense of despondency.  But I soldiered on;  took a shower, prepared a nice supper for Kiddo and Smilin' Vic, laid off the booze, and steeled myself for the workweek ahead.

I returned to work on Sunday with greetings of "how was your vacation?" and "did you get to go skiing?"

I'd just spent the last three weeks in a nursing home with a father who could no longer walk, barely whisper, no longer sing.

I wanted to punch everyone in the face.

Instead I smiled and replied "it was just a tad too cold for sports".

I carried on for five full days.  Sunday to Thursday.  

Smiling.  

Wanting to punch everyone in the face.

On Thursday, March 6, 2014, I left the office at 17:05 and headed for the parking garage.  As I got into my car, at exactly 17:09, I heard a 'ping' on my phone.

It was a text from my sister, my mentor.  It read simply "Dad has passed away."

Gone?  Never!  He was invincible...

I drove home numb.  Apparently I called Smilin' Vic.  By the time I'd gotten home, he'd arranged for my flight back to Canada for the very next morning.  Seven days after having returned to the Land of Sand.  Fourteen hours mid-air.  Just in time to reverse the jet lag.

I didn't have to make a new list for Kiddo's school activities and lunchbox contents;  they could use the one I'd prepared for my last trip a few short weeks ago.

Upon arriving home, I proceeded to drink half a bottle of wine, type out and send two projects with "next week" deadlines to my boss, throw half my closet haphazardly into a suitcase, and inform Kiddo just before bedtime that I wouldn't be seeing her for the next week because Pepere had died and I had to fly out really early the next morning.  We'd talked a lot about the fact that he would die soon; she was sad, but 8-year-olds are amazingly resilient.

Keeping busy kept the tears at bay.  Everyone always says you should be prepared for these events as an expat, but I'm strangely glad I hadn't packed my bags, bought an open-ended plane ticket or thought the whole thing out that much.  The busy-ness halted the insanity.

I boarded my 14-hour flight the next morning.  I landed in Montreal.  My sister and brother-in-law picked me up.  I spent the night at their place, and the next morning we got in the car and headed out on the 9-hour drive halfway across Canada, headed to my father's birthplace and final resting place.

I gazed listlessly at the rolling, snow-covered landscape as we drove along silently.  I typed out my Dad's eulogy in the backseat of the car.  I held my sister's hand while her son and husband listened to music in the front seat.  And her and I ... well, we cried our fair share.

But we laughed too.  Quite a bit, actually.  It felt so good, on those last miles home, just being with family.

Uploaded by Adam Pietroń on 2014-02-05.

We spent the next few nights in a small motel in my Dad's hometown; all my siblings and me, a few nieces and nephews.  We mourned at the funeral home during the day and celebrated my Dad at night as we all congregated in my room.  We had a huge pajama party.  We laughed, we cried, we told stories.

Family Pajama Party.

Studies show that a Best Western double bed can hold 10 grieving family members ... as long as they're laughing and willing to forego comfort.

We stood together as they closed the coffin.  We cried together.  We held each other.  We supported each other.

We sat in the front pew as my sister read the eulogy with the voice of an angel.  We gathered with extended family in the church basement after all was said and done.

We got back in our cars the next day and headed back to Montreal.  And I boarded a plane a few days later.

Away from the pajama parties, away from the solidarity, away from the familiarity, away from my Dad.

Back to Doha.  Back to Qatar.  Back to normal.  The 'new' normal.  

Back to work.

If anyone at work asks me if I went skiing, I think I might just punch them in the face.

Goodbye. God Bless. I love you.  

The Last Goodbye - through the eyes of an expat (Part 1)

I was fully determined to make my next post as morose as possible ... but my Dad just wouldn't let it end that way.

He just had to include talk of farts in our last goodbye.

I wanted to let the world - or at the very least my 16 faithful followers - KNOW how incapacitating, debilitating and earth-shattering a last goodbye could be for an expat.

I wanted readers to FEEL how powerless I FELT when I said my last goodbye to my Dad.  How I sat in the darkness of his room on a cold winter's night in Montreal.  

Him, sleeping in his big Lazy-Boy chair, holding my hand.

Me seated in a chair next to him, trying to come to grips with the reality that this was truly the last goodbye.

Me, praying that I would forevermore remember the feel of his hand wrapped tight around mine.  

Holding on while letting go ...

Him, rasping.  

Me, willing the thoughts and the love in my heart to reach through the darkness, through the cancerous pain that gripped him, through the murkiness of Alzheimer's in which he was drowning.  

Him, clinging to this blessed moment of peace enveloping him, dressed as sleep but actually concocted from a lethal cocktail of morphine and pain.

Two of my sisters, my brother and one brother-in-law seated down the hallway, allowing me a final 30 minutes of blessed quiet with this man to whom I owed my very existence.  Allowing me to close my eyes and shed tears in absolute silence as I tried to synchronize my breath to his.  Allowing me to pray to God in silence that I might find the strength to say the last goodbye to my Dad without shedding a tear so that he might believe this goodbye was simply a "good night" like any other that we'd shared over the last three weeks. 

Me and my Dad, seated side by side, so very like so many times past, yet so very different.  I'd never appreciated sitting next to him quite as much as I did on the night of February 26, 2014.  Knowing it was the last goodbye ...

He opened his eyes once and whispered to me that his wall was pretty full.  It was a wall that we'd literally plastered with pictures of friends and family.  I said: "Yes, it's a good wall", and he nodded.  "It's a good family."  And he nodded.  And he closed his eyes.

It's a good wall; it's a good family ...

Fifteen minutes before I had to leave for the airport, my Dad woke up, and I asked my family to come back in.  I didn't want him to be alone when I finally left.  Since he'd lost most of his voice by now (one of the sure signs that the end was imminent) and his ability to sing, we all sat in silence for a bit.  But my Dad could still whistle.  And so, despite all the healthy lungs in the room, it was he who - despite his crumbling lungs and pain-wracked body - finally broke the silence with a whistling tune.

I had put all my stuff outside his room.  When it was time to go I simply said goodnight and told him that I had to get to bed, hugged him, gave him a kiss and told him I loved him.  Because of his Alzheimer's, it was crucial that I not leave him with the pain of a last goodbye.  A "good night" meant I'd be back.  But he still had enough wherewithal to know what a "goodbye" from me meant.  I went out and put on my coat.  

But I couldn't help myself; I had to go in and give him one last kiss and touch him one last time.  

He smelled my coat and asked in a barely audible whisper if I smoke.  I said "yes".  

He asked if I fart too.  I said "yes".  

Somehow, beneath that veil of morphine and forgetfulness, it's like he knew he couldn't leave me on a sad note.  I avoided looking at my family; I knew that their teary-eyed smiles would break me.

I breathed in his smell one last time before boarding the 14-hr flight that would carry me 10,500 km to my husband and daughter and life back in Doha.

I said "je t'aime Papa."  He whispered "je t'aime aussi".

And I left.  I didn't cry in front of him.  God helped me with that.