Sequel of the last post.
Being abroad means scuttling huge reasons to be alive.
You won’t see your parents age. You won’t see your grand-parents die. You won’t see your nephews grow; You will miss all the births, weddings, miscarriages, break-ups, vibrant beginnings of relationships and dreadful diseases. And most importantly, all that doesn’t have a name – life maybe?
You will watch your kids and parents communicate only via a poor Skype connection.
You will be torn apart. Always. You will hear yourself say absurd sentences like “I can’t go back for your wedding, I already came back for Granny’s funerals two months ago”.
You won’t be here when Sonia’s mother passes away, and the bare thought of it still makes me want to cry. Obviously, had I been in France, I would not have “really” helped Sonia, nothing could have. But at least I could have shared one, or two, or twenty bottles of wine with her, which would probably have helped me get the feeling that I could “be there for her”.
You will learn not to trust the classic “everything is fine”. Very often, not everything is fine, but people will want to spare you, because you are so far away so what’s the point. So you will double-check every piece of information to ascertain that nobody has hidden anything from you and that yes, everything is fine.
Goodbyes will often sound like farewells, especially when said to those who are getting dangerously old. You will wipe away your tears, knowing that you owe this sadness to your sole selfishness.
You will sometimes wonder whether the “experience” of living abroad is really worth all of this: giving up so much love, so many important moments, so many reasons to be alive.
You will never have the answer.
But you will watch on Facebook the skim of what you missed.