We bounced questions between us: do we fly home? Can we afford it? How fast can we get there, and is it even possible to say goodbye in person? Then there was the reality of work leave, which feels silly in the face of death but is still a practicality to be considered; how much we’d need, whether we could take it under bereavement.
Alongside the issue of time is money. In the rush of having to move fast and make plans you start calculating the dollar value attached to being there for the people who have always been there for you. I imagine it’s something everyone who lives away from family experiences during a loss and there is no right answer. There’s only the least impossible one.
Thankfully, my partner spoke to his nana on FaceTime while she was still alert enough to know who he was and where he was. Through tears, they shared “I love you” and a few final words he’ll carry for the rest of his life.
Then he ended the call, opened his laptop, and joined a work meeting. My heart broke for him while London carried on as normal. There was no family gathering, no gentle pause to grieve together. It was just him, processing something enormous, 18,000km from everyone who understood.
The only family he has here is me. I can do the usual things we do in the midst of grief, like make him dinner, listen and support, but I can’t share anecdotes from his nana’s life like his parents can or swap comedic stories about family gatherings gone by as his cousins would. I can’t replace the comfort that only comes from being surrounded by people who knew and loved her too.
That’s the cruel reality of building a life overseas.
We talk often about what we gain out here: independence, adventure, careers. We rarely talk about what it costs. Like how, after a few years abroad, your parents don’t look quite as young when you visit home. Your grandparents move a little slower. Your nieces and nephews are suddenly old enough to hold conversations using words you never saw them learn.
Time keeps passing whether we’re there to witness it or not, and eventually many of us have to ask a question we’d rather avoid: do you want to keep building a life here, or be closer to the people who helped build you?
I still don’t have the answer. What I do know is how grateful I am that we went home at Christmas, while our grandparents were all still well. We shared laughs, cups of tea, plenty of hugs.
At the time, we thought it was just a holiday, but we know now it was a lesson in holding your people that little bit tighter every time you say goodbye, because you never really know when the last time will be, regardless of whether you’re oceans or mere streets apart.