Travel and home

I've never traveled sad before.

It was more like living the life of a manic depressive, rather than a grief-stricken traveler. In some ways, instead of visiting Panama, I felt like I visited crazy.

Some days, I was ecstatic, driven to travel long distances with a two-year old for the possible glimpse of a hummingbird, or totally jazzed to hit the fisherman's beach to bargain for some fresh catch. I tweeked on some self-motivated high, bouncing on the balls of my feet, clapping my hands like a motivational speaker. "Come on, people, those monkeys aren't throwing poop at themselves. We've got a jungle to trek." Other days, I could barely muster a walk out of the bedroom. I woke up several times during the night thinking about Jack the dog at my sister's house, dissecting our last phone conversation. I was wracked with guilt, and overwhelming anxiety that her husband was put-out by watching the dog. THE DOG! My anxiety ruined my sleep. In all, my lows were...dark. I felt so far away, so alone, so so sad. Lucy's death seemed so small and far away, like a dot I saw on the tarmac of Newark as our plane arched toward Central America. Oh, but I packed her death. It ached in my every joint, in every inch of my being. Some days, every activity seemed rather pointless or overwhelming or both. "Eh, I'd rather be watching Dora the explorer in Spanish with Beatrice."

And I remained cold. Eight degrees off the equator, and sister is shivering. I wore my sweater most nights, and during the day, I laid in the sun without breaking a sweat. I couldn't get warm. It's been like this since Lucy died, not being able to feel warmth. Maybe in some ways, I carry a bit of winter solstice in my body now.

:::

Our vacation was sandwiched between two incredibly trying flying experiences. Let's just say, on our way there, we arrived at Newark International at 1pm, we arrived in the beach house in Panama at 5am. Beatrice feel asleep for the first time at 3am. I was the lady in the back of the plane holding her screaming child and thinking, "Why did I do this to her? Why am I so fucking selfish? What is wrong with you, Angie? Now you have to go back the same way. You have to repeat this experience in ten days." The way home all I can say is two words. Hurricane Bill. I cried during very chaotic turbulence, because what I didn't dare speak before my trip, or during, was that I was convinced I was not coming home from Central America. Riptide. Hanta virus. Panamanian drivers. Mud slide. Pool accident. Infected finger. Lightning. Freak machete accident. The ways in which one can die on a vacation are surprisingly varied, interesting and around every corner. The pilot actually came on the loud speaker on our return flight to say that we may have to make an "emergency fuel landing." This is it, I thought. I was the one with tears in my eyes and hand raised. "Uh, is that emergency landing because we have no fuel? Or is that a landing to get fuel? Could you just clarify the emergency part?"

Once you are on the shitty end of statistics, you know, you think that is your homeland. A shitty small land where no death scenario is too far-fetched, wild, or out of the realm of possibility and everyone's last name is Murphy. I even imagined different ways to be imprisoned in a Panamanian jail for being at the wrong place at the wrong time during a drive on a desolate piece of highway. None of this is easy to explain to people who don't live their day to day life with two people raising a curious, adventurous two year old while also mired in grief because their youngest child died for no apparent reason. My mother lost patience, thought I was crazy, is possibly writing her own post about her batshit fucking crazy daughter and son-in-law on a blog I do not know about.

Sometimes I just cried, not because I saw Beatrice's imminent drowning, but because I wanted Lucy to be in the pool with her sister and her father, bouncing and splashing...it just was supposed to be different. I hate seeing Beatrice without her sister. My husband without his daughter. The world without a little giggling girl.

:::

There was part of me that imagined this trip as something healing, something different than it was. I tried not to build it up or imagine it being a vacation from my grief. But I admit part of me felt like maybe a change of scenery would change my grief, a respite from the exhausting heavy weight of it. Maybe like Atlas passing the world to Heracles for a brief minute just to stretch the shoulders. How could I not be happy in such a beautiful place? But the anxiety, the pure exhausting nature of grief, it sort of felt amplified because of the harsh juxtaposition. Lush green. Grief. I could look out of our room onto the expanse of the Pacific, and still, I was sad, so fucking sad. It's easier to be sad in New Jersey. You are supposed to be sad in New Jersey. You aren't supposed to be sad in paradise.

The other part involves this deep fantasy of my youth. One where this large Panamanian family of women like the best parts of my mother would rally around me during my time of need, where I would be in the center of this great knot of women supporting me, grieving with me, holding me close, loving me. Like this community, except with a bunch of women that look like me. Thirty some cousins (three aunts) came over for a day, and not one person mentioned Lucia. They berated me for my horrible Spanish (One of those things upon which my grief wreaked havoc. I couldn't think in another language. I just wanted to cry during most conversations where I had to translate.) They talked about how beautiful Bea's eyes are, and Sam's height. They lectured me about how I need to teach her Spanish before she gets too old. But I felt so fucking alone. So very Other. No one approached me, unless I held Beatrice. One cousin who I have been closest to asked me what I do all day, you know, for work.

Later after everyone left, I asked my mother if everyone knew about Lucia's death, if they knew I was grieving. And she said impatiently, "Everyone has their own losses to deal with, Angie." And she proceeded to list everyone in our family who has died in the last two years. Okay, I fucking get it. I'm a selfish asshole as well as grieving. Everyone suffers. Suck it up, kid.

On one day, during a particularly difficult scene in HP7, which I finished during my trip, I was weeping. Not a tear, but a deluge. A full-on sob. No one else probably wept at this, but when Mrs. Weasley begins fighting Bellatrix...screaming...yeah, for those who have read it, you know, she was protecting her children. She was screaming at her, releasing her anger. I freaking lost it. And Beatrice, who had been coloring, got up, and ran out of the room. Back she came with my mother in tow, repeating, "Ita, look Mommy crying. Look, Mommy crying." For fuck's sake, it is Harry Potter, and my mother is trying to comfort me.

:::

To say I didn't have a good time is not true. It was beautiful, and some highs were incredibly amazing. To be present. Have your breath taken away by a moss covered wall and a waterfall. To eat up a view. To delight in twenty hummingbirds flying around your daughter and you. To just have a few hours swimming with your family, without a thought of cellulite or bills. Well, we did. We had some amazing days. But right now, late into the night, after a long flight, and staring for fifteen uninterrupted minutes at a heartbreakingly small urn, all I can say, I missed home.

(PS: I'm trying to catch up on email and blogs. 259 in my reader. Holy shit. I thought about all y'all a lot.)