Crossing the ocean of grief

Ping. ‘We look forward to seeing you soon in Byron Bay, Australia!’

The sound of the incoming mail wakes me up rudely, tears me out of my dreams. With eyes full of sleep, I fumble for the phone on the nightstand next to me. The quiet hush of the morning draped over our house like a snuggly blanket. Like so many other “quaranteens” these days, my teenage children are asleep for at least another couple of hours.

In the dim light of dawn, the screen’s bright glare blinds me and forces my tired eyes to adjust: Your upcoming stay in Byron Bay, Australia.
What the hell?
I sit up straight in my bed, the sleepy feeling gone instantly, a slight sense of dread washing over me. A reservation I had made what seems like a lifetime ago and forgot to cancel.
The Gold Coast of Australia. Sounds wonderful. The only problem: I am no longer in Australia. Instead, I am on the other side of the world.

A teacher and mother of five, I recently returned to my family in Toronto from what was supposed to be a year of living my dream of teaching in Sydney, Australia.

A year of running along beaches, drinking with the locals, listening to the stories of the Indigenous.
A year of living in paradise with its technicolour flowers, ruckus causing birds, salty ocean air mixed with the acrid smell of fires burning.
A year of record heat, bush walks gone wrong during catastrophic wildfire warnings, school gyms flooded in torrential rainfalls, hugging rescued koalas.
A year of travelling along the coast of this beautiful continent and experiencing the magic of the Australian Outback. Of visiting metropolitan cities like Melbourne and Sydney, foreign fauna and flora, and mystical creatures in Middle Earth.

A year of living the dream, teaching the dream, learning how to dream.

In March 2020, nine months into my one-year sabbatical, the Coronavirus turned our lives upside down. The world got put on hold and with it all dreams and hopes, including mine. With Australian borders closing to all non-residents, I had to return early to my home in Canada.
Not the end of the world, but the end of my dream.

There are so many big disappointments, results of the virus, but it is important to remember the small ones as well: my time in Australia ending much sooner than planned. My children were not able to visit me in Downunder. The cancellation of our planned trip along the Gold Coast to see the Great Barrier Reef. Our hotel in Byron Bay, Australia. Booked. Paid. Never stayed.

This is not death, of course. Nor is it losing your business or losing your job. And it doesn’t compare to the story you hear so often: families separated by quarantine and travel bans, unable to see each other. I was able to leave on time and return to my family in Canada. I am grateful for being with them during this time of uncertainty. But still.

We don’t need to rank our disappointments. For each of us, the virus has taken something away – something that is important to us.

I think of my oldest who graduated from University this summer and had to celebrate his achievements in front of a TV screen. Surrounded by his social bubble of family and close friends, he made the best of the situation and even gave a typed up speech for his small but appreciative audience. Throwing your graduation cap in our tiny living room only to hit the ceiling, though, just isn’t the same.

I think of my high school kids who want to go back to class to be with their buddies. Or the university students that won’t return to campus this fall, but continue having to live with their parents (or their parents with them) to carry on with their studies online. Or the parents and teachers and kids that are sick and tired of the distance in distance learning.

I think of my pending hotel reservation in Byron Bay, on the other side of the world, that I forgot to cancel. Having to pay for a journey you can’t even take, doesn’t only disappoint – it stings. Like the salt of the ocean water I was supposed to swim in right now.

In a world of millions of people, there must be millions of disappointments: big and small. We are all learning to swim across the ocean of grief and disappointment.

I once read that if you swam non-stop at record-breaking speed, it would take you roughly four months to swim from Australia to North America. From Sydney to home. 120 days. And only if you would not have any trouble with the strong current, rough weather, and had a GPS to help you navigate. If you weren’t eaten by a shark and could maintain a world-record pace for seventeen weeks without any rest.
However, with adequate rest and a support boat, perhaps, the journey would take over a year.

Grief is water. Grief is a wave. It is the sea and the current. Grief is the undertow. You can’t swim away from it, and you definitely don’t swim into it. You find a way to keep going. To keep swimming in whatever direction you choose, with your strongest stroke. Even if your goggles leak or you swallow a big gulp of salty sea water. Eyes facing forward, you keep watching for that point in the distance, where the endless ocean in front of you turns into land that leads you back to life.

One hundred twenty days ago, I had to leave my dream behind, got thrown in the ocean and started to paddle like a drowning dog. I went through all stages of any grief: the denial (I’ll be back in a few months), the anger (I am mad at the world for messing with my dream), the bargaining (If I am patient, I surely can return soon to finish my year), the sadness, and the acceptance (still working on that). And I realized that while I might have to swim a little while longer ( I am not a world-record swimmer after all), I will always have a support boat of family and friends right next to me, cheering me on and helping me get across my ocean of grief.

And I’ll hold on that hotel voucher just in case! Looking forward to seeing you soon, Australia!