I’m sharing the cafe with about ten others, mostly men. I am the only person who doesn’t have a shisha pipe resting in the corner of my mouth. I don’t mind the smell, but I love the sound – bubble bubble bubble. With indoor smoking, piping hot weather and the murmur of arabic in the background I could not be further from Australia.

My phone sits face up on the table – I’m alone but connected.  

When I began this expat life twenty five years ago  “connected” had nothing to do with technology and hand held devices. Dial up internet was expensive, slow and unreliable – catching up with family was a Sunday evening phone call with a list of reminders. My parents would tell me who’d they’d run into “down the street” or where they were going next week  “Say hi from me…”. 

Is “Say Hi from me” redundant now? When we all have the ability to DM, text and share is “Say Hi from me” somehow lazy, irrelevant? 

My geographical discombobulation is amplified by alerts from Australian news sites. Footballers who are being delisted, where Australia’s most notorious criminals went to school (seriously that’s an article) and a hit and run close to home – I immediately take a look at find my iphone to confirm what I already know my four children are home safe and sound. Best to check. Isn’t it?

This expat life is so far from the one I began and while the technology initially appeared to make life so much simpler my fear is it’s actually done the opposite. With each update from another land, another life, another long distance love or friendship, this simple life becomes more layered and confusing. I am constantly reminded of people who are now out of my reach. 

While we once carried our families in our hearts we now also carry them in our pockets.  I video message with girlfriends watching them walk down familiar streets to get to the office. I talk my children through heart aches, job interviews, doctors appointments and five kilometre runs. I love that I can see them, hear them, giggle with them – but are we really equipped to shift and move between the two realities? 

The waiter hands me a gift “I’m sorry I didn’t order this” I think he’s made a mistake “no it’s for you, you’ll like it” he smiles. It’s a small dish of Muhallebi, a middle eastern milk pudding. He’s right, I love it – and just like that I’m transported back to reality. I’m sitting alone in a cafe in Doha.

“Okay you fat ugly heiffer” someone replied.

Except they didn’t because that would be really rude wouldn’t it?

We teach our children not to comment on people’s bodies, to see the beauty within, and respect all heffers no matter what they write in the comments. #notallheiffers

The truth is that words matter. Words are powerful and rightly so. A great writer, poet or lyricist has the ability to have you dancing at the beginning of the album and sobbing by the end. That’s what words can do – it’s what makes them magical yet terrifying. The thing about language is if we’re feeling particularly vulnerable it can be the slightest inference that takes us down a path of self doubt. “Did you hear what he said…?” “What do you think she meant when said…?” “Did I just hear that correctly…?”

My entry into the expat world coincided with one of the most vulnerable times of my life. With the combined chemical catastrophe of pregnancy hormones I left a career, a country, and a solid group of friends to enter the expat world with my new husband. While the term Trailing Spouse had been used in the Wall Street Journal well over a decade or two earlier (I believe it was first used in 1982) it hadn’t yet caught on. I didn’t hear it in those early days. It’s disappointing to admit the most common term thrown around for a woman like myself who seemed to be either pregnant breastfeeding or pregnant again was expat wife. It’s inference was one of privledge laziness and indulgence. “In my next life I’m coming back as an expat wife” my husband’s new boss announced at a company bbq. It was a joke that was often told because it always got a laugh.

Seven years later I eventually got myself back into the corporate world after the birth of my fourth child. I was living in North America and working in Human Resources – by then the term Trailing Spouse had hit its stride. In the world of HR with tenders required for international moves and mobility we needed a term to group the “dependants” the jokes continued, someone at the office suggested “excess baggage”. I have no idea why it never occurred to me at the time to suggest “Accompanying Spouse” it’s so much kinder when it comes to comparison

For the past twenty three years I have lived an international life. And while it has been a life of priviledge and excitement it has also provided the usual everyday ups and downs. When I fell in love with my husband he told me he wanted to be an ordinary person living an extraordinary life and I think he’s pretty much got his wish. Our lives are so very ordinary with conversations about grocery shopping, meal planning, what’s on the telly, whether it’s time for a haircut and where the best place to get fuel is.

The bigger issues have involved a change in school systems, the sale of a family home and how to break the news to your children that you have cancer. We have done all of this together. We discuss the possible outcomes of company mergers (three times now) and the possibility of what to do next. It’s been very much a side by side arrangement which is probably why we’re both still brushing our teeth side by side at the same bathroom sink 23 years later. This is why the term trailing is so disappointing and this is why it needs to change.

I didn’t put my hand up all those years ago and say it had to change but I think I’ve earnt the right to make a suggestion now. No more trailing, we’re accompanying. The Trailing Spouse is dead if you hear it call it out, this Accompanying Spouse plans to from now on.

Those inverted commas are because it’s hard to refer to your six foot something nineteen year old as a child particularly if you’re asking for one of “his” beers that you’ve most definitely paid for. For those of you who have been around here for awhile you may remember my “children” as the little travellers one, two, three and four rarely named but often written about. I’ve told the stories of their cuteness, our travels and how they were born in different countries – those “little” people are now 17, 19, 20 and 23. I know, I can’t believe it either. From pre-school, cancer diagnosis(es) boarding school, university acceptances, summer jobs and here we all are, in Bali just the six of us together.

For those of you who were once me and when I say me I mean the people looking for the best tips on travel cots, strollers and how to entertain a child on a long haul flight I’m here to provide an insight into your future family holiday with teens and young adults.

Firstly I’m going to make things really easy for you. There’s one fact that you’re going to have to accept and the sooner you do the sooner things will run smoothly. Ready for it?

You’re a loser.

In the nicest possible way, you’re just not quite cool enough to roll with this crowd.

Yep, just repeat after me “what would I know, I’m a loser”. Write in on your hand, pop it in your phone and just keep it there as a reminder when you get confused on why your “children” are looking at you with disdain because you’ve struck up a conversation with a stranger, attempted to speak the local language, or had a little jiggle to a particular piece of music.

Why are they looking at me like that? Oh that’s right I’m a …

Here’s the good news though, and this one is big. It doesn’t matter if you’re a loser because your days of getting up early with the kids are now gone. Your “children” will not be up for breakfast, actually they may not even be up for lunch. Your mornings are now completely your own. You can now get up and go for a long walk, read a book, cook your own breakfast without the dietary requirements of a toddler, actually, you know what? You possibly even have time to learn a new language, change your hair colour and undergo root canal before they get out of bed.

While you’ll still be asking questions of your “children” the content is going to be completely different. When peering into the fridge rather than who drank all the milk you will ask “why is there only half a bottle of vodka left?” Instead of providing counsel for the overuse of bubble bath or play dough you will look incredulously at the misuse of the Gofood app with the surprise arrival of a starbucks grande frappe triple flip one pump no foam delivery.

It doesn’t matter how far you travel from home you will still be the oracle of the lost and found and head of the tourism department. It’s not your kitchen, it’s not your house, it’s not even your country yet you’ll hear “MUM, where’s the saucepans? Mum, are there any more towels or MUM are the night markets open every night?

Does it sound awful?

Weirdly It’s not, it’s actually more than a lit bit wonderful. The bit they don’t tell you about when your toddlers grow into teens and adults is that you still see them like noone else see’s them.

In the middle of reading your summer blockbuster you’ll look over the top of the page and find yourself grinning at your 17 year old son doing handstands in the pool, duck diving on his own happily keeping himself amused. For a split second your mind will wander to a different pool in a different country, he’s three and your husband is squatting down ready to rocket ONE…TWO….THREE….he launches with him on his shoulders and throws him giggling into the air. He’s always loved the pool.

Your other son will turn on Al Jazeera news and discuss world events wanting to engage and get your opinion on current affairs – he often has more details than you and offers his own thoughts. You look into those eyes and think of the constant wonder he’s had with how things work and why they work the way they do.

The second child, the Starbucks assasin has a constant string of questions. Mum, Dad, what do you think is…Mum, Dad, why do you think…Mum, Dad, do you feel… Mum, Dad, what’s the best decision…eventually her father asks a question in return “what do you feel is the most important quality in a partner” without hesitation she answers “emotional intelligence” which is interesting because she has it in the truckloads.

The eldest continues to tolerate us. At 23 she’s working, saving, studying, and very much an adult. She’s the one who sent us all the link for our tourist visa’s and shared the information on how to get the code for customs. Her boyfriend drove her to the airport while the rest of us caught a taxi in a mad scramble possibly leaving the house unlocked and the door open (I know we’re a disgrace to international travellers everywhere), she of course got to departures before us – but I still see her wide eyed and ready for her first day of preschool “carry up carry up” she says climbing up my leg as we make our way through the car park in Kuala Lumpur both of us terrified with the idea of spending the day apart.

And there it is, the question and answer to family holidays as your children grow. I think it was Jane Caro who said (and I’m butchering it but this is the general gist) from the moment your child is born it’s a process of slowly letting go. Holidays with small children are intense and hands on you have to have your best game on if everyone is to make it home alive. Holidays with big children are an exercise in learning to be hands off. You don’t want to come for a walk? Okay. You don’t want to go to the beach? Alrighty. You want to go to the place down the street? Bingo! I’ll grab my shoes.

How do you make sure you don’t lose yourself in the process? Are you still being yourself which is of course a total loser, remember?

As you make your way into the restaurant the kids are talking about how embarassing Dad was in the taxi “he kept asking the guy how to say different words” I laugh along when traveller two says that his father asked how do you say “turn right” and the taxi driver replied “turn right”.

I’ve been exactly the same as G, being in Bali has provided the flashback to our Jakarta lives and language – I can feel my bahasa coming back in fragmants. I see the kids cringe as I stumble through but to be honest the kids cringe at pretty much everything I attempt – my days of being the champion in their toddler lives is long gone, so what to do?

“Selamat Malam Pak! Satu Lagi Bintang? Terima Kasih Banyak”

“Where did you come from? Why didn’t you come through the front entrance?” she asked in her consolidated European accent (a recipe of Flemish, Czech and English).

I looked over her shoulder to spot a perfectly laid path that I had completely missed in my panicked arrival.

And then we laughed – that conspiratorial way that good friends laugh, the, you idiot, yes I am, I’d do that too, laugh.

I love her, I absolutely love her. I love the hugs we have on arrival. I love the super cheap yet stunning signature gold leaf earrings she buys in bulk from the accessories store at the mall. I love her chocolate brown eyes and the way she does her make-up. I love her exasperated eye roll when speaking about the insanity of rising electricity bills in Belgium and the way she has to pause when talking of the Ukrainian neighbours who became soldiers overnight. I love her vivid descriptions from the latest book that she’s read in whichever language that may be.

I believe she will be my friend for life yet I have no idea how many more times I’ll see her. She no longer lives in Doha full time, she floats, and one day maybe this year or maybe next she’ll stop coming back. I can’t see myself moving to Belgium and she definitely won’t be moving to Australia so our lunches are precious, numbered. This is the constant conundrum of expat life.

We met at my front door. I’d formed a book group with the intention of making new friends. As a long term expat this would be my third wave of friendships in Doha. I’d got brave and put a post on Facebook in the 4 kids 20 suitcases and a beagle page, within a couple of hours we had a group of 12 and a waiting list of ten. I invited everyone to my house for the first meeting and when she arrived at the door I liked her instantly. Whether it’s bias or gut instinct we’ve all had it – that feeling when you “just know” someone is right for you. During my first wave of friendship in Doha my girlfriend Jen eyed me across a busy Starbucks one morning, she told me years later “I saw you walk into the room and took one look at you and thought yep I’ll have her, she’s mine”. She was bang on – she was exactly what I needed in my life yet I haven’t seen Jen in seven years – our last dinner was in Melbourne, she now lives in Sydney I couldn’t even tell you which suburb.

So how can you be friends, stay friends, help friends or be a decent friend if you’re not in constant contact?

I’ve recently learned the answer.

I’m going to call her Emma.

I, too, spotted Emma across a room. In a life of constant chaos of (at that stage) three children under four I spent my days feeding, dressing, feeding, washing, feeding, dropping to and from, feeding, bathing and falling into a heap at the end of the day. With an assortment of small backpacks, sippy cups and lunch boxes I made my way to gym, craft classes, ballet etc. In a room full of excitable four year old ballerinas in pink leotards along with their frazzled parents pulling out ballet shoes and frantically putting hair in ponytails Emma somehow had the effect of a cool glass of chardonnay of a summer’s day. She was the deep breath, the soothing cup of tea, the blanket on your lap in a bay window with a book. “I’ll have her, she’s mine”.

Emma exudes class, she had the unmistakable accent from “the island” which was on the opposite side of Canada to where we were in Calgary. We shared the same sentiments of missed family and summers by the water. She was in love with her husband they’d met at work. He was as stunning as she was, they were beautifully matched. Perfect? Noone’s perfect but I think it’s fair to say they would have made a decent magazine cover. She saved me so many times. After my fourth child was born and I returned to the office she was there to pick up the pieces that I inevitably dropped. Whether it was the costume that didn’t get packed in the bag or the bus that was missed she was there at the end of the phone without judgment. I can’t ever remember seeing her lose her temper or gossip. There was a small group of us, we’d bonded at the kindergarten door. We did the same birthday party circuit on the weekends and signed up for field trips and class decorating. Emma was a part of a posse of women all of us different but somehow the same. When it was time for me to leave Canada I ugly cried, big fat tears, heaving shoulders – leaving that group meant that I would now be a spectator in a life that could have been.

I began again. This time Houston. There was no Emma. There was a Nikki, a Claire, a Judith, a Paula, an Elissa, the ever faithful and forever Leah…but this group would never be like the last group, we were embarking on a different experience. Canada Kirsty was different to Houston Kirsty. Houston Kirsty drove a different car, went to a different school, operated in a different existence without snow. Houston Kirsty embarked on the couch to 5k (I never finished while everyone else went on to run a marathon). Houston Kirsty walked the beagle on the bayou, had swim parties, ate Tex Mex and drank margaritas the size of her head and was often found drinking coffee after school drop off with her new friends at Harvest.

I protected myself by not looking too closely at my Canadian life, every expat understands the danger of looking back. I winced at birthday party pics, watched in wonder as those tiny little people made their way through elementary school. I watched Emma return for summers on the island, I saw girls trips to Vegas, school concerts. Eventually everyone made it to high school. I spoke in instagram sentences and Facebook comments. Did they know that I meant it when I said “that’s amazing!” Or “I’m in tears watching this”.

The phone call came in the middle of night. I could hear it ringing in my dream. A message was left. One of the kindergarten crew. She was sobbing. Kirsty, I’m so sorry to tell you like this – I just don’t want you to read it somewhere. Emma’s husband was gone. It was sudden, tragic and horrendous. It was confusing. The word shocking is over-used, this was a truly shocking event. It was possibly the most unexpected piece of news I have or will ever receive – and it was beyond the most heartbreaking for a friend.

For the first hour or two I stared at the wall. In my mind a reel from over fifteen years ago played in my head. Christmas concerts, parent/teacher nights, our farewell dressed as cowboys. I saw the same four faces, Emma he and the kids. In a time of crises we all have the same self indulgent though – what can I do? What should I do? I looked at flights, tried to work out how I could be in two places at once. The kindergarten crew had already jumped into action – dogs were being walked, meals delivered. I knew Emma would be surrounded by great people, she has an amazing family and a rock solid group of girls from the island – they were there in 24 hours.

The kindergarten crew were back in my life. One included me in her basket of goodies “is there something Australian I can put in there? Tim Tams?” another soothed my questions with reason and gentleness, another gave a full report of how the week would play out and then after the service came back to let know how it all went. And then there was Emma. I knew she had a constant watch so I messaged, voice messages. “I’m going to just check in and bore you with the banal” I said. I went back to the ballerina days, asked what jeans she was wearing now (it’s an inside joke that won’t make sense to anyone else). I talked, she replied. I find myself sitting in the car just listening to her voice now, I love hearing her say my name in her special way. This morning I sent her a message to let her know that I was writing, thinking about her, that she’d provided an epiphany for me about friendships.

I used to tell myself that this expat life provided a constant period of grieving. Grieving the loss of a life lived in a different country. The grief is often as small and fickle as a beloved car that had to be sold or a kitchen window view of an oak tree with a swing that you’d never see again while washing the dishes. I used to think the cruelest thing about expat life was the grieving of expat friendships. The colleagues, school communities, next door neighbours and the women at the kindergarten door – but that’s not true. Grieving comes when something is gone forever that’s why it’s so painful and hard to acknowledge and accept. Expat friendships don’t die, they don’t disappear suddenly in the middle of the night. Expat friendships can lay dormant for a year or more but they can be revived with the press of a button, a voice message, a video.

Emma and I have plans to get together, I’ve started writing a book and I’ve told her she is my motivation. When the book is written I expect to see her at the launch. My friend who will return to Belgium next month will hopefully join me for another lunch before she goes – I have no intention of losing her and she provides the perfect excuse for me to visit her country one day. What a gift we have when we have friends all over the world.

“Who was that guy that we went to see? He was in an apartment, we went there for dinner…or did we meet him there and then go out for dinner?” I ask G while we drink our beers looking out the window at the evening skyline of Bangkok.

“Andrew” he says, predicting my next question “I worked with him, remember I stayed with him after we got married before you joined me in Perth”.

My mind rewinds like an old cassette deck, I see my Dad, our wedding, I fast forward to a few weeks later the last lunch before he and Mum took me to the airport. I cried from Adelaide to Perth, four hours. I knew that it was the beginning of a new life. I think of my Dad’s wedding speech knowing that we were moving to the other side of the country “darling in the words of Dorothea Mackellor there’s going to be a lot of wide brown land between us” his voice cracked with emotion, people audibly sighed. That was when plane rides for us were domestic, within the county no passport required we drove home for Christmas. A year later G and I moved to Jakarta, we were heading towards twenty years of new passports, new countries and goodbyes.

G’s been working this week while I’ve been devouring the streets of Bangkok. And when I say devouring I mean every aspect of travel. I’ve let out squeals of delight when I’ve managed to navigate the hotel to the skytrain to the subway to the skywalk to the suggestion of a great place to eat. And eat I have. I’ve taken tuk tuks to get a coconut ice cream, I’ve walked for twenty minutes in the sun to find a Japanese cheesecake. I know I know I’m in Thailand but this cheesecake came with a strong recommendation and it was worth every step. I’ve sniffed my way through the flower markets and bartered while giggling and shaking my head. I’ve been refreshed, rejuvenated by the simple pleasure of landing somewhere foreign.

Twenty years ago I did this trip with a one year old and the challenges were entirely different – keeping her happy and hydrated while I made my way around without google maps or a smartphone. My adventures were curbed by the fear of a relatively new parent *what if I break her* a voice in my head played on repeat.

That’s the weird thing about parenting; it’s an exercise in confidence. You begin with none and then slowly gain it year by year, child by child. And just when you begin to feel like you’ve got a handle on things your children turn into teenagers and begin to borrow a little bit of your confidence to use for themselves.

“Mum, I reckon you’ve got early dementia you can’t ever remember anyone’s name” she tells me as I stumble over the details (again). I want to remind her that I’ve got over 50 years worth of names in my brain and four children who have collectively lived in seven different countries. And to be honest Georgia and Georgina are two very freaking similar names and you all seem to know more than one of them?! I don’t say that though, because experience has taught me to choose my battles, in the words of a famous group of penguins smile and wave boys smile and wave.

Maybe I have got early dementia? The seed has been planted. A chink in the confidence armour. They happen daily now. Maybe I should think about fillers for my face? Chink. Why does it feel like everyone else is doing it? Overnight I’ve gone from carefree maintenance to a daily need to moisturise. My hair is yet to go grey it’s a gift from my father. To be fair I need to tell you that English is the second language of the girl at the hairdressers who asked me how old I was and then shrieked to her co-worker “Oh lah, this lady is really really old and look how dark her hair is”. This lady is really really old.

No she’s not. I need to keep reminding myself. No she’s not. Hang on, that’s not right. So what if she is? Chink, I straighten out the armour, grab my shield and get ready to go again.

I stand in front of the mirror at the gym. I’m holding weights while I squat. I feel strong, much stronger than I did ten years ago. I’m on the 22nd floor of a beautiful hotel and the view behind me is spectacular. Life is good. I’m planning my day in my head with each squat: back to the sky train, then the subway, the floating markets, the silk house, the authors lounge, don’t forget the silver must go and see the silver. I am without restraint, no strollers, no sterilized bottles, no need to throw in a water park or a swing set along the way to keep everyone happy. I will do with my day as I want and maybe I won’t remember everyone’s name. They’ll forgive me, I’m old.

This type of change usually signals progress. On this day for women I look to my cohort, my peers and my tribe – International Women.

There has most certainly been advances. More women as the “lead” expat, more women having the opportunity to start a new business with their very own work permit. My friends in Saudi now drive, they choose if they wish to wear an Abaya.

The “Mums” groups are now the “parents” groups. And the parents who choose to spend time away from the office now have the ability to study online and network in WhatsApp, Facebook and Linked In. Sometimes I believe that every facet of my original expat life from twenty years ago is now a distant memory. That the old style of spotting someone in a supermarket one day and connecting over the search for broccoli or baby formula only to find yourself two hours later on your third cup of tea brimming with the excitement that you’d made your first friend.

It turns out I’m not a complete dinosaur – it’s still there.

This week I’ve spoken at an expat event, caught up for dinner with new friends and old. In a time of war and pandemic I don’t want to sound as trivial as I know I must, but I’ve realized a couple of hours with friends who understand the geographical schizophrenia of this life can soothe the soul and lift any chance of melancholy.

These past two weeks have allowed me to basque in the beauty of women from all nations sharing a giggle while discussing their sex lives, kids, jobs and dreams but unfornately the same old BS still restricts us. I speak broadly but we still live in a world where new work permits are not given to women over the age of 50 – whereas our male counterparts are granted new employment until 60. Women remain “sponsored” by their husbands meaning often they don’t have their own telephone accounts, driving or liquor licences. This week I’ve been told of two women who were put on a plane to their home country after their husbands cancelled their permits, closed their bank accounts and shut down their phones. At the same time I’ve heard of the women who held their hands, got them home, helped set them up. Women who made a noise and complained making sure this couldn’t be done by the same person again. Women who live by the rule that the standard we walk past is the standard we accept.

We have made progress but we still have a long way to go. Happy International Women’s Day.

Covid has finally got me. Not in the viral bedridden sense, that’s yet to come, but the fatigue of the what comes next hit me hard(er) today.

G (husband) was meant to be flying into Australia this Monday. We’ve been counting the days since he left us in August. You know how that works right? You’re miserable for the first week, then you make it through to the end of August and you’re greatful because you can now say to the kids “it’s just a few months” and Dad will be home. You then you push through until it’s “only two months to go”, and then in the middle of that month you can start breaking it down to weeks. And then when you hit the fifty day mark you can start marking off the days. All the while you’re taking the bins out on a Sunday night, walking home from dropping the car to get serviced, and sitting at the school assembly on your own. Okay that sounds like a pity party, because today it is a pity party, like I said, I’m just about done.

It hasn’t been that miserable. We’ve had some major celebrations, there’s been some really good times. We’ve also had some covid celebrations that have lulled me towards the thought that we were getting somewhere, that we just had to hang on for a bit longer. All the children were vaccinated. Our state, South Australia made its way towards targets for borders to open. G had his booster shot, his leave was approved. We cautiously watched numbers growing in Europe but foolishly felt confident in our Australian summer and Qatar’s fantastic vaccination record. And then it came, Omifreakingcron.

I sat up late last night reading every trustworthy article I could find.

“It’s manageable” okay that sounds good.

“It’s concerning” that doesn’t.

“It’s a variant of concern” I can deal with that.

“There’s been tens of thousands of SARS-CoV-2 variants over the last two years” Okay so let’s all calm down people

And then..

“The Prime Minister will make a temporary decision to pause plans to reopen Australia’s international borders“

Hang on, I’ve seen this movie before.

I couldn’t sleep. Should he just get on a plane now? Would there even be a seat? What would he do for Christmas Day on his own in Doha? This morning I spoke to friends, I asked my friend Krissy who just happens to be the best travel agent on the planet. People rang to see how Omicron, or omifreakingcron, would affected us. Do we move the flight, do we not. Do we move the flight, do we not. Do we move….All day, all night. Voices of concern. Will you move his flight? I’d move it if it were me. I don’t trust it, we’ve seen this before.

Seven days home quarantine became fourteen days hotel quarantine. Aussie expats in forums and facebook pages wrote of being taken to Medi-Hotels when they thought they were headed home.

I did the math. The cost to move a flight at Christmas combined with the cost of more hotel quarantine. Do we just wait?

I can usually do all of these hypotheticals in my head easily, effortlessly, it’s almost fun – but I’m done.

Today is the one year anniversary of my Dad’s death. I didn’t want to write death but passing sounds so blah, he wasn’t a passing kind of a guy. I haven’t marked the day by doing anything special, I don’t want this to be a day that I mark in the calendar. I want all the other days, the good days. I want to celebrate his birthday. I want to think of him and his speech on my wedding day. I want to smell him as my son sprays his aftershave on his chest before his girlfriend comes to visit. I want to see him in the rugby top by daughter now wears around the house in winter. I want to smile at the footy when I hear some bloke yell out something witty. “Charlie, stop it with the one handed marks, if you go up for god’s sake go up with two hands! You’re not the Statue of Liberty FFS!” Dad would have loved that.

So on this unremarkable day, this day I refuse to mark, covid managed to suck the last bit of energy I had.

G sent a text. “Okay, I’m going for a PCR test”.

We moved the flight. If all goes well he’s on a plane tomorrow. We won’t get to see him straight away but at least we’ll know that he’s going to be here at the table for Christmas lunch.

Tomorrow will be better, this unremarkable day will be done and while it’s yet another day without Dad it’s one step closer to better times, happier memories.

If Covid has hit you today, all my love, it’s omifreakingcron exhausting.

They found themselves having to make a choice. It wasn’t just the decision between their children or each other – it was what if we were to get sick, really sick. Were you prepared to die away from home? Away from your family? He went back to the UK, she stayed here in Australia.

“That’s just so sad” I said to my sister as I made my way home.

She agreed with a sigh.

“I can’t believe I didn’t know that…” I trailed off not finishing my sentence. I’d been consumed with my husband’s cancer, his recovery and then facing the idea of him leaving us to return to work. We’d been through my Dad’s death, my children’s lives with year twelve study, new schools, a new house. They’d been a bit going on but still “sorry, I didn’t know, I don’t think you’ve mentioned it?”

And then my sister said it, the past twelve months in a single sentence.

“Some things are just too sad to talk about”.

I was now stationary at the traffic lights. Staring off to the distance I heard a tiny voice that I recognised as my own and said quietly “that’s how I feel about the beagle.”

The naughtiest dog in the world was 17 when she passed away. Not one of us were able to be with her. With all the sadness and heartbreak we’ve been through over the past twelve months this was the event that nearly broke us.

For those of you who have been here for awhile you’ve read the stories of the beagle, you’ve seen the videos. A rescue dog from Austin, Texas. The southern belle who created chaos with the calmness of Bette Davis. The dog who casually pulled out the kitchen drawers to make a ladder to get to the top of the stove to devour the cooling lasagne. The dog who broke three oven doors, I kid you not, three. She’d climb, rock and pull all in the endeavour of a roast dinner or a chicken casserole. The dog who made us obtain a lock for the fridge door after her love of Lurpak (at least a container a week) had her masterfully using her paws to jimmy the door open. There was the weekend in Houston where she devoured 12 donuts, four steaks and a birthday cake in the three minutes I’d gone to retrieve something from the garage. The dinner party in Doha where a girlfriend wide eyed, initially speechless began pointing across the room “that. dog. is. on. top. of. the. table.” She was the dog who chased the maintenance staff up the tree, the dog who barked and barked and barked through every child’s birthday party and event. The dog who escaped out the front door every time a visitor arrived.

“Grab the dog!” we’d yell as we sprinted behind her.

She was the dog who made her way through every overseas guests suitcases before they were smart enough to know her tricks. The dog who hid the caramello koalas and freddo frogs under the pillows of the children, the dog who devoured $100 worth of French chocolate. When I’d written about her antics a reader had quickly messaged “CHOCOLATE KILLS DOGS” in caps lock. I pondered over the entire frozen chicken and the polystyrene plate she’d eaten the week before, not this dog. Nothing kills this dog. This dog appeared to be indestructible.

Until recently.

She’d lost her hearing, her eyesight was going. Each night she’d make her way upstairs to my youngest’s room, one stair at a time. She’d lay on her bed which was at the bottom of his, and he’d cover her with the same pink blanket and there she’d stay until he woke in the morning. She’d stopped climbing up the drawers, the oven door was now safe. She was down to one slow walk a day. You could leave the front door open.

When we left Doha in a rush amongst Covid and cancer, we promised her we’d be back. Helen stayed in the house with the beagle her routine remained the same. In the first week we were home we investigated getting her back to Australia. It was futile. Time wasn’t on our side. Helen sent pictures, videos. And then the inevitable.

Helen messaged, the beagle looked different, her shape was changing, she was refusing food. G spoke to the vet, she was in pain, it was the end. G and I sat together in our house a thousand miles away looking at the final photos, Helen stayed with her to the end. “I can’t tell the children” I whispered to G. “I just, can’t”.

As a family we once again sat around the table with wide eyed children. The same table we’d delivered the cancer news. G told the story slowly, I looked at their faces closely, they looked down at their feet. I’d like to say that after all the sadness of last year they’d found mechanisms to cope with grief but it was the opposite. It was just too much. It was silent until my youngest began to speak.

“We left her” he shook his head in horror, tears now flowing “we left her there, she would have been waiting for us to come back and we didn’t come back”.

I said all the things you’re meant to say as a parent. She was loved, she knew we loved her. We’d rescued her all those years ago. Helen loved her, Helen was with her. She would have understood that we had to go, Dad was sick we had to go. And then I stopped, I’d said enough and it wasn’t going to make it any better.

This pandemic has left us all battle scarred and weary in so many different ways. We lost the beagle in January and while as a family we’ve shared stories and photos we’ve not really spoken to others about it.

Some things are just too sad to talk about.

Vale Roxie.

We have one rule. Don’t blame each other, blame the situation. It’s a piece of advice that was passed on to me by my mother in law and one that I’ve muttered under my breath through every international move. Every new first day in a sea of unfamiliar faces, every new school run where I’ve managed to get lost and arrive late. Every new baby on foreign soil with a taxi that didn’t arrive for a doctors appointment or a dodgy internet connection that left you feeling more isolated.

I broke the rule.

The situation got the better of me. G has to go back to Qatar and I can’t go back with him. It’s simple, and it has to be done. His job is there and it’s time to go back, our children are here and with the current quarantine laws and travel bans I have to stay in Australia. I can’t sign a statutory declaration that I won’t return to Australia for three months, I have a mother who is having heart surgery, a child in year twelve, a son settling in to a new school.

Our situation is not unique. We, like thousands of other expat Australians have found ourselves having to make some tough decisions. That direct flight that was always so convenient, the thread that held us together with our family is now broken. Cancellations are a common occurance, quarantine for those who are lucky enough to get on a flight is expensive and long. We’re not complaining – this is our life, our choice and the situation we find ourselves in. Acknowledging this doesn’t make it any easier – it just makes it real.

I’ve been watching the active cases in Qatar, the numbers are rising. To be fair so are the vaccinations so logic tells me good news is on the way – but it’s those rising numbers. In the past twelve months I’ve watched G go through chemo and then radiation, his tired eyes, his aching body. There were months where he’d drag himself out of bed and shuffle to the kitchen, every inch of him aching. Fast forward to today where he’s been for a walk on the beach and is now paddle boarding. He’s recovered and it’s time to go back to work, he leaves tonight.

The marriage umpire arrived yesterday with a whistle and a red card in hand. One of us was offside, okay, I was.

I couldn’t help it. While he’s been getting ready to go I’ve been quietly willing him to stay without saying the words. Instead of “I love you, I’m scared and I don’t want you to leave” I say things like “did you see the numbers today? Fifteen thousand active cases?! That’s not good” or “did you see the video with all the people standing shoulder to shoulder?” I sigh out loud as I read updates and articles. I roll my eyes when there’s talk of further restrictions. I mutter under my breath about why you’d go back now and not just leave it for a little while.

The whistle was loud. The red card went up. I was about to be fouled off for unfair play.

If it were Australian Rules Football I’d definitely be accused of playing the man and not the game.

G pointed out that I wasn’t making this any easier. With tears in his eyes and his voice shaking he repeated “I don’t want to leave you, I don’t want to leave the kids, but you know I have to go back to work. We have a life there, we have things that need to get done. Our car is there, our house, our resident permits have expired. I have to go back to our life.”

We sat in silence together, broken but all the better for it. We know how to do this, to keep putting one foot in front of the other until we get there. Going back is the first step to getting back to where we need to be.

And so, here I am, hours from that dreaded trip to the airport. I feel positive, I know that this is a step forward to our life returning to what it once was. People will keep getting vaccinated. Numbers will ease and I will return to the mantra. Don’t blame each other, blame the situation.

I love you, I’ll miss you, I don’t want you to go – but we’re okay, we’ll do this, again and again. We may not by physically together, but we’re closer than ever before.

The wry smile that appears as I type, the foolishness of thinking this would be my biggest worry of 2020.

As the year went on our family (like many others) dodged and weaved our way through a series of one-two punches. The first punch landed with the pandemic. The school closure in Doha was the trigger, my youngest and I had to get back to Australia before Covid separated me from my other children in Oz. The second blow was swift and straight between the eyes as the doctor announced the discovery of my husband’s bowel cancer. Twelve centimetres smack, malignant whack, chemotherapy thump, then surgery crack.

We were in the full swing of chemotherapy as Covid took hold in Australia. G and I drove through desolate streets to get to the hospital for treatment. I watched him walk through the hospital doors alone due to restrictions and fear. I updated my parents by phone, the three hour drive to reach them in the country was now out of reach.

When we could finally get together it was in a random hotel on the other side of town. My parents had driven down from the country. Dad had an appointment with a specialist for an ear infection and I’d met them nearby for lunch. Dad looked unwell. His weight loss was explained by the fact he’d pretty much given up drinking but he seemed tired. We went outside to look at the new car, well, new to us. “You’re wearing tracksuit pants Dad?” I’d shaken my head as only a daughter can when she’s horrified by her father’s attire. He’d grinned indignantly “they’re my most comfortable pants!”. He’d given me the usual signature Dad wink but it didn’t feel right, this was a trip to the city and Dad was wearing tracksuit pants. A trip to the city for Dad usually required good pants, a belt and perhaps even a shirt with a collar. I put it down to the ear infection.

It was July when he went for a scan.

July.

The text came from my mother, they’d driven home from the doctors surgery where they’d been given the news. My parents have been driving home from somewhere together for 58 years.

“It could not be worse, pancreatic cancer, non treatable…Dad asked the doctor how long, he didn’t think he’d be here for Christmas…I am not sure I can talk…”

I sat in silence staring at the message, the world went on around me.

I could see them in the doctors surgery waiting to go in, I could see them sitting together as they were told the news. I could see them walking back to car, then driving home. What I couldn’t see was one without the other, ever.

Later that night my Dad put the two cancers side by side, my husband G with his bowel and he with his pancreas. “Well, if someone has to go, I’d rather it be me” he said to my mother. I winced as she told me, I didn’t want anyone to go anywhere.

August was all about the sale of the family home, the garage sales, the boxes, the downsizing of a life. Dad’s cancer news was kept in house. We shared a sandwich and a bench on the balcony of our local hotel. A hotel he’s frequented for over seventy years. A hotel with his name on a wall and the memories of Friday night drinks, Lions Club meetings, Valentines dinners and celebrations. I asked him why he wasn’t talking to people about his cancer and he answered my question with a question “are you sick of Covid?”. I tilted my head like our labradoodle does when he doesn’t understand what we’re doing. He went on “I’m so sick of Covid, it’s all people can talk about, the entire news bulletin is Covid, the papers are full of it even the sports section. It’s like they can’t tell us about anything else. Don’t you think Covid is boring?”

I smiled “Cancer is boring?”.

There it was again, the signature Dad wink.

For the past couple of months Dad has slowly disappeared in front of our eyes. Each trip home delivered another blow of the reality of what was coming our way.

It came today.

I could hear it in her voice, my mother’s broken heart as she delivered the words that would then in turn break mine. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry”. It’s exactly what I said to my own children “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry”.

This year will be bookended by broken hearts – not just mine, all of ours, Dad’s.

My beautiful Dad.