Raising Children Abroad

A year ago, I read Regrets of the Dying (2011) by Bronnie Ware. In her book she describes how, from a young age, she worked with palliative patients and how she heard them talk about their regrets in life. For instance, “I wish I hadn’t worked so hard” or “I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.”



Initially, the title didn’t resonate with me. Regret seems like a complicated concept. Is it an emotion, a thought, an assessment, or a realisation that we sometimes should have taken another turn? But aren’t our decisions always based on circumstances of a particular moment—on finances, the influence of other people, or a lack of knowledge? Isn’t it only in retrospect that we realise that we could have done things differently? Also, with regret, you focus on the past in a negative way. Is that helpful?  Dwelling on a past that cannot be undone.


Maybe acceptance is a healthier way of dealing with regrets.


Nevertheless, the book was a pleasant read, and I would certainly recommend it to people who still have their life ahead of them, to help them avoid the life traps their grandparents fell into. I’m thinking for instance, of another regret Ware mentions: “I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.”


The book made me think deeply about my “regrets”, and it was only months later that I realised that there’s really just one thing in life that I would have done differently. I feel strongly about it, hence this blog.

Third Culture Kids
Moving to a new country is exciting and thrilling; it gives you the opportunity to explore the world and meet new and different people. Moving countries has its own advantages for children as well: They learn new languages, become adaptable, observant, and better listeners than speakers. They can easily connect with people from different walks of life, see the world from multiple perspectives, and view diversity as natural. They are non-judgmental and highly sensitive to issues like racism and ostracism in society. I’m proud to say I’ve noticed and heard about this kind of behaviour in my sons, now aged 29, 31 and 33.

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Despite the aforementioned advantages, international moves with children are not all roses and sunshine. For instance, my husband and I have a firm Dutch foundation of stability—we know where we come from. Our boys, however—having moved to four different countries during their formative years ("the most important stage in life for cognitive, social, emotional, and physical development")—are rootless.

I remember a moment with our youngest, four years old, born in Germany, raised in Canada, and suddenly a newbie in a Finnish kindergarten, utterly upset. The daycare teacher had asked the children where they were from. He was the only one who didn’t know the answer. It broke my heart to see his confusion and tears.


Also, by making the decision to move abroad, we simultaneously alienated our children from their grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins—their safety net. Repeatedly, they had to leave friends behind and find new ones. Leaving friends behind is wrenching when you’re 3, 5, or 7 years old. “Wo sind meine Freunde?” (Where are my friends?) asked our second son on his third birthday. We had recently arrived in Canada and didn’t know anyone there. Despite our social isolation, we did our best to give him a good birthday.

Moving houses
In 1992 we moved from a comfortable house in the Netherlands to an unfamiliar fully furnished university guesthouse in Heidelberg. The dark rooms affected me and they surely affected our sons. During our next move in 1996, we stayed the first week in a Calgarian hotel on the 14th floor. It was January and -40 degrees celsius outside. In the middle of the night the fire alarm went off. We woke up our children, wrapped them in blankets, took them under our arms, and down the staircase we went.  It was a scary experience in the new country even for us adults. How did it affect our boys? When we could finally move into our house, we were living from a suitcase. The container with our stuff arrived weeks later.


Having learned a few lessons, we decided to store the children with their grandparents for a full month before our move to Finland. This way we had time to find a house and set things up before their arrival. In the end, it's hard to say whether this was a good decision after all. Did they feel abandoned by their parents in this insecure time?
 

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Our oldest, speaking Dutch and German, kept his mouth shut for a full year at his  new Canadian pre-school.  How have our hops from one language to another  affected our boys’ linguistic identity? Even today, they speak Dutch but they’re nevertheless sensitively aware and sometimes even embarrassed about their pronunciation or word choice.

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The reality is that we, as young parents, underestimated the stress that comes with moving to a new culture. What’s worse, we were completely unaware of the effect parents’ stress may have on their children, especially when very young. Of course, my husband and I tried to keep our strain and worries to ourselves,  but I have my doubts about our success. For example, our oldest turned overnight from a happy one year old into a crying and unhappy child during our first months in Germany. I’m sure, and science backs me up here, he must have felt and internalised our settling in struggles and hardship. Did we pay enough attention to our sons’ emotions?

What’s more, giving birth in a hospital run by nuns two months after arriving in Germany, was more than burdensome. I was not at all in harmony with my body. Not fluent in German, unaware of German birth practices, and dealing with a gynaecologist who looked like a butcher, I felt completely powerless. Our second, still in my womb, must have felt that he had a mother distracted by insecurity and worries; not an ideal start for a child.I’ve often felt especially guilty for dragging him into our international lifestyle.

We can argue that children are malleable, but the theories of Erikson (identity formation) and Bowlby (Attachment theory) are still valid these days. Our moves disrupted the stability and attention of our children. Attention needed to positively influence their brain development wasn’t always there. 

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In a skype meeting, I brought up my concerns about the effect of our international moves with my sons.


“Oh mum, we would have become douchebags if we had always stayed in the Netherlands,” they laughed off my worries.


Childhood memories are blurry, and children push their childhood recollections out of their conscious awareness. My sons are young, but childhood trauma always shows up later in life. I won't be there to help them to make sense of their childhood. But I hope that before they start their own families that they will discuss the effects of an international lifestyle on children with their partners. I hope they will stay grounded for the rest of their life.


Our sons are third culture kids and of course our international lifestyle has affected them in good and bad ways. Meanwhile, I’m trying to make sense of how we shaped their lives and how we handled our own trauma. I regret that we didn’t give them a more peaceful start in life.


Honoured to be your mum,

 

1995

Recoures:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uPup-1pDepY&t=570s

 

Entering a new stage

Outside, the signs of autumn give the impression of a perfectly normal season: crisp weather, migrating birds, apples falling from the tree, laundry drying in the sun, the smell of burning wood.

But for me and my family, a new, unfamiliar wind is blowing into the world. Irrevocable change has set in.

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On September 14th, I was hosting an afternoon tea party at our wee yellow house in Ii for friends who’ve been supportive during my illness. Such an event had been on my wish list for a long time, but there were always reasons to delay. Knowing that winter was around the corner and that my health would deteriorate, I quickly drafted the invitations and sent them around.


It was new for me to start baking a week in advance, but I knew I needed to save energy to get things done in time. A regime of baking one cake a day worked well. Some cakes, such as my orange cake, even taste better if it stays in the tin for a few days. It was a matter of careful planning. During the preparation I realised that this would be my very last party, so I was doing everything to make the event a success. 


I don’t take my friendships for granted and wanted to show my gratitude. Offering cakes, pasties, sandwiches, and quiches and giving everybody a good time was the goal. We drank coffee and tea from my favourite, beautiful Arabia bone china cups. Balloons and decorations were put up and I had a little present for all visitors in a basket.


It was a wonderful afternoon filled with laughter in the cosy kitchen but also with tears when I told the group about my farewell struggles and that our gathering should be seen as a goodbye. In retrospect, it is interesting to realise what the unconscious mind already knew. At that stage, no doctor had told me that my life would end soon. On the contrary, the aim was to extend my life with the help of the magic red devil chemo treatment.

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Two days later, September 16th, was another stunning autumn day. I met with Erika, a BBC journalist at Nallikari. We faced the bright blue sea, a yellow sandy beach, and felt the warm autumn sun on our faces. We had time to ourselves and without an exact plan, we set off on the path along the sea. Hoping to catch a view of cranes, I had brought my camera and lenses. We talked, among other things, about finding topics for articles, blogs, and video making. We enjoyed the midday sun and took our time to walk around the island. I estimated that we easily walked six or seven kilometres that afternoon. It turned out to be the last day with such a glorious autumn edge.


On the 18th, I was hospitalised with stomach pain and vomiting. On the 19th, the verdict fell. “What do you think of the new chemo?” The young doctor looked me straight in the eye. “I think the red devil chemo doesn’t work,” I said. “The tumour markers have risen too much,” the doctor agreed. “We can’t cure you anymore. You’re palliative from now on.” She looked at me with empathy and compassion. I nodded. The glorious clouds from the last weeks had started to ripple.


From Patient to Palliative

Once you’re palliative you get a different status; you become a palliative entity. As palliative care is a subspecialty of medicine, a flock of new doctors and nurses introduced themselves to me. I was told that I would be transferred to the palliative ward as soon as a place became vacant, which was three days later. “Our aim is to improve your quality of life and give you the help you need,” one of the doctors explained. An anaesthetist and nurse assistant explained the pain pump: a device I could use to administer pain medication to myself whenever needed. The oncologist also prescribed anti-nausea medication. Nurses came with intravenous fluids to meet my caloric and nutritional needs. Really? Was it not last Sunday – only five days ago – that I stuffed myself with blueberry cake, scones with jam and whipped cream, and sandwiches?


Frankly, the transition from patient to palliative was overwhelming.


I didn’t have many thoughts about the palliative ward beforehand. I knew that in the Netherlands they are run by medical staff and caring volunteers, and the atmosphere in the hospices is warm and homely. However, I had never seen a Finnish hospice from the inside.

But I couldn’t be bothered either, since already on my second day in hospital I was dealing with anxiety and restlessness: tossing and turning, unable to stay in bed for more than five minutes. One minute I felt freezing cold, the next, I was sweating excessively. I had a dry mouth and lost my appetite. I was feeling as if I was constantly on the edge and called my husband every hour to tell him how I felt. I didn’t sleep for three days.


My behaviour puzzled me. Of course I was anxious, my death warrant had just been signed, but on the third day of my stay I realised something: Although I was understandably experiencing mental turmoil, this was unusual behaviour for me. I’m a calm and composed woman –  and would like to stay that way until the end.


It took me three days; I had just arrived at the palliative ward when I decided to open my mouth. “I don’t want that stuff any longer,” I said to the doctor in the palliative care unit. With “that stuff” I was referring to either Zofran Zydis or Sancuso, both given to prevent nausea and vomiting. I had a slight suspicion that one of them was causing my restlessness, my sleep deprivation, my anxiety and my cold and heat fits. I felt exhausted and couldn’t stand it any longer. I was told that patients' wishes are the guiding rules on the palliative ward, so I felt within my rights.


A day after the medication was taken off the list, I started to feel better – and wanted to go home. “I need to sleep in my own bed,” I explained to the doctor. She approved. I arrived home on the 24th of September. With the help of home care nurses, I managed with a nasogastric tube, a subcutaneous tube with anti-emetic fluid, the stoma, and the parenteral nutrition via portacath.


However, my stay at home lasted only three days. I couldn't hold food, was constantly nauseous, quickly lost six kilos and felt incredibly weak. There was no way my husband and I could manage the situation.


The Palliative Ward

Since the 30th of September I’ve been back on the palliative ward. The place looks big. “Twenty-six rooms and forty staff members,” one of the nurses told me. I don’t know exactly how many patients it can host. Big windows, a family/activity room, one and two person rooms, spacious toilets and colourful wall paintings on white and blue walls. However, the hallway looks like a car park: filled with trolleys, wheelchairs, grip cars, beds, overbed tables, medical carts, chart trolleys, and whatever else all over the place. Initially, it gave my scattered mind a messy impression, but I barely leave my room these days, and my room is calm, bluish, and grey. From my bed I look straight into the crowns of birch trees, which gives the room an lofty feel. Despite the agreeable setting, there's a lot to process these days. 

 

 

 

So long, Farewell, auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye

In August, I was hospitalised for a stomach infection.Three days after my admittance, the oncologist came to the ward to share the results of the CT scan. My husband, as well as our youngest and his girlfriend—who had come to the hospital to say goodbye to me before my husband would drop them off at the airport—listened with growing unease to the words of the doctor.


“A 6 cm tumour in your lower abdomen, ascites, metastasis in the lymph nodes, and several tumours in other places,” she stated.


“No, you’re not entering the palliative stage yet,” she answered when I asked. “We will first need to see how your body reacts to the new chemo treatment. We’ll do our best to extend your life,” she promised.

It was a hard pill to swallow: resistant, meaning six chemo treatments and four months completely wasted. Why did no one pick up on the increasing tumour markers?


The new chemo regime started on the 22nd of August and consisted of Caelyx (Doxorubicin), a new cytostatic. Because of its colour, it looks like strawberry lemonade, and because of its potentially serious side effects, it’s known among patients as red devil chemo.


The moment the fiendish extract entered my bloodstream, I could say farewell to my old routines—rock bottom, transition and glorious week—as well as my knowledge of cytostatic side effects.


This chemo, administered in a 4-week cycle, is different. I’m completely lost about the causes of my nausea, stomach pain, cold shivers, lack of appetite, diarrhoea, incontinence, tingling in my hands and feet, and back pain. Are these inconveniences caused by the tumours, the infection, the stress, the low haemoglobin levels, or are they side effects of the cytostatic?  Whatever it is, I’ve never felt so listless and exhausted.

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Mitra dropped by shortly after my release from the hospital. It hit us both when I told her that I wouldn’t be able to join her at the gym ever again. The whole summer, I had kept that option open; my sports gear, washed and folded, was waiting on the shelves, but the latest updates were clear: the cancer will eventually lead to my death. I instinctively know that I won’t return there.


Sorrow also set in when I resigned from my voluntary work. Before summer, I had still hoped to return to Pönkkä, the place that had become so dear to me. I now know that even if the new chemo shows good results, I won’t be able to make it back.


Little by little, I’m giving up on the idea of living a reasonably normal life ever again. This process had already started earlier, I think from the moment the colostomy was inserted in September last year. However, back then, wired to believe that better times would come, I didn’t give it much thought.


The chemo-resistance, the growing tumours, my deteriorating condition, and the knowledge that my stoma is permanent force me to reassess my dysfunctional body, my activities, and my outlook on life. They compel me to bid adieu to the “I can do it” mentality that has always accompanied me. It also strikes me that saying farewell doesn’t only apply to people; it is bigger than that. Saying goodbye to activities, routines, pets, habits, food, properties (like our wee yellow house in Ii) are equally hard. Sometimes just thinking about giving up all the things that made my life pleasant makes me burst into tears.


Farewells are painful

It was during our years in Calgary that I noticed how hard it was for me to say goodbye. Every summer, European family, friends, and colleagues flooded our house, and every time we dropped the party poopers off at the airport, I was overwhelmed with sadness and longing. Even today, the smell of kerosene, reminding me of the goodbyes at Calgary airport, makes me feel feeble and tense.


To make those farewells a bit easier for the children, we built a ritual. On the way back home from the airport, we would stop by at Tim Hortons. Thirteen donuts for the price of a dozen was, according to our preschoolers, a “cool” deal. Hazelnut buttercream, strawberry snow, chocolate glazed, sprinkled with silky chocolate ganache, blueberry fritter—the boys would carefully select their favourites. Back home, with coffee, juice and colourful pastries on the table, we would “celebrate” being on our own again.


Years later, after our young adult sons had moved out for their studies, they insisted their father drop them off at Oulu airport after the summer break. “No drama, Mum,” they said, hugging me farewell at the doorstep of our house.

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Sept 2024/ Nursing friends visiting me.

Since the last health update, family and several friends from abroad have announced they will come to Finland. “We’d love to see you,” they write. I suppose the words “coming to see you” are synonymous with “saying farewell to you”. No one says it out loud, but we know there won’t be a hopeful “see you next time.”


Of course, I love seeing them too and look forward to reminiscing about past events, but living abroad also means that guests never stay for just a weekend. Sadly, I can’t host them any longer. Cleaning the guest room, the bathroom, making the beds, planning the meals, getting groceries, cooking, socialising, let alone entertaining and accompanying them on trips in the area, are simply too much. Though it feels unwelcoming and goes against my nature to tell our guests to find accommodation elsewhere, I need to learn to put my own priorities first.


Moreover, my visitors have only one goodbye to deal with, but I’m constantly reminded of the fact that there’s going to be an end to all my relationships and activities. The current pace and accumulation of farewells, along with the processes of letting go, are overwhelming. Despite my sadness, I also realise these moments should not be avoided. On the contrary, I believe that farewells have a purpose, so I’m trying to process my feelings while at the same time redefining the resources I still have. For example, if the doctor says that I should avoid long walks, I can still use my bike to go around the lake. Even better, I can bring my camera and lens in my pannier too.


Apart from organising a high tea for the friends who’ve been supportive, I have no definitive plan for the goodbyes that are ahead. What are meaningful words? Should I buy presents? Donuts? Come up with a ritual? Should we keep it light and celebrate life, or write notes to each other? Is there a way to conclude friendships and activities that is satisfactory, effective and compassionate? I certainly don’t want anyone to feel traumatised, confused, ignored, or guilty after my passing.  

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I’m not good at farewells, but this August, I realised how deep conversations can provide a wonderful sense of closure. After I was released from the hospital, I had meaningful conversations with my middle son. Triggered by the negative CT scan results, the fact that we’re facing my inevitable death, and knowing we only had two weeks before he would return to the Netherlands, we talked for hours about our fears, our future, our feelings of guilt, our mother and son relationship, our vulnerabilities, our upbringing and our memories. Those conversations were powerful, heartbreaking, joyous, and painful at times, but they also allowed us to express our love and gratitude toward each other.


Of course, I hope to see him and his brothers at Christmas, but if not, we’ve said all that needed to be said. Those discussions were the most wonderful gift we could have given to each other at this stage of our lives.

The Tourist in Me

July

Like a pasha in the Ottoman Empire, on the sofa, pillows on my back, a soft breeze from a cooler fan, and a “hubby servant” bringing me ice popsicles to soothe my sore mouth, I watched the world gearing up for the summer break. Friends and family texted me when they go, where they go, and when they’re going to be back. The first photos appeared on social media: food on a plate, wildlife, sunsets, castles, beaches, theme parks, museums and selfies taken at the swimming pool. 

Having had two chemo treatments scheduled for July (one in the first week and one in the fourth week), it all felt somewhat unfair. Within 3 or 4 months, this part of the world would be covered in snow again. I would have loved to rejuvenate my body and mind in one of Finland’s lakes or pick cloudberries in the peatlands.

 

But that is as far as my travel ambitions go. Say tourists and I see crowded airports, packed cruise ships or people queuing up for yet another “attraction”. Not exactly the group I want to belong to. Read Grand Hotel Europe (2018) from Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer about the devastating decline of cities caused by tourism and you’ll get my sentiment. 

Also, Finland is beautiful in summer. Why would we drive for hours, pay a lot of money to wait in queues, or sleep in hotels? I once saw a documentary about filthy hotel rooms. “Check the mattresses for bed bugs and check the cover for stains” the makers recommended. They used a UV light detector to reveal what kinds of filth shower curtains, bedlinen and toilets could hide from the naked eye. The images made me cringe.

 
The Netherlands

It wasn’t always like that. Being born and raised in a country with a huge tourism industry, I naively thought it was normal to go on holiday every year. Already in the seventies, my parents took the tent and off we went to destinations as far as Locarno, Luxemburg and Bordeaux. Every other year abroad, every other in the Netherlands, was the deal in our family. However, when I ask my sister about her favourite holiday, she says “windsurfing”. These surfing adventures on the Belter and Beulakker lakes have also become the pinnacle of my childhood holiday memories – not the basking on a French beach, hiking in the Swiss Alps or eating pasta at an Italian market.

My perspective on vacations changed since we moved abroad. Since 1992, we have been constantly exposed to different cultures, landscapes and people. Furthermore, living in other countries has made me understand that the idea that you need to go on holiday every year is psychologically, culturally and economically determined.

For instance, still today, I know of no other country that so frantically advertises (in prime time) for all-inclusive holidays as the Netherlands. According to the Central Statistical Office (CBS), Dutch people over 15 went on holiday on average 2,5 times last year. That means 37,6 million holidays per year in total. For those who travel, the number of holidays per year is often even higher, since 20% of Dutch people don’t travel at all for financial, safety or health reasons.

I wish that everyone gets a break from their everyday lives but there is something ironic about people showing off about their “authentic” experiences while staying in all-inclusive hotels with Western luxuries. I decided to survey the world of tourism and learned a few things about the role of social media along the way.


Social Media

I started with Paige McClanahan’s book The New Tourist (2024). McClanahan recognizes the damaging impact of tourism but also sums up the positives: “tourism accounts for about one in ten jobs and generates revenue”. McClanahan divides tourists in two groups. The old tourist consumes, possesses and crosses off a bucket list. The new tourist, on the other hand, tries to comprehend what impact his behaviour has on the holiday destination. In a recent article, McClanahan explains how 86% of travellers are influenced by social media. Obviously, Instagram, Facebook, TikTok create a self-perpetuation loop. For example, a video of Justin Bieber shot in Iceland in 2015 made the number of visitors grow from around 3,000 per year to 300,000 in a few years’ time.

Moreover, McClanahan reminds the reader of the environmental aspect of tourism. According to the workers of Iceland’s environmental agency, it’ll take “fifty to hundred years for the Icelandic landscape to recover”.

In his article “Instagram abroad: performance, consumption and colonial narrative in tourism”, Sean Smith explains how not only holiday photos and texts consistently posted on social media provide a model of ideologies that supports modern tourism but also that many of our social media posts perpetuate colonial stereotypes. The 3 motifs he identifies are: “the tropical exotic” (me checking social media – friend standing alone in front of the Trevi fountain in Rome), “the promontory gaze” (friend standing on a rock overviewing Sallantunturi) and “fantasised assimilation” (me in a photo taken in 2000, together with two Sámi women in Inari).

Smith concludes that social media followers get the idea that tourist destinations are available for possession and consumption and thereby they fail to recognise the needs of locals and the environment.

The article reminded me of an anecdote of a German couple who came to see (read: photograph) the brown bear in Lapland. They found a guide, signed up for a night and paid the fee. They shared beautiful pictures of bears roaming near a river on social media. When the couple later found out that the bears were attracted by food put there earlier by the guides, they felt misled. By that time, the photos were already circulating their way into the world, most likely attracting more bear “hunters” to Northern Finland.

Why are tourists privileged over locals, the environment and the wildlife? This applies as much to the inhabitants of the red-light district (2.5 million visitors annually) in Amsterdam, the archaeological city of Pompei (2.5 million visitors annually), the glaciers in Jasper National Park (2.5 million visitors annually) or the bears in one of Finland's 41 national parks (2.3 million visitors in 2023).

 
Without travelers, there is no tourism!

We can be glamorous about travelling, but in the end, the tourist industry seems shaped by our consumption behavior. Influenced by social media, we purchase goods or services to fulfill a desire, often without questioning whether this is necessary.

I ask friends why they go on holiday. “To take a break, explore new places and see other cultures,” they say. In The Psychology of Travel (2023) Andrew Stevenson talks about “wayfinding” and explains how travelling to a new place “elicits feelings of excitement, expectation, curiosity and even trepidation.”

The downside is that feeling excited in a new place can reinforce the need for more. Amiah Taylor (2024) talks about escapism and the addictive aspects of travelling. I indeed know people who plan their next vacation as soon as they’re back home from a previous one.
 
Lastly, I came across an article titled, The Case Against Travel, (2023) from Agnes Callard.   Callard wonders why we should see travel as an achievement and explains why tourism is notable for its “locomotive character”:

What life would be like if we never travelled again? (And Holiday Greetings from Lewis!) 

 
Having heard that the last 6 chemos have had no effect, it’s unlikely I will travel again. To some this might sound like a nightmare but it doesn’t feel that way. I enjoy the nature in my neighbourhood, appreciate discussions with my international and Finnish friends and feel relaxed at home. I have no interest in following the herd when it comes to tourism. Also, being blessed with a great imagination and a love for reading, I’ve discovered that I can travel as far and as long as I want.

While Oulu was blazing hot, Peter May, the author of The Chess Men (2012), took me to Lewis, a Scottish island in the Outer Hebrides. Starting on a rainy day at the foothills of the mountains of southwest Lewis, the detective showed me ancient stone dwellings, explained to me what peat cutting is and introduced me to the Gaelic speaking population. I had a wonderful trip and no, I had no trouble with delays, accommodation or crowdedness.