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.