What It Costs

I’m on the tram, just having finished watching the newest Superman. My first movie theatre in Europe experience. My eyes filled with tears several times during the movie as I recognized the scenes of my home. Terminal Tower, Soldiers and Sailors monument, and a lovely moment in the Galleria. I gasped when I saw Progressive Field panned in a shot as well. I remember walking on the Guardians bridge in the movie, and my heart leapt when I saw a shot of the city taken from one of my favorite Cleveland script signs. I recognized a scene shot in the lobby of the Tower City mall as well, a beautiful place my family frequented at Christmas.

Tonight I miss my homeland. Like a lot. This Saturday I missed a coworkers wedding, where I would have seen so many colleagues who helped shape and build me into who I am today. Next week, I’ll miss another friend’s wedding, even though I triple checked flights and calendars to see if I could make it at all.

This is the price of moving across an ocean. Not being present to see my friends first daughter, and watch her three boys grow. Not having my friend come sit on my couch every Monday night and dish on life.. Missing out on concerts at the Hatch. Missing out on the ferry from the Aquarium. Walking the greenway and swinging with pastries until late into the night. Missing out on Mitchell’s summer flavors.  Kayaking on Lake Erie. Watching the sunset at Edgewater with takeout from Townhall.

Yes, there are new experiences and travels in my life now. But the cost is missing out on the life of those who’ve known me from “back in the day”. Who knew me at different stages of life that have shaped who I am today. Who’ve seen me struggle physically and emotionally. I’m missing out on their big moments yes, but also on the small moments. What’s hard in their life right now? What are we celebrating for them this week? Watching the kids grow and turn into real humans.

The cost is begging the Amazon delivery driver to wait a minute while you get the access code to receive your item, while he yells in German. The worst part was understanding every word he was saying, but being so overwhelmed and anxious that I couldn’t find any of the words to respond to him. The cost is taking a Friday off work so I can actually shop at a grocery store without the people stressing me out as I navigate the language constraints on the products. The cost is angrily slamming the door of the refrigerated pastry shelf at the grocery, because I don’t know what each of the various items represents, and all I want is a pie crust. The cost is wandering a random city as I wait for a delayed train.

I’m grateful for my life and opportunities right now, but it’s never the same. And some days, like today, it really hurts. People here don’t know the struggle it’s taken, and my life appears quite good. They don’t see my crying on trams or busses or standing in the middle of the city center. They don’t see the exhaustion of the end of a day, slogging through the rain with sodden shoes and a heavy backpack. They can’t see my frustration as I try to communicate with doctors and pharmacists and convince them of the medications I need.

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I wrote this on the tram and bus, as I often do. And I was definitely feeling sad and a bit teary, but wasn’t sure how much it showed. And feeling quite heavy with the weight of sadness, and reminder of all I had to do: go back to the pharmacy toting two heavy bags of things because they forgot to give me the insulin I needed, call Hertz and dispute an incorrect fuel charge, do some grocery shopping, look into getting a new credit card, get some lab work done, return the Amazon packages, and a seemingly 100 other administrative things to do. As I prepared to get off at my stop, the guy behind me tapped my arm and handed me a folded tissue. I was surprised, because I expected him to hand me something I dropped or something. Scrawled onto the tissue where the words “you’re doing the best you can”. I clutched it and stared as I waited for the bus to stop. I couldn’t breathe, but mostly because I was so shocked and overwhelmed with the kindness of a stranger. I murmured my thanks as I descended from the bus, and walked home staring at it.

It was a weird sentiment. I’d never have expected to hear that phrase told to me, or to need to hear it. But honestly it meant the word. I am doing the best I can. It’s really, really tough some days. But I am managing this life all by myself. There’s no one to see me be sad, or to know in the moment how hard things can be. No one to support me at the doctors, or navigate the health system or call the dentist for me. No one to sympathize on the many insulin woes and struggles or watch out for me if I start a medication. No one to give me a lift if it starts raining mid-walk to the office, or carry the groceries home when the pain intensifies between my shoulders. So yes, I am doing the best I can. And I need to be proud of myself for that, and for this life I’ve built.