There is an aspect of life known only to us living very far from home: a constant fear that “something bad” will happen back home that we will be unable to help with. Even on my best days there is a small corner of my mind preoccupied with home, family, and friends: my ‘past life’. It’s as if my spirit had fragmented when I left America, and the pieces of it are divided between my past and present homes. As a result, it feels like I’m living in limbo between two countries most of the time. 

Last month the worst really did happen: my aunt died in an unexpected accident at a very young age. I learned by a phone call from my mother at around seven in the morning. By the hour alone I knew something was wrong; it would have been 1 AM in the USA.  She explained tearfully what happened and I did my best to comfort her. The mobile phone made everything unreal. The physical distance between myself and her, however, became very real.

We debated gingerly on whether or not I should come home. Mom suggested that I stay in Ireland, and visit when travel was less expensive and when I would have more time to spend with her.  I tried to interpret this- did she really mean this? Or did she want me home, but didn’t want me to feel guilty for staying? The expense of the whole thing hung over the conversation.

I then remembered a conversation I’d had with my mother when I got married just a year and a half ago. “It’s not that far, mom,” I’d said, “The world is getting smaller and lots of people live like this now. It will be less than 24 hours travel and I can be home.” Immediately I felt as if I’d lied to her… could I really make this happen?
 
I wish the rest of this article was an outline of my swift and confident success in going home to be by my mother’s side after her sister’s death, but it just didn’t happen.
 
It is summer: high tourist season. In order to go home I had to take a transatlantic and two connecting flights. Some flights were in their thousands, most were already filled up, and the rest only went part of the way to my home state, meaning several days of driving to get there. It seemed impossible. On days that I’m gentle with myself I acknowledge that it was impossible. On most days though, guilt is looking me right in the eyes, demanding, “Why didn’t you do more?” I began to wonder how many other people in the world had dealt with this exact same problem, and how many had gotten home, no matter what.

In the end I sent flowers and called daily for weeks. A picture of my aunt sits on my mantelpiece where I burn candles for her, wishing things were different.  None of this makes me feel any better, although time (and the comfort of my Irish family) has taken some of the edge off.

When mom and I talk on the phone now we only spend a little while remembering Aunt Eileen, and the rest of our time talking about life and the living. We talk about the easy little things like work or plans for the weekend. Sometimes it seems like things are back to normal, but most of the time something is holding us back. Mom’s voice is still sad, and in every conversation I am still promising her, “I’ll be home soon… I’ll be home soon…”