At The Croix Roads

If you've read my previous blogs, you know that last January, Peter left for a job in St. Croix. It paid him well, he got to use his expertise to help in a crisis situation, he would be in new territory, but also under new supervision. He was excited about that.
     He didn't know what the living conditions would be in St. Croix. After all, he was being brought there to help with hurricane recovery after two Category 5 hurricanes hit the island in a matter of weeks.
But as it turned out, he wound up living in vacation homes that were not destroyed or damaged and lived pretty well.
    Unfortunately, many of the recovery team left loved-ones behind. We all had to adjust to newly defined lives. For Peter and I, it was a trying first few months.
     I talked about divorce - AGAIN! I felt he was abandoning me, which he literally was. After all, he would be living 30 days on-island only to return "home" for a week or so. But, he would say, "If the living conditions are good enough, you could come down to visit." What kind of marriage is that? Not one I wanted, that's for sure.
     He was to leave in January, leaving me with the house, the animals (of which we had 2 dogs, a coatimundi, a Patagonian cavy, a turtle, a lizard, some cockroaches, fish and stick bugs!), our two kids, my mom and a seemingly infinite amount of stress and responsibilities that overwhelmed me just thinking about it.
     It was daunting. There would be eight snow storms. Of course the guy he hired to plow the driveway showed up only after being called multiple times and then did only a part of the driveway saying his truck broke—not my problem! And he wanted full payment regardless!
     I had a frozen shoulder that required physical therapy and chiropractic adjustments three times a week, acupuncture once a week and a massage every other week to try to relieve the pain and gain mobility. I could not shovel that driveway. I was flabbergasted!
     As always, there were issues in the house, but nothing would be as bad as dealing with our dogs. They wouldn't stop fighting or marking their territory. They wouldn't stop peeing and pooping in our house, not even stopping after I got them fixed! And none of that was as bad as trying to get them to stop barking! Why did no one tell me that the adorable coonhound would bay, bark and howl all day every day!?!
     I was unhappy. I was lonely. I was overwhelmed. While Peter's paycheck was a plus, I, of course, thought it was just an excuse to leave me. I was sure of it.

     At my lowest, I wanted to disappear. I didn't think I could face another day. That feeling of sorrow was all consuming. No thought of what would happen to the kids, the animals, the household. There were a few nights, I really lost my mind, my heart, myself.

     And then I went to visit. The blues of the sea, the tropical breezes, the sunshine, the warmth, the beauty of the beaches. But I wasn't there to be on vacation. I was there to reconnect with my husband.
     I'm too tired and still too vulnerable to go into detail. Suffice it to say, we had intense discussions.

     Month after month would go by where he came back to NY and I went to St. Croix. Each month building a foundation for a new life together. That first visit to St. Croix, he assured me he hadn't taken the job to get away from me. "It's for us. This sucks for me too. I don't want to be without you." But I didn't totally believe him.
     As time went by and he and his job became more stable, he brought up my staying in St. Croix. How would that work? At first, I thought I could sell our house in New York, maybe find a smaller place for our grown kids to live. But there was too much to be done. Our 32 years together was stored in that house.
     I wound up in St. Croix for two weeks at a time, and then he would come up North for a week, only leaving us apart for a week each month. Then, I came down for three weeks and we flew "home" together.
     By now, I understood that he hadn't abandoned me/us. I felt he was lonely too. I believed him, for once. In our over 30 years together, I finally believed he loved me and wanted to live the rest of his life with me.
     My therapist (whom I haven't seen for 10 or 15 years now) would ask me why I thought he stayed with me. If I was so convinced he would leave me, why are we still together? My answers ranged from 'Because it's the right thing to do.' 'He hasn't found anyone else...yet.' 'He doesn't know where to go.' and on occasion, 'I just don't know.' Her point was not to confirm my fears; her point was to show me that my fears were unwarranted.
     Well, Nancy. I finally see that. I finally believe that he loves me and wants to be with me.
Finally.

     So, this St Croix life that we are living now, this "Croix" Roads where we've found ourselves, took over 30 years! Now that I believe we're truly going to stay together, I look back at the 30+ years and can't believe all the hurt we put each other through. If only, all along, we took our I love you's and I do's and were totally committed to them. Think how much happier I could have been if I lived without the fear of abandonment and instead lived with abandon.

Abandoned: The Beginning

Chapter One

     When I was three-years-old, my parents left my older brother, my younger sister and me. I have spent the greater part of my life coming to terms with that abandonment. For a year, we lived in the Philippines while our parents made a life without us in the USA. 

     We were cared for by my mother’s parents; stern, cold, grandparents who rarely showed affection. They, along with our mother’s youngest sister cared for my brother (4-years-old), me, (3-years-old) and my sister (just 1-year-old). 

     During that time, my sister would say her first word, calling our aunt, “Momma”; take her first steps, and cry, cry, cry for our parents to return. 

     My brother, a precocious oldest grandchild, often did things like play on a chair near the edge of brick steps. He was standing on the chair when he tried to get a toy car that had fallen. He ended up tumbling from the chair and cutting his cheek open on the jagged brick steps. The bandage that covered the stitches took up half of his face. How did our mother feel when she saw pictures of her son with an injury and she was halfway across the globe? 

     Even after we were reunited, that year apart scarred not only my brother’s face, but our sense of security. Therapy never quite cured my sister or I of the sense of abandonment because, you see, no one ever explained the situation to us. Our parents never tried to explain their absence.

* * *

It wouldn’t be until I was in my 30’s that my siblings and I would find out the truth. Our parents wanted us with them during that first year in the States. The pictures of them holding other children, playing in the snow, at parties with their new friends were not joyful times as the photos portrayed, but frustrating, anxious and regrettable weeks that became months and then a year with our mom begging her father to bring us to America, as agreed upon.

     When we did finally board a plane for the two-day journey from the Philippines to Japan, Japan to the USA, our grandfather, Lolo in tagalog, and our mother's youngest sister, Tita Chet, accompanied us. It was 1968, our first time to travel on an airplane. Back then, airplane travel was a big deal for everyone, not just three young Filipino kids who were going to emigrate to the United States. People dressed up to fly in planes. Think Mad Men International, that's the timing for this leg of my journey.

     On the plane, the three of us, aged 5, 4, and 2 were fussy. The food was unfamiliar. There was a big slab of meat called a ‘steak’ on our tray, something we'd never seen before, and the milk in these containers tasted funny. We cried and were irritable on the long transatlantic flight. When we disembarked in Japan, I remember a finely dressed women with a handkerchief tied around her perfectly quaffed hair having to help me up when I fell down the aluminum stairs onto the tarmack. I was groggy when the plane landed in Japan and don't remember much more than this.

     I remember spending the night in a hotel. There was a time difference or we slept on the flight and weren't sleepy so we jumped on the beds and created a ruckus. Lolo was quite annoyed and kept telling us to go to sleep. We must have but I have no recollection.   

     As I said, it was a two-day flight and when we finally landed in the States, I'm sure my grandfather and parents were relieved. Was the flight supposed to take two days? Were we supposed to stay the night in Japan? If it was an unexpected layover, would our parents have known or were they waiting at the airport only to finally give up and go home alone? Back then, remember, flights were rare and communications entailed switchboards, expensive long distance rates, unreliable service and ungodly lag-times...thinking about the whole ordeal, it must have been a nightmare, really... 

     But we would eventually land. We were going through customs at JFK when our grandfather instructed us. "When I tell you, run to your parents,” he said. As we made our way, we wound up in a long corridor where way far away people stood looking for their overseas guests. We stopped to collect ourselves. Our Lolo peered down the hallway trying to find our parents' faces. When he spotted them, he told my brother and me to "Go. Go now," our grandfather nudged us and in typical Filipino fashion, pointed with his lips and nodded his head. "Run." So my brother and I looked at each other, shrugged and ran. But, I wanted to know, "Which of those people were our parents?" We had forgotten what they looked like. But we ran, I guess, hoping someone would step forward to claim us.

     At some point, my brother stopped running. He told me years later that he had to pull up the zipper on his pants. In any case, I got out ahead. Searching the faces of the people who were standing still as I whizzed by, I was caught by a man kneeling down with his arms outstretched. I could only hope it was the right guy, because to me, he was as much a stranger as the next one. 

     He hugged me and picked me up and kissed me on the cheek. My brother made it and he was embraced by our mom. And after a few seconds, they traded us off. 

    When our aunt arrived carrying our sister, Carolina wouldn't go to our mom. She clung to our aunt, refusing to let go. These people were strangers, after all. She had been away from them for as long as she had been with them. She began to cry. Our mother began to cry. At the time I didn’t know why.

* * *

In 2003, in Cold Spring, NY,my mom was helping me with the kids, with the packing, trying to spend as much time with us before we left. My father had died several years before. She was alone, but doing well on her own. I was very proud of her.

     I didn’t think for a moment, how our move would affect her. I didn’t see how.

     Teary-eyed, she helped me seal a box that would come with us on the plane. “Why would you move your kids to a third world country,” she began tentatively, “when your father and I sacrificed so much to get you out?” I honestly never thought of it that way. I wanted to say, ‘It’s because you gave us so much, that now we can afford to give back.’ But I didn’t say anything. I glanced at her and we moved on.