living abroad: part of you is always somewhere else

Over three weeks ago, I changed my flight to Northern Ireland.

Originally, I wasn't supposed to arrive until late last week. The previous three weeks had been set aside as a staycation with Dennis. Instead, Mum phoned me. I became worried about her, and especially about Dad, and within days I was on a plane.

As I sit down to write this, I've been away from Frankfurt for almost a month, with another two weeks still to go. Six weeks doesn't sound especially long. Dennis and I have spent time apart before because of his work. Normally, however, it's for only a couple of weeks, max, and we know there's always an end date in sight. This time feels different, though not for the reasons I expected.

Before I left, I already knew Dennis was struggling to get unemployment benefit after recently losing his job. He's only worked in Germany for six months, which means Germany needs proof of his previous employment in Austria so he can be eligible for unemployment benefit. Getting the Austrians to cooperate, however, has proved far from easy. Until that's sorted, we don't have health insurance, so we don't yet know who'll cover the costs for Dennis’ recent emergency treatment for a detached retina or my own ten-weekly infusion. Those concerns never really disappear. They simply become part of the background to whatever else the day brings.

Since arriving in Northern Ireland, I've found myself checking the weather in Frankfurt far more often than I ever imagined I would. Europe is in the middle of a heatwave. Here, in N Ireland, we reached a peak of around twenty-six degrees late last week. In contrast, Frankfurt was heading towards forty-one degrees. Dennis has been telling me that he's staying up later at night and getting up earlier in the morning to open all the windows before the apartment heats up again. It's such an ordinary thing to keep checking, yet I find myself looking almost every day. It's probably because of that heat that Frankfurt never feels very far away. Not physically. Mentally. Almost without noticing, I seem to check in with life there several times each day.

Dennis and I have never been great at talking on the phone, so we send each other short WhatsApp messages every morning and evening instead. Usually he simply starts with a "morning schatzi" or "goodnight schatzi", and I reply with "hey honey". The messages tell me just enough. Everything else my mind quietly fills in for itself.

It's funny because I think it's the lack of information that keeps part of me anchored in Frankfurt. If he told me every detail of his day, perhaps my mind could rest. Instead, it wanders back there on its own, filling in the spaces between those brief messages. I picture him sitting in our apartment. I wonder how hot it feels inside. I wonder whether Austria has finally sent the paperwork. I wonder whether he's managing. None of those thoughts stop me getting on with what's in front of me. They simply become part of the background, accompanying the day rather than interrupting it.

Meanwhile, life here continues asking for my attention. Being here isn't a holiday. I'm working whilst I'm here, fitting it around family life. Dad often interrupts because he needs help with his computer. I've discovered that saying, "I'm in the middle of something. I'll come in an hour", usually results in a mildly defensive, "Sorry. I'll not disturb you again". So I always stop what I'm doing to help him. Since getting caught up in recent scams, I also suspect part of me has remained on alert, wondering what Dad might get caught up in next.

Then there’s Mum. When Mum and I go to the supermarket, I notice how aware I am of where she is. She has a history of falling, and without consciously deciding to, I seem to keep track of her as we walk around the aisles. I don't want her to feel watched. I simply want to know she's okay.

I've also tried to make myself available so Mum can talk when she needs to. Living alongside Dad's cognitive decline isn't easy for her. She doesn't always need answers. Usually, she just needs someone else in the room who already understands enough that she doesn't have to explain every part of it.

Looking back, I realise it hasn't been one particular incident that has changed my understanding of how things are here. It's the accumulation of ordinary moments. The interruptions. The forgotten things. The small adjustments everyone makes without mentioning them.

When I first arrived, I wondered whether Mum had perhaps exaggerated how much Dad had declined. Now I understand much more clearly. It hasn’t been as a result of one defining moment, it’s been through all the ordinary moments that gradually fill each day. Somewhere along the way, it has slowly dawned on me that although I'm physically here, part of my attention keeps travelling back to Frankfurt..

Even those closest to us often understand where we live without really understanding what our everyday life looks like. They see us arrive with a suitcase. They don't see the life we've temporarily stepped away from. They don't see the paperwork still waiting in another country, the husband sleeping in an overheated apartment, the messages arriving at different times of day, or the way your thoughts wander hundreds of miles away whilst you're standing in a supermarket beside your mum. It's only afterwards, when the house falls silent for a little while, that you realise you've been carrying two lives at once.

Perhaps that's why what happened one afternoon caught me so off guard. Mum and Dad went out for lunch together. For the first time since I'd arrived, the house was completely quiet. I cried. I couldn't have explained why the tears came. Looking back, I suspect I was far more emotionally and mentally exhausted than I'd allowed myself to notice.

Afterwards, I found myself wondering why the tears had come so unexpectedly. I think it was because, for the first time since boarding the plane, everything had briefly fallen quiet. Only then did I realise how much of my attention had been moving backwards and forwards between two countries. That's one of the stranger parts of living abroad that people rarely see.

If any part of this feels familiar, please know that you don't have to carry it entirely on your own. Supporting women through the emotional complexity of life abroad, holding space for everything that rarely gets spoken about, is a privilege I never take for granted in my one-to-one personal support.

For now, though, I'm still here in Northern Ireland. Whilst one part of me is already wondering what I'll find when I unlock the apartment door in Frankfurt again, another part is simply making another cup of tea for Mum before Dad calls to ask for help with his computer.