The Hardest Thing

What's been the hardest part about our year abroad?

Visa application?
Okay, that was a nuisance, but ultimately it all worked out. And I got to visit friends at home for a long weekend.

Finding a school setting that worked for the boys?
Definitely stressful. But now, from the All's Good side of things, it was worth it. I'm glad the boys had the experience of going to zakladní škola Tusarova, even if it wasn't easy. As a friend noted, adversity isn't a bad thing for kids. It stretches them and opens their eyes a bit. Shows them they won't always be coddled. And though they'll likely never be fluent in Czech, at least not based on this year, they did get three months' immersion in the language and in the culture of the Czech school. Having said that, both Ben and Garrett show us all the time that they're still learning words and phrases and understanding so much more than when we arrived. Most important, they're enjoying school and that helps them enjoy this year.

Dealing with "rude" locals?
As I mentioned, I wouldn't call Czechs rude -- I'll leave that to the Czechs, thank you -- but surly? Surely. You just have to maintain a sense of humor about it. Like when the bus driver yelled at me and the mother of Ben's friend because our three boys were, well, talking exuberantly (please read "just this side of yelling"), as 8- and 6-year-old boys do, on a public bus.

Visa issues, finding the right school, dealing with locals? Those things just represent different aspects of moving and adjusting to a new culture. They're the yeast of a good story. And the longer the wait, the rougher the class, the more surly the natives, ... the more memorable the story, right?

But this is it -- while our heads and bodies are firmly planted right here in Prague, our hearts are often elsewhere. It's easy to name the hardest thing about this year: being so far away from people we love going through challenging times.


Dad

Ben and Grandpa tickle the ivories, December 2003

Grandpa and Garrett by the Pooh bear flag, which is always flying at Mom and Dad's when grandchildren are in residence, October 2005.

Dad and Mom have a house on the intercoastal waterway in South Carolina. From their floor-to-ceiling windows they watch great blue herons and egrets, barges and shrimp boats, kayakers and the occasional alligator, who has perhaps chased something out into the salt water. Maybe kayakers.

Almost three years ago, Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. The disease's progression has been slow but steady. Obviously there are memory lapses, repeated questions and stories. But all in all, they're managing beautifully. Helps that Mom's so patient, and she has her own support network to lean on.

Mom and Dad live in their own house, but it's part of an assisted living facility, kind of the low-maintenance end of it. My brothers and I, in dealing with the shock that comes with confronting a parent's mortality, have been very fortunate to not have to worry about the care Dad was receiving, nor about arrangements for the day when Dad will need full-time help. Their community, like many assisted living facilities, has a nursing home and an Alzheimer's floor. Mom and Dad have visited friends who've ended up on the floor. During one of their visits, Dad looked around the wing with new eyes.

"I'll probably end up here at some point," he said with a casual acceptance. "Nice place."

Both Dad and Mom have exhibited unbelievable grace in dealing with this diagnosis. As they first got used to the news, Dad chose to share it only with the family and close friends. But soon he started telling more and more folks. And now, he just sees it as something that's part of his world these days.

Dad's condition was my one niggling concern as we planned our year abroad. How far would the disease progress during our time away? Would he remember us when we returned? What memories of him would the boys retain?

Enter Skype. Video-calling has been our big ally in keeping in touch this year. I Skype with Mom and Dad a couple times a month, sometimes more. And with them at their dining table and me in my living room by the window, it just seems like we're sitting down to breakfast together, across a table rather than an ocean.

As far as noticeable progress of the disease? It's hard to say. Dad always knows who we are, although the names might not come immediately. But then he's never been great with names. No one knows that better than then-First Lady Hillary Clinton, whom Dad called "Valerie" twice (TWICE!) when he was telling her about the Volunteers in Medicine, the organization he founded. (Just try to make it through that video of Dad and the clinic without tearing up, I dare you.) Years ago Dad groused to a colleague that he had better recall with people's phone numbers than their names.

"Well, then," his friend retorted, "shout out the number and see if they're clever enough to respond!" So when Karl wonders if Dad refers to him these days as "good buddy" a bit more often than he used to, well ... I'm not so sure.

Last Tuesday Dad celebrated his 86th birthday by going out swing dancing with Mom.


Marti

Garrett shows Marti how the space shuttle fits on the back of a tow truck, January 2008.

 

Four weeks before we left for Prague, Marti, our dear friend and neighbor, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Marti and her husband, Stan, live across the street from us. To say we socialize with them a lot is an understatement.

Marti and Stan are more like extended family, a set of surrogate grandparents for the boys. Garrett frequently would go over to hang out and make cookies with Marti. And, perhaps to show that she was every bit as much fun as Stan (who once fed the boys ice cream for breakfast after a sleepover), Marti bought an electronic, disc-shooting robot for Ben and Garrett to play with at their place. We have keys to each others' houses. Karl and I call their kitchen the auxiliary pantry, and they feel free to call upon us for a missing ingredient. We do something with them most weekends we're in Oneonta, even if it's just pooling resources to grill in their backyard, watching the latest Netflix disc, or playing Scrabble.

I feel Marti's situation keenly this year. When we're home, we're right across the street from her. All this time, I could have been popping in to hang out, watch a movie, make a pot of tea for us to share. And don't think I'm being altruistic in imagining these scenarios. There's a huge selfish side to this in that I simply would love to hang out with Marti just for my own benefit. I love her like a sister, and I hate not being there right now.


Joe

Four weeks ago, Karl's brother Joe was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia. He went into a hospital in Chicago to begin treatment two days later. He had four weeks of chemo to knock out the cancer cells, and now Karl's sister Mara is in Chicago to start the process for stem cell harvesting. (How awesome is it that Mara is a match? Very awesome.)

If you've been reading this blog, you may have noticed some comments along the way from Joe, including his note that my profile of Karl was alarmingly familiar to him. If anyone is interested in reading a funny blog with a "wry, what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it attitude," look no further than Joe's Blasts. Sure it's about cancer, but that's beside the point. Joe brings the funny. Here, here, and here are our favorite posts, funny-wise. But the best post so far is that everything seems to be going as well as hoped for in his treatment.

Dad, Marti, and Joe all kindly gave their consent to being referenced in this blog post, which I appreciate deeply. We spend a lot of time thinking and talking about folks we love, particularly these three nowadays. We are so grateful to be in Prague. But this aspect of being away from family and friends-who-are-like-family when they are ill is the worst. It's the hardest thing.