New Territory? It Helps to Ask - by Kiersten Chuven
The end of 2009 and the beginning of 2010 was a time of tumult–excitement, uncertainty, and tragedy–for my family and me. We could not have navigated it without the insights and warnings of community members, many of whom were strangers.
In September 2009, my husband (a wildlife biologist) was flown to the United Arab Emirates to interview for a job in wildlife conservation. Shockingly, he was offered it on the spot–though with no details. He was told the official offer would be emailed immediately.
Not at all sure the job was a feasible option for our family, or even the right path forward, we refreshed the inbox feverishly for months. We were scared, excited, curious. It felt like a dare, or a golden ticket, or an abyss we might have to leap into without knowing how we’d land.
We did not have enough information.
As a child, I’d learned to be fiercely self-reliant. My husband had the same instinct. So, initially, we did the self-reliant things: we went to the library, searched the internet, read and watched everything we could get our hands on about schools, the cost of housing, food, the culture, religion and laws, etc. But what we found was impersonal, historical, theoretical—nothing we could truly hold onto or trust.
Although it felt vulnerable, we started talking about this possibility with friends, family and colleagues. We got responses that were laced with curiosity, skepticism, discouragement, judgement, fear. To some degree or another, all of us fear change. Routine and predictability feel so much more safe.
Occasionally, though, vulnerability would pay off. We’d find ourselves talking to someone who would say: “Oh, I actually know someone who did something like that; want me to introduce you?” Or we’d fill in the “Contact Me” fields at the bottom of a blog page where someone had shared their expat experience, and they’d actually write back.
We found ourselves in Skype calls with strangers, friends of friends, people eleven time zones away, asking them taboo questions, “How much money does it really take to be okay there? I need you to give me a number and then explain that number.” Or: “Will my kids be okay? What are the chances we will find anyone to be friends with? Will I feel safe being myself over there, on the other side of everything familiar? What will this nebulous choice mean for our future?”
In late November 2009, we finally received the detailed job offer. They wanted us to begin the new job—and the new life—immediately. We had been urging them to hurry up and give us a final decision; now we were the ones asking for more time, so we could quit our jobs, sell our cars and house, and say goodbye to our friends.
In December 2009, my mom died by suicide. Initially, we tried to be self-reliant. Because of the holiday season, the suddenness, and the reflexive shame and fear of judgement, we wished to not bother anyone. We tried to focus on only the practical details, as if that might keep the ground beneath us from shifting.
But it was new territory, and we would need people–and information–we could hold onto and trust. We had to be vulnerable. We had to ask people who had some experience to show us the way. This meant, for example, calling a friend who was a lawyer to ask what legal steps might need to be taken; she referred us to an estate lawyer. It meant trying out questions on possibly the wrong person (like asking the funeral home director for a comprehensive list of who might need a death certificate and whether it really had to be an official death certificate). He was the wrong person to ask; he sold us 20 certificates and we probably only needed one or two. But the real estate agent connected us with various services for cleaning and estate sales. And it turned out to be true that “grief shared is grief diminished.” We felt the weight of the loss lighten just a little when we could be vulnerable enough to speak openly about it.
It was February 2, 2010, when we landed with our two young sons at the Dubai airport. Because of time zones, it was still February 2–Groundhog Day–when I called home a day later to say we were all right. Everything was the same: diapers reliably needed to be changed, the sun reliably came up in the morning. And also: nothing would ever be the same again.
We eventually became wayfinders for other newcomers. We welcomed them, despite their strange accents and foreign experiences, just as we–with ours–had been welcomed. We answered their taboo questions with candor and kindness. We helped them find schools, sports teams, piano teachers, just as we’d been helped. We invited them to our children’s birthday parties, just as we’d been invited.
We asked them to tell us about the loved ones they’d left behind. We asked how they were finding their way, and how we might support them.
Kiersten Chuven was a Middle and High School English teacher in three states before moving, with her husband and young sons, to the United Arab Emirates where they lived for 12 years. She now resides in Fort Collins and is the Director of Adult Programs for the non-profit Alliance for Suicide Prevention of Larimer County. She teaches a variety of free and low-cost mental health and suicide prevention classes throughout Larimer County for all types of organizations. Please reach out to invite her to speak to your group at info@suicideprevent.org.
