Just Me .... A Canadian Having a Ball in Doha

​I'm done with being moody.  

Ok, not really, but for the sake of maintaining a readership of ten per day, I feel an obligatory injection of humor and optimism is in good order :-)​

So I've been wondering of late what exactly keeps us in Doha.  Illness and death overseas get you thinking that way...​  but enough of that.  

So.  

Really.  

What does keep us happy in Doha?

Well, this weekend, it was the Great Canadian Snoball ... With entertainment like "Hot Mess" and special invites like "Cirque Eloise".

A band dressed like the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (in short shorts) and girls in ball gowns and goalie masks make life in the desert ​quirky cool.  A giant moose mascot and a styrofoam snowball fight bring together people of all nationalities.  

RCMP in shorts and Ray Bans ...  Stanley cup-like trophies in the background ... Doha Canadiana.

We sat united at a table with Doha-ites from Canada, Poland, the USA and England , all joining together in a tandem lip-sync of a bilingual anthem no proper Canadian can sing in its entirety.

These are the social media moments when you're grateful for the anonymity a Canadian hockey mask allows ...

We all congregated at the open bar, heaving bosoms from all nations stuffed tight into patriotic white and red ball gowns.  A few kilts dotted the room, doubtless a few Nova Scotians who had long since forgotten their heritage but couldn't get enough of the thrill of knee-high socks and dangling jewels. 

We rushed (politely .... "Sorry", "No, please, excuse ME", "pardonnez-moi", "please! go ahead") to queue in orderly fashion as our table number was called for the Canadian spread at the buffet table.  

Pea soup from Quebec, sheppard's pie from the Maritimes, salmon from the Pacific Coast, mussels from the Atlantic, perrogis from the prairies, Alberta beef, poutine from Quebec (French fries smothered in cheese and gravy. ...... classy, yes?).  

No wonder we're the nation renowned for "sorry" and "Tim Horton's".  We never came up with a sauce we could truly call our own.  (Though all true Canadians will recognize canned Habitant pea soup as a National staple.)

We got progressively toasted as the eve wore on.  

The Polish crew invited the far less hardy Canadians to join them in a vodka toast.  

The French tut-tutted the absence of foie gras.  

The Sri Lankan bar man regaled in the attention bestowed upon him in patrons' quest for more free booze.  

The Egyptian got a little too close to the Scottsman's wife.  

The Brit sat quietly at the table sipping on gin and tonic until 1:00 a.m., at which point he suddenly broke into a tear-rendering version of "God Save the Queen" (to which we all drunkenly raised our glasses).

The Canadians kept on shouting "He SCORES!!!!!!!" for no obvious reason. 

The Spaniards gathered with us kept on countering with "GOALLLLLL"! 

The non-smokers surreptitiously lit up, and the TESL teacher started giving lessons on how to tie a cherry stem into a knot with your tongue.  

One by one the room moved away from the accountant who chose this night to display his hidden talent (farting rendition of "Oh Canada"; btw he didn't miss a single note).  

We watched in awe as the respectable, reputable project manager went from table to table showing off his amazing skill of pulling the cloth out from under the table contents without tipping a single salt shaker.  Until he did.  Then we all turned away in disgust.

We listened and sang along as the band played songs from Canadian legends like Gordon Lightfoot, Stompin' Tom, The Tragically Hip, Brian Adams, Chilliwack (sadly, no "1755" or Lynda Lemay ... French wasn't on the playlist ....).  Once the band was spent, people of all nations clambered onto the dance floor, kicked off their shoes and danced like Carlton to hits of today.

A few disparate souls staggered out before the night was over. But most, in good Canadian fashion, stayed until last call was called.  And even then, quite a few lingered.  Reminiscing around the closed bar, much in the way we hang about at a good old eastern Canadian kitchen party, shooting the $&:! and willing a good night amongst friends to go on.  And then one by one we made our way slowly back "home".

All in all, it was a wonderful night to be a Canadian in Doha.  

To just BE.

A Canadian. 

In Doha. 

The Last Goodbye - through the eyes of an expat (Part 3 - The End)

I landed in Doha on Thursday, February 27, 2014.  I'd mercifully slept on the flight; this made the 1-hour wait at customs bearable.

Landing in Doha ...

My flight was two hours early.  Since Smilin' Vic hadn't checked the flight status online, this meant no exuberant greeting party at the airport for me.  That was ok.  I was truly beyond caring.  The last goodbye had depleted me.  I waited about twenty minutes outside the airport for Smilin' Vic and Kiddo to show up.

When they finally rolled up, the first thing Kiddo said to me was "You look so sad, Maman."

I decided then and there that I had to smarten up.  My Dad wouldn't want Kiddo worrying about me.  I put on a happy face.

We got home, and I unloaded the clothes and gifts I'd brought back for her and Smilin' Vic.  They had wine and candles set up and ready for me, and we spent a few hours catching up as a family.  

Then we put Kiddo to bed and I proceeded to get toasted.

Not a nice thought, eh?  That I would land after three weeks from home and get drunk on the first night back ...  

But let's be frank, getting drunk's not that foreign to expats.  Amazingly, it's probably more common to expats living in the Middle East than to expats anywhere else worldwide.  And I guess I figured "If ever there was a time to get loaded out of my gourd, tonight's the night".  Having said my last goodbye and all, you know?

I'll admit I was sloppy.  Cried all the tears I'd kept bottled up inside and then some.  Expressed my anger at the world and allowed myself to shout out "Life's NOT fair!",  and "Only the good die young!"

I got Smilin' Vic to YouTube "The Highwaymen" and just about every song Hank Snow, Hank Williams, Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash and Kris Kristoferson ever sang.  And I listened, and I drank, and I cried like a baby.

Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings and Kris Kristofferson perform the Jimmy Webb song "Highwayman" live. Filmed in March 1990 at Long Island's Nassau Coliseum. http://www.amazon.co.uk/Highwaymen-Live/dp/B000CIXDDG

I slept until about 2 p.m. the next day, while Smilin' Vic carted Kiddo around to a school festival and a birthday party.  I woke up with a head that felt like led and a true sense of despondency.  But I soldiered on;  took a shower, prepared a nice supper for Kiddo and Smilin' Vic, laid off the booze, and steeled myself for the workweek ahead.

I returned to work on Sunday with greetings of "how was your vacation?" and "did you get to go skiing?"

I'd just spent the last three weeks in a nursing home with a father who could no longer walk, barely whisper, no longer sing.

I wanted to punch everyone in the face.

Instead I smiled and replied "it was just a tad too cold for sports".

I carried on for five full days.  Sunday to Thursday.  

Smiling.  

Wanting to punch everyone in the face.

On Thursday, March 6, 2014, I left the office at 17:05 and headed for the parking garage.  As I got into my car, at exactly 17:09, I heard a 'ping' on my phone.

It was a text from my sister, my mentor.  It read simply "Dad has passed away."

Gone?  Never!  He was invincible...

I drove home numb.  Apparently I called Smilin' Vic.  By the time I'd gotten home, he'd arranged for my flight back to Canada for the very next morning.  Seven days after having returned to the Land of Sand.  Fourteen hours mid-air.  Just in time to reverse the jet lag.

I didn't have to make a new list for Kiddo's school activities and lunchbox contents;  they could use the one I'd prepared for my last trip a few short weeks ago.

Upon arriving home, I proceeded to drink half a bottle of wine, type out and send two projects with "next week" deadlines to my boss, throw half my closet haphazardly into a suitcase, and inform Kiddo just before bedtime that I wouldn't be seeing her for the next week because Pepere had died and I had to fly out really early the next morning.  We'd talked a lot about the fact that he would die soon; she was sad, but 8-year-olds are amazingly resilient.

Keeping busy kept the tears at bay.  Everyone always says you should be prepared for these events as an expat, but I'm strangely glad I hadn't packed my bags, bought an open-ended plane ticket or thought the whole thing out that much.  The busy-ness halted the insanity.

I boarded my 14-hour flight the next morning.  I landed in Montreal.  My sister and brother-in-law picked me up.  I spent the night at their place, and the next morning we got in the car and headed out on the 9-hour drive halfway across Canada, headed to my father's birthplace and final resting place.

I gazed listlessly at the rolling, snow-covered landscape as we drove along silently.  I typed out my Dad's eulogy in the backseat of the car.  I held my sister's hand while her son and husband listened to music in the front seat.  And her and I ... well, we cried our fair share.

But we laughed too.  Quite a bit, actually.  It felt so good, on those last miles home, just being with family.

Uploaded by Adam Pietroń on 2014-02-05.

We spent the next few nights in a small motel in my Dad's hometown; all my siblings and me, a few nieces and nephews.  We mourned at the funeral home during the day and celebrated my Dad at night as we all congregated in my room.  We had a huge pajama party.  We laughed, we cried, we told stories.

Family Pajama Party.

Studies show that a Best Western double bed can hold 10 grieving family members ... as long as they're laughing and willing to forego comfort.

We stood together as they closed the coffin.  We cried together.  We held each other.  We supported each other.

We sat in the front pew as my sister read the eulogy with the voice of an angel.  We gathered with extended family in the church basement after all was said and done.

We got back in our cars the next day and headed back to Montreal.  And I boarded a plane a few days later.

Away from the pajama parties, away from the solidarity, away from the familiarity, away from my Dad.

Back to Doha.  Back to Qatar.  Back to normal.  The 'new' normal.  

Back to work.

If anyone at work asks me if I went skiing, I think I might just punch them in the face.

Goodbye. God Bless. I love you.  

The Last Goodbye - through the eyes of an expat (Part 2)

It's my amazing brother-in-law who had the God-awful task of driving me to the airport after my last goodbye to my Dad on February 26, 2014.

We sat awkwardly in the car at the first intersection ... bundled up in silence, twelve layers of underwear, and a parka as we willed the car heater to live up to its full potential.

The light was red.  I uttered my only words of the trip ... "This will be my one regret.  I've worked so hard to live without regret, but I can't forgive myself for leaving him."

Awkward silence.  Really nothing left to say after that ...

We drove on, and my brother-in-law walked me in to the Pierre-Elliott Trudeau Airport departures terminal.  Bless him.  My sister, my mentor, called from Toronto (she'd had to go on a business trip to Toronto the day before I left) as we were saying our goodbyes.  I choked up.  Tried to be strong for her and failed.  

Summoned up all my courage to avoid breaking down again in front of my brother-in-law.  Hugged him and thanked him for his amazing support through all of this.  Support to me, support to my sister, support to my Dad, support all-around.  

Ignored the tears in his eyes and the crack in his voice as he told me to be good, hug Kiddo and say hi to Smilin' Vic.  Focused solidly on the strength in his stance and the warmth in his smile.

Turned towards the Security check-in, but slipped into the bathroom first.  Once my bro-in-law was gone, went to get myself a double-double Tim Horton's coffee (bye-bye caffeine-free pledge) and snuck outside to sip on it as I puffed on a smoke or ten, forsaking the business class lounge for caffeine, tobacco and a "why bother?" attitude in minus 25C weather outside the terminal.

Boarded the plane with minutes to spare, chased a Gravol down with a couple of glasses of Rose champagne, and caught a tear-blurred view of the de-icing of our delayed flight.

Preparing to remove the ice so we can fly to the Land of Sand ...

Reclined my seat 'til it was flat, and fell asleep watching "Three Weddings and a Funeral".  It just seemed right.

Champagne and "Three Weddings and a Funeral" ...

For the first time in my life, I wasn't excited about heading back to Smilin' Vic.  Even the fact that I'd see my Kiddo in 14 hours after being gone longer than ever before didn't ignite a spark.  I felt truly, truly numb.

I considered my life ... an expat life.  

I wondered at the cost of travel, the cost of adventure.  I wondered what it all boiled down to.  I wondered if the only truly memorable thing about Expat-dom might be goodbyes.

It's been said that if we knew what fate awaited us, we'd never bother getting out of bed in the morning.  I guess that's kind of how I felt on that long, long, long road "home".

Landing .... in the Land of Sand.w

The Last Goodbye - through the eyes of an expat (Part 1)

I was fully determined to make my next post as morose as possible ... but my Dad just wouldn't let it end that way.

He just had to include talk of farts in our last goodbye.

I wanted to let the world - or at the very least my 16 faithful followers - KNOW how incapacitating, debilitating and earth-shattering a last goodbye could be for an expat.

I wanted readers to FEEL how powerless I FELT when I said my last goodbye to my Dad.  How I sat in the darkness of his room on a cold winter's night in Montreal.  

Him, sleeping in his big Lazy-Boy chair, holding my hand.

Me seated in a chair next to him, trying to come to grips with the reality that this was truly the last goodbye.

Me, praying that I would forevermore remember the feel of his hand wrapped tight around mine.  

Holding on while letting go ...

Him, rasping.  

Me, willing the thoughts and the love in my heart to reach through the darkness, through the cancerous pain that gripped him, through the murkiness of Alzheimer's in which he was drowning.  

Him, clinging to this blessed moment of peace enveloping him, dressed as sleep but actually concocted from a lethal cocktail of morphine and pain.

Two of my sisters, my brother and one brother-in-law seated down the hallway, allowing me a final 30 minutes of blessed quiet with this man to whom I owed my very existence.  Allowing me to close my eyes and shed tears in absolute silence as I tried to synchronize my breath to his.  Allowing me to pray to God in silence that I might find the strength to say the last goodbye to my Dad without shedding a tear so that he might believe this goodbye was simply a "good night" like any other that we'd shared over the last three weeks. 

Me and my Dad, seated side by side, so very like so many times past, yet so very different.  I'd never appreciated sitting next to him quite as much as I did on the night of February 26, 2014.  Knowing it was the last goodbye ...

He opened his eyes once and whispered to me that his wall was pretty full.  It was a wall that we'd literally plastered with pictures of friends and family.  I said: "Yes, it's a good wall", and he nodded.  "It's a good family."  And he nodded.  And he closed his eyes.

It's a good wall; it's a good family ...

Fifteen minutes before I had to leave for the airport, my Dad woke up, and I asked my family to come back in.  I didn't want him to be alone when I finally left.  Since he'd lost most of his voice by now (one of the sure signs that the end was imminent) and his ability to sing, we all sat in silence for a bit.  But my Dad could still whistle.  And so, despite all the healthy lungs in the room, it was he who - despite his crumbling lungs and pain-wracked body - finally broke the silence with a whistling tune.

I had put all my stuff outside his room.  When it was time to go I simply said goodnight and told him that I had to get to bed, hugged him, gave him a kiss and told him I loved him.  Because of his Alzheimer's, it was crucial that I not leave him with the pain of a last goodbye.  A "good night" meant I'd be back.  But he still had enough wherewithal to know what a "goodbye" from me meant.  I went out and put on my coat.  

But I couldn't help myself; I had to go in and give him one last kiss and touch him one last time.  

He smelled my coat and asked in a barely audible whisper if I smoke.  I said "yes".  

He asked if I fart too.  I said "yes".  

Somehow, beneath that veil of morphine and forgetfulness, it's like he knew he couldn't leave me on a sad note.  I avoided looking at my family; I knew that their teary-eyed smiles would break me.

I breathed in his smell one last time before boarding the 14-hr flight that would carry me 10,500 km to my husband and daughter and life back in Doha.

I said "je t'aime Papa."  He whispered "je t'aime aussi".

And I left.  I didn't cry in front of him.  God helped me with that.   

Shadows in the ME ...

An odd shadow swept across the Doha sky on the morning I touched back down in the Land of Sand; a mysterious swipe of darkness contrasted against an otherwise seemingly fine bright sky.

Not clouds, not fog, not mist.  Simply a mysterious shadow reflecting upon the heavens from below. 

An appropriate reflection of the shadow casting darkness over me. 

How very fitting ... 

Note the shadow clearly visible from our front porch.  This photo was not retouched.