The notion that bad things happen in threes is a crock. I was thirty-five, the summer my father died. I hadn’t seen him in years. Cal, my maternal grandfather, followed three short months later. As leaves changed from green to orange, it seemed even the trees mourned. As a new year began, holding promise for new beginnings, my twenty-three-year-old brother, Zack, overdosed just as he was gaining a foothold in sobriety. Still reeling from the death of Zack, our mother was diagnosed with an aggressive form of melanoma before summer arrived once more. Year after year, the deaths continued as if trying to keep up with the changing of the season. Fall, great-grandmother, old age. Winter, father-in-law, cancer. Spring, sixteen-year-old cousin, suicide. The cycle of death concluded with my mother days after I turned forty.

Final tally: Death—seven; Years—five.

I spent the better part of those five years and then some at the bottom of a bottle trying to numb my pain. There hadn’t been time to make my way through even a single stage of grief before another loss took center stage. Life wasn’t supposed to be this way. I wasn’t supposed to live in a constant state of mourning and sorrow, always wondering who’d be next. But this had become my reality. With each death, the heartache compounded. My world turned upside down, inside out, and backward. The titles which had defined me were gone. I was no longer Cal’s granddaughter or Zack’s sister. I would never again call anyone Mom or Dad. I didn’t know how to deal with the overwhelming emotion or the loss of my identity. But I did know a few drinks at the end of the day would suspend reality for at least a few hours.

Just one more drink and I can forget about my grief.

Just one more and I can forget about my guilt.

Just one more and I can stop thinking about what I should have done.

Just one more and I can sleep tonight.

I had turned into a woman quick to anger and fearful every time the phone rang, wondering what bad news was coming next. I wanted to strangle every person who told me things would get better with time. Minor difficulties brought on bouts of sadness and despair. I felt like I had no one to talk to, or maybe, more accurately, that no one would understand.

I had always been the responsible one, the one whom friends and family, even my mother, would turn to for advice. I could think through problems in a logical manner, always able to suggest a solution, a way to work things out. But there was no way to work this out. There was only the downward spiral into blackness. I’d put on a pleasant face when I had to since constant sadness was socially faux pas, but the fact was I didn’t want to share. I didn’t want to talk about it. I only longed to escape.

I’d get up each morning and try to quell my hangover with coffee—at least enough to get my two boys, RJ and Tyler, out of bed and ready for the day, drop them at school, and go to work. But work was another source of feeling incompetent, I couldn’t focus on anything other than the minutiae of a year-long adventure around the world—an adventure my husband and I had talked of often but which had faded into the background. The trip became a beacon in the darkness, a lighthouse shining the way home, a safe harbor out of grief’s troubled waters. Rather than do my actual work of solving issues for clients, I’d sit at my desk, hiding behind my computer screen and scour the internet, site after site, searching for obscure places to visit, ignoring deadlines and clients’ emails. I’d work on a budget for a year-long trip and investigate volunteer opportunities where my husband, Ray, a dentist, could provide services as we traveled. I examined how I could educate my two teen boys on the road. I was seeking the hidden corners of the world where grief couldn’t find me. I was going through the motions of life, but in a cloud, only half present.

Ironically, right at the lowest point in my life, when I was begging for the universe to give me a break, it did just that. The details for the round-the-world trip we’d been dreaming about for years fell into place. We had done enough research to prepare our family for long-term travel; we had the means to make the trip a reality; all that was left was my willingness to let go of my fear and embrace the unknown. Easier said than done.

***

Ray held the wine bottle up to the light to see how much was gone. “I think we need to reconsider the trip.”

“What? Why?” I already knew why, but I wanted to hear him say the words out loud. I wanted him to put a voice to the thoughts swirling in my mind—you’re a terrible mother, just as you were a disrespectful daughter; you’re failing everyone; you’re self-indulgent; you can’t even get grief right.

Instead, Ray sat next to me on the couch and turned toward me. “I just don’t think you’re in a state to make the trip.” He held my gaze for a moment then dropped his head as if he’d just said the most painful words possible. Ray had no idea how much more destructive my own internal dialogue could be.

“Well, clearly I’m not right now.” I hoped my words were not slurred. “The trip is still six months from now, Ray. I’ll be fine.”

“Lisa, maybe you should think about counseling.” This was not the first time he’d brought up counseling. Did I really need therapy? Probably. But all I could imagine was sitting in an office with an old guy in an argyle sweater and wire-rimmed glasses telling me to remember all my great memories, embrace the pain, remember you’re not alone, blah, blah, blah. Really? Get over it? Oh, okay, sure. Can you give me five easy steps?

I closed my eyes willing myself to stay calm. “Six months, Ray,” I repeated, reaching for his hand. “I promise I’ll get my shit together.”

He wasn’t done with me yet. “We can always postpone, go in a few years.”

“No,” I said, a little louder than I’d intended. “If we wait, the boys will be in high school and won’t be able to go.” I sighed and rubbed my head. “Honestly, I need to go. I feel like the trip is the only light I can see right now. We both know I’m not functioning very well here. I need a break from all this sadness.”

Travis Air Force Base

Six months later, I sat with Ray and our two teenage boys, RJ and Tyler, in the modest passenger terminal of the Travis Air Force Base airport, midway between Sacramento and San Francisco, wondering if I was making a mistake. I looked around at the other passengers—some dressed in travel fatigues ready to embark on a new mission, others in civilian clothing with kids in tow ready for a family vacation. At first glance, the waiting area looked like any other terminal, except for a quiet that permeated the space. Though the floors were polished to a high shine and the rows of chairs were ordered to military precision, there was a heaviness to this space. This terminal had seen its fair share of grief, had greeted the families of fallen soldiers, served as a doorway for physically and mentally wounded troops, cradled friends and family of survivors in the chairs now occupied by travelers. Though everyone was quiet, I felt alone in this understanding.

Ray was busy at his computer and the boys played on their gadgets, but I struggled to focus long enough to remember what I was doing on my own computer as my thoughts vacillated between thinking a trip around the world was too big of an endeavor and knowing I was desperate to escape the confines of my daily life that seemed to be always closing in on me. With a flight booked to Hawaii, I was now searching for a hotel room in Honolulu but site after site showed little availability.

With more flights to Hawaii and Guam than any other military base on the west coast, Travis Air Force Base was the first stop on our world tour. After a two-day, nine-hundred-mile drive to Travis from our hometown of Bellingham, Washington, my family of four had spent the better part of a week waiting for a flight heading west. Now confirmed on a flight to Hickam Air Force Base in Honolulu, we were headed in the right direction. But an hour of calls and scouring websites had not yielded a reasonably priced place to stay once we arrived—perhaps a minor setback for most people, but more than I could cope with.

“Did you try temporary family housing on base?” Ray asked.

“Yes,” I answered with a hint of annoyance.

“The Hale Koa on Waikiki?”

I tried to keep my voice down even though the words wanted to blast from my mouth. “Booked until Wednesday.” Of course, I had tried all the military options. This was the problem with Space-A travel. Flexibility and adaptability are mandatory, and I was struggling with both. I looked around to make sure I hadn’t drawn the attention of any of the other travelers. I had to imagine that at least some of these travelers were also facing the same problem. Why was I the only one who couldn’t cope?

Everyone in the military can take advantage of the Space Available program, Space-A for short. As a dentist in the Public Health Service, Ray was a member of the United States Uniformed Service, which allowed our family use of the program. Military planes fly from base to base all over the world every day moving troops, equipment, and supplies. When there is extra space, the seats are offered to those traveling for personal reasons at little to no cost. The downside to Space-A is that flights are only posted seventy-two hours in advance and are subject to change, sometimes mid-flight, or cancellation without notice. I expected I’d have to scramble to find lodging and transportation as we moved from base to base. What I didn’t expect was the escalation of my anxiety as we tried to pin down the details.

Sitting across the aisle, Ray stared at his laptop. “If you’re having trouble, I can look.”

“I’m not having trouble!” I snapped at him. “I know how to use a phone and computer. I found a room, but it will cost us more than three hundred dollars a night and who knows how long it’ll be before the next hop.” This had been typical of our conversations lately. I’d take one word from Ray and read a whole book of judgment into it. Maybe he was trying to be helpful, but I couldn’t see it. I only heard echoes of my incompetence.

Ray looked around at the other passengers in the terminal and then peered over his glasses, his hazel eyes locked on me as though trying to decide how to respond to my outburst. “We knew this part of the trip would be challenging. Just calm down. We’ll figure it out.” He looked back at his computer.

“You mean I’ll figure it out. I don’t see you helping. But maybe I’m just having trouble.” I hated being told to calm down. My emotions boiling over, I opted for escape.

I made it to the bathroom as the tears spilled. I hated crying almost as much as being told to calm down but lately it had become all too common an occurrence. I felt like I’d been knocked down and dragged through the dirt. The feelings of happiness and ease that had marked my early days of being a wife and mother had hardened almost to the point of inaccessibility. I’d started referring to this period as The Seven-Year Glitch. I needed to believe it was a finite period, a phase that was ending, an episode that could be contained and wrapped up neatly with a big black bow, that no one else I loved would join the ranks of the dead.

As I sat in the stall wiping the tears, I kept replaying the conversation with Ray. Why did I turn every conversation with him into a negative judgment? I didn’t honestly believe he thought of me as incapable or stupid. The last thing I wanted was to push him away now when we would need to rely on one another and be unified in our decisions.

I stepped out of the stall and made my way to the sink, running the water until it was ice cold. I didn’t want my boys to see me crumbling for no apparent reason. When The Glitch began, RJ and Tyler were too young to have a solid understanding of death or the grief that comes along with it. But now, at fourteen and fifteen, I knew they would be able to see I was suffering even if I didn’t tell them directly.

I washed my hands and splashed my face, but avoided the mirror knowing no amount of cold water would fade the dark circles under my eyes or bring life back to my colorless skin. I knew loss would be reflected in the down-turned lines of my mouth, the dull-blue eyes staring back at me without their usual sparkle, the lax facial muscles that had forgotten how to smile.

At the last minute, I chanced a glance anyway.

This is why you need to go, Lisa. Jesus, look at yourself!

I was raised during a time when the media idealized the woman who could do it all—pilot a successful career, maintain a happy marriage, raise two gifted children, and still manage to cook, clean, head the PTA, and maintain a sexy physique. This had been my life, and I had flourished in the role of Superwoman for a time. But The Glitch had cut my momentum off at the knees. For seven years, my ability to thrive as a wife and mother, let alone in my job as an IT consultant, waned with each death. All the life I had left, I poured into keeping up a “normal” appearance for my boys. Underneath the facade, however, weariness tempted me to drop into a soft bed and sleep until the world righted itself.

I patted my face and dried my hands, grimacing at the scratchy feel of the industrial paper towels on my skin. I took a deep breath and tried to relax my shoulders. I couldn’t let my fears or the squabbling with Ray cloud the kickoff to the trip I’d dreamed of for most of my life. I didn’t want my boys to sense my hesitancy and interpret it as fear. I didn’t want to model surrender when life got too tough. This was my opportunity to leave my world behind, to discover new places where grief didn’t linger, to figure out my new identity. I didn’t want RJ and Tyler to live with a mom who was suffering all the time. I still wanted to be Superwoman, or at least Supermom, in their eyes. And even though it went against everything I’d ever heard about facing my problems head on, I knew the only way to get back to a place where equanimity was possible was to leave the world I knew behind.

I startled as the loudspeaker crackled to life. “Flight 89 to Hickam Air Force Base, Honolulu, Hawaii, will begin boarding in twenty minutes. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready.” Time to get moving. I had to pull my shit together. I made sure the tears had been erased, straightened my clothes, and resolved to figure out lodging.

As I walked back to Ray and the boys, I caught sight of a faded poster on the wall showing a once vibrant sunset, now pastel, at a secluded beach with a palm tree in the foreground, obviously a promotion for Hawaii. I recalled a friend saying, “If you get to Hawaii, look up Stacey. She just moved there with her husband.” I had met Stacey only once before, years earlier, but I was willing to take a chance and contact her. She might have some insider tips on where to stay since she now called Hawaii home.

“I just remembered,” I started before Ray could get in a word. I didn’t want to launch back into a squabble. “I have an acquaintance in Hawaii I can check with to see if she has any ideas.”

“Sure,” he replied, no hint of agitation. “I’m looking too.”

I popped online, pulled up Facebook and sent an instant message to Stacey detailing our dilemma, asking if she had any recommendations. Within minutes, my computer chimed as her response came in, “We have plenty of space for you all to stay here. Do you have a car, or do you need a ride?” Tears threatened again, but this time from relief.

“Guess what!?” I turned to Ray and the boys. “Stacey said we can stay with her.”

“I told you things would work out. You really need to learn to use The Force,” Ray shot me a playful grin.

Ray credited The Force for his calm and collected everything-will-work-out-fine attitude. The same “these-are-not-the-droids-you-are-looking-for” Force from Star Wars. I first encountered his use of The Force on a trip to Florida when Ray wanted to take us to visit his grandparents.

Checking things off my planning list, I asked, “Do you have their address?”

“Nope, we’ll be fine. They haven’t moved. I’m sure I can find it.”

“When was the last time you were there?” I was concerned we’d end up driving in circles for hours in the Florida sun with an infant in the back seat.

“Maybe five years ago. Ten possibly,” he answered, still calm.

“Do you at least know what street it’s on? I’m sure the town has grown. What if everything is different? Have you even told them we’re coming?” The questions were pouring out as I thought of everything that could go wrong in our search for Grandma and Grandpa. “How do you expect to find their house?”

“I’ll just use The Force,” he said with complete seriousness.

Unconvinced, I printed out maps of the town and plotted out what we’d need to do when Ray’s Force failed us. In the end, he drove right up to their place. 

Looking at him now, I said, “I’m not sure The Force is enough to get us around the world.”

“Well, it can’t hurt. And you’ve done all the research you can possibly do. So, we’re as prepared as we can be.”

“I guess so,” I mumbled.

In the months I’d spent researching long-term travel, I’d hoped to find tips and tricks, money-saving ideas and travel hacks such as how to live out of a backpack for extended periods. I wanted to know how to find the best deals on hotels, best places to take teens for education and wow factor, where to get local currency, and what to eat. I wanted some control over my environment by having as much planned as possible. But trying to define the minutiae only led to a heightened awareness that there was no way to have all the details figured out before we left, especially when we didn’t know exactly where we were going.

Personal travel blogs had yielded a few interesting tidbits—like carrying a small bottle of peppermint essential oil to help with nausea, freshen your breath, relieve headaches when applied to your temples, help with odors, and even clear sinuses if dabbed under your nose. But through these blogs, I also uncovered a surplus of travel horror stories. I became acutely aware of the disastrous consequences when missing flights, running out of money, and getting sick. I had irrational fears about losing one of our kids, contracting a debilitating disease, or dying in a plane crash. And then there was finding lodging and food, getting our phones working in foreign countries, losing our belongings, having a bad time, kids fighting, parents fighting, doing a disservice to our kids by pulling them out of school for a year, carrying all my stuff in a backpack for months, or simply being American. These thoughts led to illogical fears about natural disasters, getting robbed, severe injury, terrorism, getting shot or kidnapped, and even being attacked by wild animals.

Before The Glitch I would have let these troubles fade into the background, staying aware of the possibilities but not letting the mere thought of disaster take the spotlight. Looking at my boys now, oblivious to the slew of potential calamities, I couldn’t fathom how Ray remained so calm. I could only imagine this must be how agoraphobia starts.

“Mom, it’s time to board. Let’s go,” Tyler called me to attention, his eyes alight with excitement, his hand extended to help me from my seat. This was my moment to decide. As terrified as I was to take this journey, the thought of going back to a life filled with grief and self-doubt where I was struggling to function was far more terrifying.

I watched Ray pack up his computer and help RJ gather his belongings. I took a last look around the crowded terminal, searching for my former self in the faces of strangers. I didn’t see any sign of that vibrant young woman who’d been confident and ready to take on the world—no fear in her eyes, no hesitancy in her steps, no second thoughts as she picked up her backpack and walked with her husband and children onto the plane. I could see her clearly in the past, but I could no longer feel her presence. I could only hope that I might find her on this journey.