Traveling Abroad as a Bereaved Mom

The First Mother’s Day Without Zoe

For those new to my Substack, Zoe died in March, one week after her 24^th birthday, following a three-year fight against cancer. And, on this first Mother’s Day without her, I am far from home, in Portugal. I confess that I am a reluctant traveler. I have to push myself—or allow myself to be pushed—to leave behind work and responsibilities. While I love being in a new destination, I balk at the process of packing up and making the actual trip. The booking, the planning, the choosing what to pack, what to leave behind. The logistics of travel thoroughly overwhelm me. But I have been me for a very long time and I know that my anxiety—about being in an unknown place and having forgotten something absolutely vital, getting stranded somehow, my luggage lost—is easily dismissed if I give myself a moment to consider it. So, I push past my resistance, open myself to the new—which always thrills me.

In theory, I’ve always wanted to see Portugal. Friends have loved it and made countless recommendations of things to do. But when my husband suggested it recently, I was more reluctant than usual. I’d been homebound, looking after Zoe for so long that I had caregiver’s inertia. I took solace in the known quantity of home: the place where I’d kissed her goodbye, the safety of my own bedroom where I could always hear her, the proximity of Zoe’s room right across the hall, full of Zoe’s things: her art, her posters, chachkies, stuffed animals, squishmallows, scented candles, and perfumes.

My husband didn’t push. But the airline decided for us. It turned out that we had a considerable number of credits, thanks to two study abroad trips Zoe had to cancel due to her illness. The catch was that we needed to use the credits up by June. Meaning: ready or not, I was going. My husband would go for a week of hiking in the hills outside Porto and I’d meet him for a week in Lisbon. (A week felt manageable to me. I couldn’t get away with longer, since I have some writing retreats coming up and I don’t want to take more time away from my therapy practice.)

Unlike me, Jon is always up for traveling. His passion for adventure and exploration exceeds any discomfort he has over logistics. Jon packs light, no matter what, keeps footwear simple, has no need for the multitude of hair care products that accompany me even for a weekend excursion. Additionally, Jon saw the chance to escape New Jersey as a balm for his heartbreak.

I didn’t feel ready, but opportunity doesn’t wait until you’re ready. So, I got over myself and am now in Lisbon. It is a wonder here: the vistas and topography of the architecture, ruins seen through newer structures, created following the earthquake of 1755. And it’s May—time for glorious spring blooms and bright banners displayed in advance of Saint Anthony’s feast. The city is paved in black and white tiles, expertly laid together, embedded in sand, maintained by a small handful of underpaid municipal street workers. Their labor is never done. Many of the tiles are loose and kicked out of place creating small craters. Some are worn smooth, offering little traction. The hills are steep. All the guidebooks warn of slippery conditions when it rains. Absent are the fashionable women I’ve seen in every other European city I’ve visited, gliding along in stiletto heels. Everyone here in Lisbon—tourists, locals, young people, older folks—has on sensible shoes that grip.

The day I arrived, jetlagged and exhausted, Jon and I walked all over, up a hill and down an endless stone staircase, past several squares to the river walk, circling back for dinner. My shoes were sensible enough, but I was mentally unprepared for the terrain. I stumbled and slipped, dodging the cars, trolleys, and tuk-tuks (open tourist vehicles resembling tiny Ford Model T’s) whizzing by, close enough to clip my elbow.

As an avid exerciser in my late 50s, I have a collection of old injuries that I watch out for when I run or work out: a tricky knee, a tweaky back, a toe and an ankle that require daily “cracking” for full mobility. But I didn’t think I would need to warm up just for a casual walk around a beautiful city. As we walked, however, my foot seized up; my knees grew inflamed, my back felt pinched. The issue was neither the steepness of the hills nor the acute angled corners. Instead, it was the unfamiliarity of the textures. I found myself gripping with all my muscles to navigate the glazed tiles that looked so slick, even when they weren’t. I felt vulnerable, unwelcomed by the very ground. Back at the hotel, I swallowed my self-pity, got out my foam roller and worked my back and feet. Stop being a baby, I commanded myself. You’re here. Enjoy it. All your friends are so happy for you! They’re proud of you for taking this trip. Don’t let them down. Don’t let Jon down. Don’t let yourself down.

I would, I decided, master these winding sidewalks and learn to trust a world that had taken my first born. I would open my mind and stop kvetching. I would, like I promised in my last Substack post, honor Zoe by living life to the fullest. Or something close.

The following day, after a decent night of sleep, I felt better, more ready to take on a challenge. Jon and I met a wonderful guide for a tour of the park surrounding the Pena Palace, nestled in the hills of Sintra. It was impossibly lush, green, gorgeously overgrown, the ultimate romantic garden. Streams made their ways among heavy ferns, towering trees, and smooth, broad rocks. It was easily as steep and hilly as Lisbon, without the tiles.

Next we went to Monserrate, an estate built over the ruins of a chapel. It was purchased by Thomas Cooke in the 19^th century, at which point sprawling English-style gardens planted among the hills. An abundance of rose bushes were perfectly situated to catch the wind. The scent, the view, the architecture, were all breathtaking. My mood lifted; my reservations dissolved.

That evening, the streets of Lisbon felt easier. They were becoming known to my feet, knees, and back. Jon and I sat at dinner, sharing memories of Zoe. Discussing the nuances of our grief, we discovered that different stimuli trigger each of us differently. We grieve different parts of her in different ways at different times. I long for Zoe selfishly. I want my daughter here for myself. I want to hold her and hug her and laugh with her and shop with her and go places with her and watch our mother-daughter bond become the sort of friendship I grew into with my own mother. Jon misses Zoe deeply as well, but he mourns most intensely on Zoe’s behalf, that she has been deprived of her future. We both cried over dinner, but we celebrated too. We both feel so incredibly grateful for what we had of our daughter, for our very special pair of children, for all those years of the four of us together.

Later, after Jon went to sleep, it occurred to me that my routines, my therapy practice, and my all-consuming novel-in-progress were distracting me from the depth of my pain. Keeping me clinging to the sides of grief’s well. I see now that I have been exquisitely performing the role of myself. Engaged, healthy, functioning. FINE. Just fine, thank you.

But here in Lisbon, away from all the busy-ness, I can feel the full extent of my loss, visceral and profound.

Notice that—it’s the thing I say to my clients who try to dodge or deflect big feelings. “Notice it. Notice the sadness. Give it the room it needs. Give yourself the grace to express it and experience it. Then let it disperse.”

As a tourist, my only job was literally to notice everything. On my third day in Lisbon, I spent some time wandering off by myself to explore the city alone, keeping my own pace, stopping and looking at what I wanted to look at without needing to call Jon’s attention to anything, without having my attention drawn to things he found fascinating. I needed to just be and smell and taste and listen and, of course, shop.

Later on, Jon and I would reconnect and compare adventures over dinner. We’d talk about our son Theo, whose graduation is coming up, whom we look forward to cheering on. We would talk some more about Zoe and help each other heal. But that afternoon I was alone, walking the streets, amid the crowds, deliciously by myself, open to my own meandering. Noticing my grief, noticing my vitality, radar cued for signs that Zoe was somewhere close by, but happy, at peace.

And today, we took a day trip to Cascais and hit traffic on the way back. I had forgotten it was Mother’s Day until I looked at my phone and saw all the texts coming in from back home. I missed Zoe sharply then. I looked up just in time to see a white Fiat pull up ahead of us. Above the license plate were three block letters spelling out the word:

ZOE

Wishing you moments of clarity and joy this week.