Rifling through a pile of books today, looking for something important, I found this stack of old postcards and suddenly nothing else seemed to matter for the next hour or so. They’re not ancient and faded, or from some long forgotten relative, in fact, not one of them is more than ten years old.
On picking them up, I was surprised by the stark reminder of the pain that working away from family undeniably causes, but how one small gesture, consistently maintained, can mean so much to those waiting at home.
I never intended to spend any time separated from my children when they were growing up, but circumstance intervened and it became unavoidable. The first few times I had to travel, they were young, school aged boys. It wasn’t far, only a couple of nights were necessary and they were happy, perhaps a little excited even, by the change in domestic dynamics.
By their pre-teens, it was suddenly ten days away and four at home for a year or so, and I hated it. I quickly learnt how difficult it was to concentrate unless I had a strict, military precision type routine to restrict just how much time I had available to let my mind wander back to where it most wanted to be.
I lay awake for so many nights and considered hiring a car to make the eight hour drive, just to get there by the time they woke for breakfast. Instead I lay in bed until the early hours and questioned every decision I had ever made in life, that led to this point, then berated myself for being the terrible parent who wasn’t there for bedtime stories each night.
My packing reached expert level, always ready with an emergency bag in case I needed to head home in a hurry.
I unintentionally became highly skilled at crying on aeroplanes. More than once I was silently hugged by a thoughtful flight attendant, astute and experienced in noticing these things. It warmed my heart. But it also made me cry more. A no-win situation all round.
In Australia, on Qantas domestic flights, there is a signature song that often plays when passengers disembark and it’s heart wrenching. “Feels like home to me.” An absolutely beautiful sound to hear when arriving to loved ones waiting at the luggage carousel. Feels more like hell to me, though, when I hear it as the plane touches down, thousands of kilometres away, on the other side of the country.
By the time the kids were in their mid-teens, I hadn’t been away for a few years. We had moved interstate and re-settled into our happy routine easily. Other than their sleepovers with mates and the night shifts I worked, we ate dinner together most evenings like a regular family.
Fast forward to another move though, horrific upheaval and life-changing events, we found ourselves back to the travelling days. Only this time, my trips ranged from eight days to five weeks. I dreaded it while I was packing for the first one. Cried the whole way there. Lay awake more often than ever.
This time was different. They weren’t little kids, happily bumbling along in life, but young adults. Working their way through what would turn out to be one of the worst years of their lives.
It’s not easy conveying much-needed hugs and closeness by phone.
It’s impossible to keep up meaningful text conversations for more than a few days at a time.
It’s hard to rely on emails enough to demonstrate heartfelt care and emotion.
So, how to connect from such a distance, when so much needed to be said?
From the very first day of that new, temporary travelling phase, I found a stationery shop at the airport, bought some colourful pens, a book of stamps and popped an old-fashioned handwritten postcard in the mail. Then the next day. And the next. Rinse and repeat for the entire trip.
I started finding weird and wonderful variations in different shops wherever I went. I’d carry around each day’s card in my lunch bag or backpack and write snippets of it wherever I was. It grew to include a daily bad joke, just like at home. A fascinating fact to keep them learning something new. General chit chat about what I’d been up to, no matter how mundane. No questions or reminders or pressure on them to respond, all they had to do was read it and feel the love without expectation. Once it was full, I’d drop it into a postbox and wish it well.
They loved it. I didn’t realise until the first trip home just how much, when I was drinking coffee in the kitchen as the youngest (and our dog) jumped up on hearing the postie.
They ran down the driveway together to collect the mail and I saw for myself the happiness created by the most recent cards arriving. Despite always being a few days behind, the excitement was palpable.
From that point onwards, it was our thing. We still spoke on the phone. We carried on texting and sharing photos. We emailed if there was a lot to put in writing. But holding us together, from my hand to theirs, a well-worn, well-travelled postcard as physical reminder of that unbreakable bond.
In a world with technology so readily available, it’s no wonder that we forget the value of pen and paper. I certainly didn’t appreciate it fully, until necessity made me seek other options. For any parent, partner or person separated in our digital age, you might also find that reaching out in old-school ways strengthens your connection on a whole new level. I’d love to hear what you come up with.
About Tammie Bullard
I’m an author, paramedic, educator and self-confessed reading addict with a passion for using words to promote positive change.
With three pre-hospital care books and regular columns in EMS and Emergency Services publications worldwide, my fascination for the human factors in everyday life continues to grow.
Thanks for reading, feel free to get in touch from any walk of life, I’d love to hear from you.
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Previously published on medium
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Photo credit: on istock