I’ve experienced these stages twice; first when I lived in Germany at 19, and then when moving to Portugal in my 70s. It seems to be a common phenomenon among immigrants.

The Honeymoon, when everything shimmers like rainbows and unicorns, is when life is new, exciting and perfect—much like the honeymoon period when falling in love. It’s glorious! Endorphins flood the brain and you believe you will always feel just as elated as you do in that moment.

This phase may last weeks or months, but it always ends.

Then comes The Crash.

You question your decision. Wonder why you ever felt so sublime. All the little things you overlooked began to feel like lead weight.

That crash slammed into me around late February and early March 2025 after moving to Portugal. After flying high when I first arrived, I began detecting the cracks: the difficult language, the stifling bureaucracy, the incessant rain and the frightening roads.

I missed my family and friends. I realized I hadn’t really grieved for my husband because I’d been so busy getting ready for the big move in 2024. I hadn’t taken into consideration that I’d never—in my entire life—lived completely alone.

Even when I went through my divorce when younger, I had a 3-year-old to care for. And my youngest son Nathan, who’d moved into our home the last year of my husband’s life to help take care of his father, continued living with me for the year after Bob died before I left the States.

I’d always identified as an independent woman. But was I really? Who was I without another human being to verify my existence?

I remember my mother, a widow for half of her life, saying, “I’m no good to anybody now.” I found myself echoing her hollow thoughts.

I had no idea how to live alone.

I’d had problems sleeping for years, but then I completely stopped sleeping. My thoughts churned nightly thinking about the “what ifs” —What if the people renting my house in the U.S. don’t take care of it? What if I get dementia? What if Social Security runs out?

I also struggled with the “shuddas” — I shudda stayed home with my children longer when they were little. I shuddda read to them more. I shudda kept Bob home at the end rather than forcing him to go to a facility. I replayed every decades-old decision, prosecuting myself for every perceived infraction.

Then I got pneumonia. I was so sick I could barely pull myself out of bed. My cough was agony; I had to remind myself to breathe.

Lying there, I wondered if anyone would know—or care—if I didn’t wake up. I’ve never felt so discarded and miserable. I endured the “dark night of the soul” referenced by St. John of the Cross in the 16th Century.

It took four doctor visits, including two trips to the ER, to get the proper diagnosis. My old friends, Eve and John, drove me an hour south for one of my ER visits and waited all day with me. I was pumped with IV fluids and given an inhaler that did nothing.

My wonderful Portuguese general practitioner finally recognized the severity of the infection and treated me with antibiotics. Two days later when I returned for a recheck, she told me that if I’d delayed one more day, I would have been in the hospital.

I was incapacitated for a very long month. New friends I’d met in the women’s single group I’d started a month earlier brought me food because I was too sick to shop and cook.

Somewhere in the depths of that month, I said to myself: “What in the hell have I done?”

I mourned the money I’d spent and the life I’d uprooted, all for a reality that felt defined by hardship and isolation.

“Mom, there’s no shame in moving back,” my son Abram told me when I confessed my desolation.

“I’m not ready to do that,” I told him. My pride was the only thing keeping me from retreating. I wanted to bolt, but I stayed.

I reminded myself that I had conquered hard things before. I’d raised three rambunctious boys. I’d navigated 17 years of caregiving for my late husband. I’d survived career disappointments, built a business and tackled grad school in my 50s.

I could do this. I nudged open a small door in my mind and allowed myself to believe—sort of.

Gradually, things got better. I beat the infection and regained my strength. The rain stopped. I joined a gym.

I made more good friends and found enjoyable activities and groups. Old friends visited.

My handyman helped me repair the lingering issues in my condo, and I decorated the rooms with vibrant colors to lift my mood.

I slowly untangled the bureaucracy. I secured my residency card, switched my U.S. driver’s license for my Portuguese license and filed my first set of international taxes.

I made peace with my linguistic limitations and started Portuguese lessons, chipping away at the barrier word by word.

The day I switched my driver’s license for a Portuguese license felt like a milestone.

I immersed myself in a spiritual program that helped me remember that gratitude and self-forgiveness are the true anchors of happiness. I meditated, becoming comfortable in the hush of solitude.

I attended an Andrea Bocelli concert in a nearby town with old and new friends.

Somewhere between months six and nine, I crossed the threshold into the third phase: Real Life.

I no longer feel like a tourist, and I’m not under the illusion that I’ve found Nirvana. I’m acutely aware of the challenges of this country, but I’m mentally and emotionally steeled to handle them. I’m not overwhelmed—at least, not most of the time.

I still perform the mundane rituals of life—paying bills, shopping, cooking, scrubbing toilets and hauling out the trash.

But now, those cores are balanced by the joy of exploring local culture and the thrill of traveling to new places and meeting new people.

When newer immigrants confide their, “What the hell did I do?” moments, I tell them to hang in there. It’s just a phase and it gets better.

I still miss my family and friends. I still live alone. But my life is full, resonant and satisfying.

I am at home.

Home: The view from my dining room window.

Among the items I brought were things that Americans living in Portugal had suggested I bring that are difficult or expensive to acquire. I brought baggies filled with ibuprofen and acetaminophen.

These over-the-counter drugs that are cheap and readily available, in bottles of 500 or 1,000, virtually everywhere in the U.S. But theuy are only available in the pharmacy in Portugal and can’t be purchased in large quantities. They’re sealed in individual plastic bubbles and sold at a premium in small boxes of 12.

Just to be “safe,” I also brought nearly a year’s worth of my regular supplements, about 100 pain patches for my aching back, some spices uncommon in Portugal (such as dill), and vegan protein powder.

To reduce weight and volume, I dumped them all out of their original containers into gallon-sized baggies.

Though my family spread most of my husband’s ashes in a park before I left the U.S., I decided to bring a few with me. I planned to walk the El Camino de Santiago, a famous pilgrimage with routes through Portugal that end at a famous Spanish cathedral, and I wanted to spread some of his ashes along the way.

I purchased additional used suitcases from thrift shops for the trip and found large colorful plastic tags on Amazon to replace the standard luggage tags so I could quickly differentiate mine from all the others as they circled the carousel.

Genius.

I purchased these tags from Amazon for my bags. Who else could possibly have done the same thing?

When I landed in Lisbon, I dragged all my overweight suitcases from the carousel without help, loaded them on two carts and pushed them to the curb, where I met the transport van I’d hired to take me to Alcobaça.

As I began unpacking at my condo, I discovered that one of the bags was full of men’s clothing. It had the same colorful Amazon tag that I’d purchased for my bags – the one I’d thought was so unique that nobody else on the same flight would possibly have used.

Dumb.

I’d even placed electronic Air Tags into each bag to make sure I could track them.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t checked them when I loaded the suitcases, depending only on the plastic tags on the handles to ID them. At home, I pinged my lost bag on my phone and realized it was still at the airport.

Two days later I paid the driver to take me back to Lisbon to switch the bags. After some frantic searching, I located the area for lost luggage and explained to the attendant what had happened.

He gave me a tongue lashing.

“Why did you wait so long to return it?” he said. “This man has been without his suitcase for two days because of you!”

I explained about the identical tags, and that I hadn’t realized it was the wrong bag until the day before when I began unpacking. I didn’t have a car and I lived 90 minutes away. I had to arrange transportation, I said.

After all, it had only been two days.

The irritated man harumphed and descended into the bowels of the storage area to look for my suitcase. Twenty minutes later, he emerged with my bag.

No harm, no foul.

At home I unloaded the errant bag, full of all my baggies of meds, supplements and protein powder. I stashed the supplements in the bathroom, and I stored the protein power in the kitchen cabinet.

But my husband’s ashes were nowhere to be found. I searched through the side pockets in the six suitcases, but they were missing.

Obviously, that awful man at the airport had gone through the last bag, decided the ashes were some illegal substance and had thrown them out. Had he thought they were drugs?

Even thought I’d researched transporting cremains into the country and found that it was legal, he’d thrown them out. Possibly to punish me for taking the wrong bag.

I was angry and devastated.

My “husband” was in a trash bin somewhere in Lisbon. I cried for two days. How could this have happened? What kind of person allows their husband to wind up in the garbage?

I’d failed widowhood.

Gradually I moved on. After all, the ashes weren’t really my husband. They were only some minerals from his bones. Still, it haunted me.

I settled in my new home. Every morning I made my smoothy for breakfast, adding fresh fruit. As my supply of vegan powder diminished, I researched online and was delighted to discover that I could order similar protein powder in Europe.

Down to the last baggie of powder, I pulled it down from my kitchen shelf one morning, opened it and began scooping it into the blender.

But it didn’t look like the other vanilla powder I’d been using. It was grittier, with gray specks, unlike the fine, buff-colored powder in the other gallon bags.

Then it hit me.

“Bob?!?” I exclaimed out loud.

I spent the next 10 minutes laughing.

I had the feeling that my husband, who’d loved pranks and teasing me, had staged this final scene.

Bob’s ashes looked remarkably similar to my protein powder, but coarser and a bit darker in color.

It would have been just like him to trick me into mixing him into my smoothie. A last gotcha.

I’ve had to postpone—and probably cancel—my El Camino pilgrimage due to an ongoing foot problem, so I don’t know where I’ll spread his last ashes. Perhaps the ocean.

Or maybe, as an homage to his roots in the Virginia mountains, I’ll take them with me when I explore Portugal’s highlands. I may wait until our children visit so that they can participate.

For now, he “resides” in a drawer in my bedroom, awaiting the perfect time and his final resting place.

Well played, Bob. Well played.

Except on the road, the Portuguese people are very patient people. And they expect you to be, as well.

I’ve never been described as patient (Lord — give me patience, now!), but I’ve become more patient in Portugal. It’s a survival skill.

While Americans value efficiency and speed, with a “time-is-money” attitude, the Portuguese prioritize relationships, the experience and the quality of the present moment.

In Portugal, time is not a consumer asset. It’s being in the now.

Life is slower in Portugal. People take breaks when they need them.

They may plan, but they also have a higher tolerance for making or changing plans on the fly. Social engagements operate on a more flexible timetable, sometimes known as “hora portuguesa,” or Portuguese time. It’s not considered rude to be 15-30 minutes late for a dinner invitation or reservation.

The Portuguese culture of playing loose with punctuality and customer service drive many Americans nuts. Bureaucracy, public service and businesses’ lack of urgency can be confounding.

If you hire a handyman or contractor for a home project, they may agree to meet you on a certain day but then not show up. Or they may say, “I’ll be there next week.” That only means they’ll come someday, but not today. This laid-back attitude is not the exception. It’s the rule.

I recently learned that a friend made a trip to the Internet provider to return equipment after cancelling his service. The provider would not accept the equipment because he said equipment must be returned 30 days after cancelation.

“But it has been 30 days,” he protested.

“But the cancellation wasn’t logged into our system until recently, so you must come back 30 days after that,” he was told.

There’s no explanation as to why the company requires a 30-day wait regardless of when the time period begins. It’s just the way it is. And there’s no fighting it.

Americans are used to getting in line for service, but in Portugal, you must take a number. There are number machines in the bank, pharmacy, doctor’s office, post office and government office.

Often there are categories for numbers – always in Portuguese—asking you to define what kind of service you are there for. Since I only speak a modicum of Portuguese, I never know if I’m picking the right category. They don’t care.

At the doctor’s office, you not only must take a number to check in, you must take a new number to check out. No number, no service.

Even if nobody is waiting, as was the case when I arrived recently for a doctor’s appointment, I was told to take a number. As soon as I did, my number was called. It can be infuriating.

The government is particularly inefficient. When obtaining a residency card or other required document, immigrants must experience the painful process of waiting for appointments, often months after they are required, and then waiting more months for the documents to arrive.

A married couple I know, who arrived here last summer and went to their immigration meeting in September, were fortunate that their appointments were together. Sometimes couples and children are given appointments in different parts of the country on different days.

Even more troublesome, appointments are often assigned requiring one or the other parent or half of a couple to be in one city while the other, and possibly the children, may have appointments at the same time hundreds of miles away. And changing the appointments are nearly impossible and not recommended.

You do, and you’re at the back of the line again.

While this couple was lucky to go for their appointments at the same time and place, the husband received his residency card in three weeks. Six months later, his wife still hasn’t received her. They spent an entire day traveling to Lisbon and waiting at the office to check on her card to be told that “it’s in process” with no estimated time of delivery.

Often government requirements change overnight, with the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing. For example, AIMA, the immigration office, last year began requiring that immigrants applying for their two-year renewal obtain a NISS, or social security number.

But the social security department refused to give retired immigrants a number because they don’t work. For months, retirees were in limbo until finally new offices opened to assign the required numbers to people who fell between the cracks.

When waiting at the post office or pharmacy for their number to be called, the Portuguese don’t consider the wait an imposition, but rather a chance to chat with strangers or relax. Nobody rolls their eyes, sighs, looks at their watches or complains.

It wouldn’t do any good anyway.

On the other hand, when your number is called, you can expect the service provider to concentrate on your issue and take as long as necessary to resolve your issue. They don’t rush to get rid of you as is frequently the service manner in the U.S.

Businesses, such as restaurants, mom-and-pop grocery stores or other locally owned stores, completely close down at times, sometimes for weeks or even months. They aren’t going out of business, as Americans might assume. They are shutting down for vacation or just to rest.

When making my follow-up appointment with my nail technician, she informed me that she was shutting down for two weeks.

“Are you going somewhere fun on your vacation?” I asked.

“I’m not taking vacation,” she informed me. “I need a rest.”

Americans, who value working long hours and taking little to no sick leave or vacation, could learn from this culture.

Everything is slower. Family, friends, health and life are

more important than earning every possible euro.

When I visited Nazare for a month in March 2024 before moving here in the fall, I made three trips to a local yarn store before I found it open, even though the advertised hours on the website and sign on the door indicated it was open.

It was not. Nor had the owner bothered to update the website. It’s not uncommon for stores to close after the busy tourist season—or sometimes because of a busy tourist season—so owners and employees can take a vacation. Many businesses are closed the entire months of August for vacation and for a month after the Christmas holidays. And sometimes, just because . . .

Restaurants typically close after lunch around 3 pm and don’t reopen until 7 or 7:30 pm. If you get hungry between those hours, be prepared to either go home and make your own food or stop at a pastelaria café for a sweet or little snack.

While getting used to the Portuguese way of doing business sometimes can be annoying, the relaxed attitude and environment is one of the reasons I moved to this country.

Everything is slower. Family, friends, health and life are more important than earning every possible euro. It’s a far healthier attitude than the American attitude of working until you drop.

My U.S. friend, Deb Gordon, who recently immigrated here labeled the attitude adjustment “PPP” – “Practicing Portuguese Patience.”

As an immigrant, if you don’t “PPP” when you arrive, you’ll either get tired of the culture and leave, or you’ll adapt.

Because you aren’t going to change it.

When I decided to move to Portugal, I thought I’d be able to pick up the language fairly easily from an app I downloaded and from hearing it spoken in daily life by the Portuguese.

After all, I’d learned a lot of German the year I lived there in college and still remembered quite a bit from two years of high school Spanish.

Learning Portuguese in my 70s is much harder than learning German at 19.

What a joke.

It turns out that Portuguese is really, really hard. And my 70-something brain isn’t as perky as it was when I was 19.

Even though English and Portuguese share Latin roots, the language is formidable for most Americans.

Here’s why:

• Like many languages, Portuguese is gendered. Nouns are male and female and the articles introducing them and the verbs following them change according to the gender.

• It uses unique and complex phonics; many words have vowels that sound as though you are speaking with a stuffy nose. With your fingers up your nostrils.

• The “r’s” are either pronounced at the back of the throat or rolled. My fat Southern tongue cannot roll an “r” any better than I can roll an ab wheel. And I sound like a cat coughing up a hairball when I attempt the throat “r.”

• There are 16 verb tenses. OMG! From now on, everything in my life is present tense. Who cares about the past or present and wherever all those other tenses are?

• There are two words for “to be.” When referring to something permanent or inherent, such as nationality, gender, time, possession, events or the materials something is made from, the word is “ser.”

When referring to temporary situations, such as location, emotions, health or weather, the word is “estar.” And of course, there are 16 ways to conjugate them.

• There is no “it” in the language. How can a language not have an “it”? When the Portuguese speak English, they sometimes refer to “it” as “he” or “she.” My doctor did this when referring to my bad back as “she.”

• It’s a very “shushy” language. C’s and z’s at the end of words – and sometimes in the middle—are pronounced as “ish.”

• There are accent marks that change the sound of letters. For example, in the name of my town, Alcobaça, the squiggly mark under the “c,” called a cedilha, changes the sound from a “ck” to an “s.” Then there’s á, é, í, ó, ú; and â, ê, ô.

They indicate various ways to stress the syllable and pronounce the vowel, but don’t ask me how to do it. I can’t remember.

• “E’s” at the beginning or ends or words and “m’s” at the end are barely – or not at all – pronounced. So, the Portuguese word “sim,” which means yes, is pronounced as “si,” like the Spanish word, with just a hint that there might be an “m” at the end, but you stop short of saying it. Sometimes they drop whole syllables at the beginning of words.

• Then, to top it off, they smush all the words together. Then they speak as fast as I would if I were calling 911 (211 here) to tell them I’d set the kitchen on fire.

So, there’s that.

In January, two months after I arrived, I signed up for a Portuguese class at a language business located on the first floor of my building. All I had to do was get dressed and stumble downstairs twice a week for two-and-a-half hours of hell.

I was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and totally lost.

It took no time to realize that I was nowhere near ready to learn Portuguese. I was too overwhelmed with bureaucracy, taxes and getting settled. When the rest of the class progressed to the second level six weeks later, I bowed out.

After working on the language from an app for six months and getting nowhere, I found an online program with a live instructor. I logged into the classes for 30 minutes daily and embarked on the earnest, long, painful struggle to learn the language of the country where I’m living.

Now, six months in, I know my numbers – well, at least to 20 – and can count reps in the gym with my trainer. I can introduce myself and ask how you are. I can order in a restaurant. Sort of.

I can also read some Portuguese, but understanding the spoken language is another animal. Whenever someone speaks to me in Portuguese, I usually panic and quickly reply, “Não falo português!”—I don’t speak Portuguese!—even if I can pick out a word or two.

Learning Portuguese in my 70s is nothing like learning German in my teens. I tell myself that learning a new language is one of the best ways to form neurons and protect my aging brain.

It’s enough to keep me going.

Regardless of the road blocks I encountered after moving to Portugal, I found that three phrases have shored up my confidence nearly every time.

“It’s only hard once.”

I first heard this when a friend advised me to take the bus to Lisbon for a doctor’s appointment. “But I don’t know how to do that,” I lamented, as an American who’d been tied to her car her whole life. I lived in the Virginia suburbs and public transportation was not “a thing.”

After showing me the app for scheduling and buying my ticket, she prodded me towards doing the new, uncomfortable task with a shrug, saying, “It’s only hard the first time. After you do it once, you’ll be able to do it forever.”

She was right. Next, I’m challenging myself to learn to take the Metro once I get to Lisbon, another daunting task I’ve never tackled.

My next public transportation goal? The Metro.

I prod myself with this phrase whenever I avoid a task or activity because I have no experience with it. And I remind that I’ve conquered challenges throughout my life.

I’ve faced jobs and projects throughout my career that felt daunting until I plunged in headfirst. I went back to grad school in my 50s. I raised three rambunctious sons. And I was a caregiver for my husband for 17 years until his death, possibly the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

All of these things terrified me until I mustered my courage and did them. One day at a time. Sometimes one moment at a time.

And none of them killed me.

“It’s an adventure!”

One of the main reasons I moved abroad was that, confined for years as a caregiver, I craved adventure. I needed to break out, to embrace new things. I refused to sit in a rocking chair, mourn my late husband and rust.

So now when faced with driving to an unfamiliar town for an important appointment or complying with a government requirement that feels insurmountable, I remind myself that not every adventure feels like a fun birthday party.

And I’ve found that often, what begins as a dreaded task or experience unfurls into a rewarding adventure. I might discover a charming new store, street art or restaurant, unveiled only by venturing into unfamiliar territory. I often encounter wonderful people precisely when I take the greatest leaps.

Adventures come in all forms; some are fun and some are not. But they all lead to personal growth.

“It’s Portugal!”

Not everything in Portugal is rainbows and lollipops. There are cultural differences that can seem nonsensical or annoying.

For example, it’s not unusual to see ruins beside gleaming, modern buildings in city centers. In the U.S., such buildings would be condemned and destroyed at the owners’ expense.

Scenes like this are common in Portugal.

This perplexes many immigrants and visitors, who question why owners don’t fix up these places. Why doesn’t the Portuguese government force owners to repair or sell them as the U.S. government would require?

There are many reasons, including limited penalties for maintaining empty, crumbling structures; complex inheritance and ownership issues; and difficult building permit processes.

Another example is the casual attitude many Portuguese exhibit regarding punctuality and deadlines.

The correct attitude toward such irritations or problems is: “It’s Portugal!”

In other words, I must embrace what “is” rather than making myself miserable about what “isn’t.”

I look back on so many things in my life that I railed against as unfair, vexing or difficult. I sometimes succumbed to the temptation to feel sorry for myself and asked, “Why me?”

The answer for such times, always, is acceptance.

Perhaps a situation can be changed, and if so, as the famous Serenity Prayer reminds, I ask for the courage to change it.

If the circumstances prove uncontrollable, I strive for acceptance.

But always, I seek the wisdom to know the difference.

While I don’t always apply these three principles immediately when a problem arises, I’ve found that living in Portugal has afforded more opportunities to hone them than I would have experienced had I remained in my comfortable – if not boring – life in the U.S.

Sometimes I sigh and think, “Yeah. Another *<?&^* growth opportunity.”

But the payoff has been so worth it.

It translates to, “This is a one-way street! Go back!” I heard it the first time when I drove the wrong direction on the one-way street in front of the Alcobaça Monastery.

I would hear similar words several other times.

Driving in Portugal was terrifying.

Streets that logically should be two-way unexpectedly become one-way, requiring drivers to take strange detours to reach an intended destination only a stone’s throw away.

It took driving three times the wrong way on one-way streets – with approaching drivers blowing horns, waving arms and screaming out windows – to realize that common sense regarding the direction streets should flow often do not apply.

I considered get a sticker made for my car that read, “Cuidado! Americano estúpido!” or “Caution! Stupid American!”

Eventually I learned to stay alert for blue signs with white arrows or red signs with white horizontal lines that sometimes say, “Proibição de Entrada” (no entry). Mostly I relied on mapping software to chart my path, even in familiar areas.

Two-way streets often unexpectedly become one-way streets, requiring strange detours. It took several times driving down one-way streets to learn that the red signs with bars meant “do not enter.”

Many of the narrow, winding streets, with steep shoulders, no center line and uneven cobblestones were established hundreds of years ago before cars were a consideration. Streets that appear too small for one car are often two-way, requiring one driver to drop a wheel off the shoulder or onto the sidewalk for another car to pass. In town, meeting another car on a tiny, two-way alleyway mean moving within scraping distance of a building.

Driving and parking in Portugal are contact sports. While the Portuguese people are kind, welcoming and patient in everyday life, their personas seemingly morph when they get behind the wheels of their cars.

They often become aggressive on the freeways, taking crazy chances when passing cars. It wasn’t unusual to see a car barreling head-on toward me, then darting back into the other lane at the last second, barely completed the pass before catastrophe. I slammed on my brakes and gave them wide berth by steering onto the shoulder to avoid sure and sudden death.

I had to get accustomed to Portuguese drivers riding my bumper. Even when I was driving over the speed limit, they tailgated as though they were trailer hitched to my rearend.

And God help you if you’re in the left lane and a driver approaches from behind. They’ll tailgate within six inches of your bumper until you move to the right. If there’s no righthand lane, the best option is to pull off in a driveway and let them pass. They don’t give up.

The Portuguese think nothing of stopping in the middle of a busy street to chat with a friend or make a delivery, requiring drivers behind them to stop and wait for a break in oncoming traffic to pass.

I found the Portuguese roundabouts at intersections, much more common than stop lights, intimidating. Supposedly they are safer and more efficient, but I found them confusing and chaotic.

Roundabouts proliferate like fruit flies in Portugal. This one is near my condo building, seen in the background.

Eventually I learned to manage two-lane roundabouts by moving to the center lane unless I planned to exit at the first opportunity. But I always worried that someone would rear-end my car when I had to cross from the inside to the outside lane as I reached my desired exit.

When picking up friends at the Lisbon airport, a four-lane roundabout intimidated me so much that I decided never to make that trip again. My nerves were shot.

I decided that anyone visiting me and flying through Lisbon would need to rent a car or hire a driver to get to my town, 90 minutes away. When I flew through Lisbon, I twice recruited a friend who didn’t own a car to drop me off and pick me up in exchange for the use of my car while I was away.

Some of the road markings were baffling. Arrows to drive straight ahead were painted directly on the road and appeared backwards from U.S. directional signage, with the point directed toward the driver. The first few times I encountered these markings, I feared I was driving the wrong direction.

Other arrows cross over the center line to indicate that cars passing must quickly get back into their lanes. Again, I feared I would soon run head-on into an oncoming car.

Seldom do you see police patrolling the streets because cameras are everywhere monitoring speed and every possible infraction. I received a ticket in the mail when a friend driving my car somehow managed not to stop at a crosswalk in another town. Neither of us recalled an incident, but I paid the ticket without question.

Speaking of crosswalks, they almost never are at the intersection but rather in the middle of the block with no walk/don’t walk lights. Pedestrians always have the right-away, and they are not shy about darting across the street regardless of oncoming traffic. I panicked at the thought of accidentally mowing someone down. There’s no such thing as driving on “automatic pilot” in Portugal.

And then there is parking.

Unlike in the U.S., businesses and other enterprises frequently have no or very small parking lots and drivers must find parking spots on the road, usually by parallel parking.

I’m a terrible parallel parker.

Before long I had deep scratches on both front fenders of my formerly pristine car from scraping metal poles near buildings meant to protect them from drivers. Another long scratch appeared on the rear driver’s side from someone sideswiping my car in my condo building’s parking lot.

I scratched my car several times by trying to parallel park next to these kinds of poles.

When I lamented the mishaps, I was told: “There are only two kinds of cars in Portugal – those with scratches and those that don’t yet have scratches.” I found a body shop to repair my scratches at an acceptable cost, 400 euros. The following week, I scratched it again.

Often cars made their own parking spots on sidewalks, perfectly legal in most places. When attending a concert by Italian tenor Andrea Bocelli with friends in nearby Leiria, I was stunned to see cars parked on the exit ramps approaching the town because spots were so scarce for the event that drew 25,000 people. Nobody was ticketed.

About a month after arriving, I went the Finançes (tax) office in town for paperwork. All the close parking spots were taken, so I drove to the end of the street with plenty of open spots and no signs.

I easily parked and went to the office. When I returned 20 minutes later, I was greeted by a police officer in his patrol car, a tow truck and a very angry homeowner. I’d accidentally blocked a garage door that looked nothing like one in suburbia Virginia. It was flush with the edge of the road, not set back against a house at the end of a driveway.

The officer spoke sternly to me and I replied, in Portuguese, that I didn’t speak the language.

“Documentos!” he yelled. I knew he wanted my “documents” but I had no idea which ones so I handed him my U.S. driver’s license, passport and visa, hoping they were the ones he wanted.

“Follow me!” He demanded in English. I obediently got into my car and followed the officer, not knowing where he was taking me. We arrived at the GNR, or police station, several blocks away, and he motioned me inside. There he turned me over to his boss, who spoke fluent English.

“You parked in front of a garage door,” the officer declared.

“I didn’t realize it was a garage door,” I said. “I’m very sorry.” I hoped my contrition would get me a pass. No chance.

“What – you don’t have garage doors in America?”

“Yes, but they look different,” I explained. He gave me a side-eye as if I were lying.

He asked if I lived in Alcobaça and how long I’d been in the country. I told him I’d been there for a month.

“And you STILL don’t know what a garage door looks like?” I was sunk.

He fined me 42 euros for the parking violation and 64 euros for the tow truck.

“But he didn’t tow my car – why am I being charged?”

“You are very lucky,” he said. “It would have been much, much more if he’d taken your car.”

That incident made me even more paranoid about parking. When searching for a spot, I would attempt to translate the baffling signs. A blue sign with a white slash mark completely disallowed parking. Other nearby signs indicated that parking was allowed within a certain area, but the beginning and ending of the area often were not indicated.

Blue signs with red markings like this one in Porto mean “no parking.” The white marks on the street indicate a pedestrian crossing.

Another sign with “2 lugares” meant that there were two saved spots for a business, such as a pharmacy, but which two? And for how long?

It was important to look for parking signs inscribed with “Pagamento,” which means drivers must find a machine along the street to drop coins into for payment. When working properly, the machines spit out a small, time-stamped printed slip to be placed in the car window proving payment.

When not working properly, they return your money without a slip. Sometimes I’d have to locate a scrap of paper in my purse or car and scribble a note in Portuguese—after researching the translation on my phone—that the machine was broken, hoping for the best.

I forgot to scan the location for a machine once in Setúbol and wound up with a parking ticket. I promptly lost it. It took help from my Portuguese nail tech and multiple emails and phone calls to get a replacement.

When I was fortunate to find an empty spot, I questioned if it were legal to park there. Why hadn’t someone already taken it? Would I come back to find my car towed or ticketed?

There was no winning Parking Roulette.

In the early 2000s my job required me to travel extensively in five East Coast states. I navigated successfully without fear using printed Mapquest directions and always found my intended destination without incident.

Though I’d had decades of successful driving experience in the U.S., I realized that learning to drive Portugal-style would take time. Eventually my confidence would grow so that I could maneuver throughout the country as needed, but every time I got behind the wheel, I had a little chat with myself that began with, “pay attention” and “take nothing for granted.”

So far, I haven’t killed anyone.

I was tired and needed a break.

Unfortunately, I found that all the paperwork and bureaucracy I’d endured in the U.S. was just the first half of the process. There was much more awaiting me once I landed in Portugal.

I was fortunate that my visa that allowed me to move to Portugal had assigned me a date and location for my meeting with immigration officials. I was told to appear in Coimbra, a city located about an hour north of my town of Alcobaça, on December 9^th, only six weeks after arrival.

Many people are not so lucky, especially those arriving in the months after I did. They wait for months for an appointment date because immigration services, AIMA, are so overwhelmed with the number of immigrants seeking residency that they cannot keep up with demand. Then they wait months to receive their residency cards after processing.

When they get appointments, they may find that couples and family members are required to appear at different locations all over the country, sometimes on the same day and other times weeks or months apart. Coordination is nonexistent. Meanwhile, the immigrants’ 90-day temporary visa expires and anxiety arises because they can’t prove they’re here legally. Fortunately, AIMA usually grants extensions before the 90-days expire, alleviating fears of deportation.

As with other inconveniences and cultural differences, when immigrants complain to each other about the inefficiencies, the response is a shrug and the comment, “It’s Portugal.” In other words, get used to it.

The government is a fairly recent democracy, only half a century old, and its hasn’t developed the deep processes that Americans take for granted. Laws seem to change suddenly and willy-nilly, and often it appears that the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing.

For example, a recent law change requires immigrants applying for residency card renewals to obtain a NISS, or social security number. When they tried to obtain the number, that agency told them they didn’t qualify because they are retired and not earning an income in Portugal. It took weeks before offices were established where immigrants could obtain the required documentation.

To prepare for my AIMA appointment, I had to update about a dozen documents I’d used for my visa appointment in the U.S. Anything to do with forms sends me into a panic – I’ve never successfully done my own taxes – so it was yet another headache for me. My new friend Jana, who’d lived in Portugal for several years and had gone to Coimbra for her own residency card, offered to take me to Coimbra and help me through the process. She speaks several languages, including Portuguese.

We found the address my visa had directed us to, but Jana realized it was the wrong location. She easily located the correct building, but we were early for the 11 a.m. appointment so we window shopped for a while. At 10:15 we returned to AIMA and discovered a long line of about 50 people.

It looked as though we were in for a long day. Jana told me to wait while she checked if that was where I belonged. None of the signs were in English nor could many of the staff speak English. Using her skills, Jana determined that the line was for people without appointments.

She led me to another room where several agents sat at booths along one wall and people waited in chairs along the other. I signed in and we took seats. Within minutes, my name was called and I approached an agent nervously. I presented my file of about a dozen documents. I’d updated the financial information for the appointment according to instructions from the documents consultant I’d employed.

The agent thumbed slowly through them and then indicated that I was to have my photo taken near her desk. I took that as a good sign. The whole appointment was over 15 minutes before my assigned time of 11 a.m.

Jana had saved the day with her ability to speak Portuguese. Without her I would have been there for hours and missed my actual appointment. I was relieved and grateful for Jana’s help. I realized how much I needed to learn Portuguese to navigate the system.

Afterwards we grabbed lunch at a bistro and decided to visit the University of Coimbra, the oldest in Portugal and one of the oldest in the world, at the top of a hill overlooking the city. This UNESCO World Heritage Site was chartered by King Denis in 1290 and established in Coimbra in 1537 by King João III.

The historic research university enrolls 25,000 students, 15 percent of whom are international. A traditional, all-black uniform known as the capa e batina, a Harry Potter-style cape, is worn with pride by students who’ve passed their first year.

The uniform apparently influenced J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter author, who lived in Portugal from 1991-1993. Other Portuguese points of interest that inspired her were the Livraria Lello, a bookstore with an ornate wooden staircase, the Fountain of Lions and the Majestic Café, all located in Porto where she lived.

We found the university, parked and bought tickets to tour. We began in the large square atop the hill where stands the iconic statue of King João. The view of the city atop the hill was stunning.

From the courtyard we visited the famous 18^th-century Baroque Joanina Library, the Royal Palace, St. Michael’s Chapel, Palace of Schools and the Science Museum. We even toured the Academic Prison where naughty students were confined.

Most interesting to us was the library, known for its opulent design, which houses more than 60,000 priceless, rare, ancient books. It is unique for housing a colony of bats to protect the collection from insects. The bats have been at work in the library for 250 years consuming insects that could damage the antique books. Leather covers are placed on tables at night to protect them from the bats and cleared each morning.

The bats were in hiding when we toured, but we gawked at the bookshelves loaded with leather-covered volumes lining the walls of the three rooms of the library and the ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes.

We returned home to Alcobaça where I awaited the coveted residency card that would allow me to stay in the country for two years. Without it, I would have been limited to a 90-day stay allotted to tourists for countries in the Schengen area. These 29 European countries officially abolished passport and immigration controls at their mutual borders, creating a border-free zone for free movement.

The residency card, which arrived about six weeks later, allows me to live in Portugal until I have to re-establish residency in two years, at which time it will be renewable for periods of three years. After five years of legal, temporary residency I’m allowed to apply for permanent residency or dual citizenship.

Changing political winds from a rising rightwing party, Chega, have threatened the possibility of gaining citizenship in five years. Members of that party in Parliament have attempted to tighten the residency requirement for citizenship application to a minimum of 10 years for most people. So far, those efforts have been thwarted by the country’s Constitutional Court, which struck down some provisions and sent the law back to Parliament for revision.

There has been much chatter and anxiety among immigrants who moved to Portugal with the intention of becoming citizens in five years and obtaining EU passports that would allow them to live in any Schengen country. While it would be convenient to obtain the passport, I have no intention of moving to other countries, so I am not disturbed by the predicted changes.

If I am able to obtain permanent residency in a few years, I’ll be satisfied.

And what a community it proved to be.

I thought meeting new people and making friends would be a long, difficult process. As it turned out, it was much easier than in the U.S. where the many friendships I’d accumulated over the years were developed from jobs, church, volunteer activities and special interests.

Other immigrants, most of us retired, were also hungry for connection and friendship.

As a client of my relocation service, Portugal the Place, I was automatically added to multiple groups on WhatsApp. This Meta app is the preferred communication app for making free international texts, voice and video calls. The app makes it possible to chat with friends in the U.S., as well as with individuals and groups in my new chosen country. It is supposedly secure and private, providing end-to-end encryption.

The group messaging from PTP kept hundreds of us informed about opportunities countrywide, as well as updates on new people moving to Portugal, immigration law changes, weather and safety threats, volunteer needs and other subjects important to expats.

In addition to the group for all PTP clients, there are groups by geography, so that we can address local issues and chat with people in our own backyard. Group members ask for recommendations for finding food and other essential items, invite locals to events and pass along travel tips.

WhatsApp groups on special interests include Portuguese language study; books; crafting; hiking; exercise; lunch and coffee meetups; “Sunshine Club” for local women; Portuguese holidays and events; residency card renewal issues; a movie club; and “Living, Aging and Dying Well.” I discovered that I could find a group for just about any interest, and it’s simple and quick to start a new one.

I joined several immediately, including the Sunshine Club and crafting group, and began attending regularly. The crafters meet weekly on Thursday afternoons to share tips, drink coffee and encourage others’ knitting, crocheting, sewing, painting or other talents.

I met many lovely women – Wendy, Carole, Carol, Mimi, Kate, Carrie, Sandi, Lisa, Marina, Michelle, Karen, Sharon and many others – all with stories about their moves and lives in Portugal.

Not only did we bond over yarn, we also supported each other when sharing the difficulties of moving to a foreign country. And there was laughter! So much laughter.

I’d met some women through the Sunshine Club when visiting Portugal before my move and was delighted to attend more coffee meetups with them after I’d settled in. Some were in multiple interest groups, making it likely that we’d see the same people in different settings.

I joined the hiking group, but was only able to participate twice due to an ongoing foot problem that resurfaced when I moved to Portugal and began walking more than I was used to.

Before long I knew people by face and name, and I’d run into people I knew at the grocery store or while strolling Alcobaça’s main street by the monastery where people gather at all times of the day and evening for coffee and pastel de nata.

One of the things I thought I’d miss about living in the same neighborhood for decades in Newport News, VA, was seeing people I knew at Harris-Teeter or the mall. Once I began seeing familiar faces on the street in Alcobaça, I knew I was home.

Facebook groups offer meetups for expats in virtually any town or city in Portugal. I joined groups for Alcobaça, and nearby Nazaré. I attended a few of the weekly Alcobaça group meetings at coffee shops, but I really found my “home” group at the Nazaré meetups on Friday morning and Saturday evening, especially the Saturday meeting.

I loved meeting for coffee and drinks at 5 pm every Saturday, then going for dinner together with fellow expats. I always had a place to be on Saturday evenings.

There was a core group of regulars – Lorraine, Karen, Niclas, John, Simon and Marc – from the U.S., Great Britain, Canada, Malta and Sweden. Our stories and interests differed, but speaking English and immigrant life were common denominators. Others joined in when they were on vacation, moved into town or checked out the Silver Coast, our region, as a future home.

Some of us got together between meetups for lunch, coffee, nearby travel and concerts. We began checking on each other through WhatsApp or phone calls, and friendships developed beyond the Saturday evening event.

I’d learned that there are many more single women who move to Portugal – at least English-speaking ones—than single men. I asked my relocation consultant about this phenomenon, and she said that single women tend to be braver than single men when it comes to immigrating and living alone.

I was stunned. Based on my anxiety about the bureaucracy, language and driving in an unfamiliar country, I didn’t feel brave. I began to believe that I was courageous when a married man told me that he could never have moved here on his own and how much he admired my tenacity.

I recalled my mother, who became a widow at 48, saying that one of the hardest aspects of becoming single was the feeling that she was a third wheel with her married friends. Now I understood what she meant. While I’d met many wonderful couples in Portugal, I felt hesitant at times to reach out to them.

I thought a single women’s group would allow us to bond and feel more comfortable asking for help or getting together socially. I hoped the women would have people to call on without feeling they were intruding on someone’s marriage.

In February I formed my own WhatsApp group for connection, support and friendship and invited single women I’d met. I promoted the group to others on Facebook groups for expats.

I held the inaugural event, a brunch with a Valentine’s Day theme, in my apartment. A dozen women from the region attended, and we discussed our hopes and fears, and talked about activities we might do together.

We had a great start. I’d hoped that the members would take the initiative to organize events, but that didn’t happen. The group would languish for nine months because I didn’t continue promoting it.

In November I opened the group to all singles, men included, and rejuvenated it with a covered dish dinner at my apartment. This time, I asked individuals to commit to various months to organize activities, and within minutes, we had commitments for six months.

Before I’d made the final decision to move to Portugal, I asked my friend Eve if I’d be isolated as a single person, especially since I didn’t speak the language. She told me that she and John had made more friends in less than a year than they’d had in a lifetime in the U.S. She said they’d had an open house at Thanksgiving and that more than 100 people had attended.

Eve’s story convinced me that I wouldn’t be sitting alone in my apartment for the rest of my life.

While forming connections with the Portuguese would prove more difficult because of language and cultural differences, I’d found a strong, supportive group of several hundred fellow immigrants.

That community would become even more evident – and important – when the inevitable problems surfaced.

Upon my arrival on Oct. 31, I was invited to a brunch party at an American’s home for Nov. 6^th, intended to be a celebration of Kamala Harris’s win as the first female president of the U.S.

After the shocking win of Donald Trump, it turned into a mourning. It was my first introduction to many of the Americans living in Alcobaça, and a sad one at that. But we consoled each other with food and hugs, much as is our custom at funerals.

We all hoped for the best but feared the worst.

In the U.S., the starting bell of Christmas is generally considered Thanksgiving. Since Thanksgiving isn’t a Portuguese holiday, the Portuguese begin the Christmas season in early November.

And, oh, how they celebrate!

Every town is decked out in its holiday finest with lights strung between utility poles, displays on every corner, parades, Christmas markets and private parties. I attended half a dozen holiday parties thrown by immigrants in Alcobaça and Nazaré and could have attended many more if I’d chosen.

Alcobaça dresses in its finest at Christmas.

Even though the Portuguese don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, there were feasts at restaurants available for Americans and friends who chose to participate. My new friend Jana invited me to one for Americans and Portuguese at a local restaurant. Although Jana, who’d lived in the country for four years, spoke good Portuguese, I didn’t understand a word. Smiles and nods, along with cooing at the babies, got me through.

The table of some-50 people wrapped around the room. It was a joyful celebration of gratitude and community. After eating a Portuguese meal – no turkey and stuffing – we drew childlike turkeys on construction paper and made a paper chain, each link marked with our own counted blessings, that extended around the table.

It wasn’t the traditional Thanksgiving I’d experienced with family back in the States, but I felt the warmth and kindness from people I hoped would someday be more than acquaintances.

The relocation service that helped me find my home and guided me through the process of moving to Portugal thew a massive party in early December in their new, larger office where they’d moved that year. More than 150 people—clients they’d help relocate all over Portugal—enjoyed the food, drink and live music. I met many new people who would become my friends.

Friends from Virginia, Deb and Keith, who were considering a move to Portugal, attended the party, as well. Having some old friends around helped ease the new-kid-on-the-block anxiety.

The party at the office of the relocation service many of us used was wall-to-wall people.

I was invited to a large house party hosted by a woman in Nazaré who’d established the town’s two meetup groups for expats. Several hundred people brought food to share and listened to an Irish band, comprised of fellow immigrants, that performed in a tent behind the house. I’d begun attending the meetups on Friday mornings and Saturday evenings and enjoyed getting to know immigrants from many countries, all of whom spoke English.

The Nazaré celebration featured food and a live Irish band.

I attended a lovely party at the home of my friends from Virginia, Eve and John, whose move had inspired mine. They’d always had large, festive holiday parties in the U.S. and continued the tradition in Portugal.

They graciously invited me to Christmas dinner at their home so I wouldn’t spend it alone. Afterwards, we all went to a dessert party at the home of their fellow expat friends.

The town itself celebrated the season with a parade, music and displays on the grounds of the Alcobaça Monastery. Small wooden huts, where revelers could buy crafts, drinks and food, dotted the grounds. A portable ice-skating rink, Ferris wheel and other children’s rides contributed to the fun.

The Alcobaça Monastery in my town is the center for cultural activities and fun.

Though the weather was cool—around 50 degrees—the streets were filled with people gathering on sidewalk cafes to eat traditional Portuguese meals, such as bacalhau, and enjoy wine, beer, coffee and tea. I wondered if the streets were ever bare of diners, and I would learn that they continue throughout the year, regardless of temperature.

Unless there is a deluge of rain, even the area’s notoriously wet winters don’t dissuade people from gathering around outdoor tables, protected by umbrellas.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of celebrations by the Portuguese people, as well as those of the immigrants. These were the “partying-est” people I’d ever encountered.

For the first time in many months, I was having a blast. This was the adventure and fun I’d been craving. I assumed that the carefree days were just beginning and that the revelry and camaraderie would be my life from then on.

I didn’t anticipate that I was simply in the honeymoon phase of my relocation and that harder times soon awaited me.

Sorry, God, I didn’t mean to swear, but really, what the hell?

I’d spent all night tossing, turning and yelling—mostly, but not always, in my head—at God and my dead husband.

Where are you, Bob? I need you. I need you to be here. I don’t know how to do this. How could you leave me? I can’t feel you anymore. Did you lose me when I moved?

I’d relocated to Portugal only one month before, one year after his death. I knew exactly one couple from my hometown and spoke only a handful of Portuguese words.

Now in a foreign country in my early 70s I felt unmoored. Irresponsible. Foolish. And, above all – deeply, profoundly alone. What had I been thinking?

I was terrified.

Three weeks after arriving, I needed to travel 90 minutes south to Lisbon to see a hematologist. My U.S. nurse practitioner had called just two days before I’d left Virginia.

“Your M-spike is way up,” she said, tension in her voice. “If you were staying here, we’d schedule another bone marrow biopsy. Since you’re not, you need to see a hematologist ASAP.”

I didn’t tell my sons.

Ten years earlier, routine bloodwork revealed a condition called monoclonal gammopathy of unknown significance – MGUS—a mouthful that meant a 20 percent chance of developing multiple myeloma, a blood cell cancer. I’d endured full-body x-rays and a painful bone marrow biopsy, but my results had come back normal.

Since then, I’d seen my hematologist quarterly. The numbers wavered slightly but remained within bounds. It was a nuisance and nothing more. After making a special effort to see my hematologist one last time before leaving, I assumed the results would be the usual good news. The phone call shattered my illusion.

This was supposed to be my time, I thought. Can’t I catch a break?

Arriving in Portugal, I immediately sought a local hematologist. I used a concierge medical service that matched me with an English-speaking doctor – one located in Lisbon. My new health insurance, the only one that covered pre-existing conditions after a year, paid for doctor visits but wouldn’t kick in for 90 days. I’d have to pay out-of-pocket, at least for the first appointment.

What if I had cancer? Would they call it pre-existing? Would I have to sell the condo, pack up and move back to the States?

I’d bought a car the first week, but driving in Portugal was a challenge. The signs were foreign, the roundabouts endless, and the Portuguese, typically kind and mild mannered, morphed into demons the moment they sat behind the wheel. My new phone service was buggy; Google Maps often froze mid-route.

What if I get lost? How will I ask for directions?

A new friend suggested I take the bus. I discovered there was no return bus from Lisbon to Alcobaça at the late hour I would need. My appointment wasn’t until 6:20, and I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait. Another friend recommended driving twenty miles south to Caldas da Rainha, where a later bus was available.

“It’s only scary once,” she said. The phrase became my mantra whenever I dove into the unfamiliar.

I hadn’t ridden public transit since I had lived in Germany as a college student, but I bought a two-way ticket online and promptly began hyperventilating.

What if the doctor diagnoses me? Can I hold it together long enough to return? Why did I come here?

On appointment day, I left at 1 p.m. to reach the bus by 4 p.m. so I’d be driving in daylight and have plenty of time to find the station. I Googled the bus station location but it wouldn’t show on my map. Anxiety spiraled as I drove toward the unknown. When I’d signed up for adventure, this wasn’t what I had in mind.

As I entered Caldas, a giant Rotary International wheel-logo installation in the middle of the first roundabout greeted me – comfort in the familiar. Public art and statuary are common throughout the country, especially in roundabouts. I admired the buildings covered in colorful azulejos, ceramic tiles. Contemporary art murals decorated the sides of buildings throughout town. I made a note to come back and explore more.

My online search for directions to the bus station had only indicated the train station. Were they in the same place? My friend who’d told me about the bus mentioned an underground parking garage in the middle of town, and I was delighted when my phone guided me directly to the spot. I hated parking garages — they scared me — especially underground ones, but I didn’t know where else to go.

Where was the bus station? Was I parked within walking distance? Would I be able to find my car in the dark when I returned late that night?

As I swung the car into a parking space, I looked up and saw a woman near my own age. I lowered the window and called out to her.

“Desculpe, fala inglês?” — Excuse me — do you speak English?

“Yes! I’m an American!”

I explained that I couldn’t find the bus station on my map and asked if she knew where it was.

“I don’t know — I don’t live here,” she said. “I only come here to get my hair done, but my husband took a friend there once to catch the bus, so I know he can help. He’s on business in South Africa, but I’m happy to call and ask.” I couldn’t believe she would accommodate a perfect stranger so generously.

Our phones wouldn’t work underground, so we walked across the street to her hairdresser’s shop to take advantage of the Wi-fi. She placed the call, and in minutes I had the address. I keyed it into Google Maps and it popped up immediately. It was only three blocks away. I thanked the woman, we swapped contact information and I invited her to visit.

I found the station quickly and decided to kill the two hours before departure at a coffee shop next door. Twenty minutes before scheduled departure, I walked back to the station and waited in the loading area. The time came and went but I didn’t see a bus that matched my ticket. Crawling electronic signs over the windshields announced their destinations.

Most said “Lisbon” plus the names of other towns I didn’t recognize. My neck and shoulders started tightening, my usual stress reaction. Had I missed it? Was I supposed to get on one of these? My trip was supposed to be nonstop, but these didn’t appear to be.

I approached a middle-aged man standing nearby with a young girl at his side. “Desculpa, fala inglês?. ” I was embarrassed to ask people to speak my language, but I hadn’t had time to start Portuguese classes. There was no choice.

“Não” — no, he said, shaking his head.

“But I do!” said his daughter, a sweet-faced girl about 12 or 13 with long dark hair and braces. I remembered that school-age children begin learning English at an early age. While many people speak at least a little English, some older people are unsure of their skills or have forgotten what they learned when younger.

I explained to the girl that I was confused about which bus to get on and asked if she could help. She patted my arm in a motherly fashion.

“Don’t you worry,” she said. “I am going to take care of you and make sure you get on the right one!” Astonished and appreciative, I showed her the ticket, and she pointed to the line where I should stand to wait.

“The buses are always late,” she explained. “You haven’t missed it.”

The bus arrived in 15 minutes, and the girl waved to me as I climbed aboard. “I hope you have a good trip,” she called, smile sparkling.

The bus was clean and modern, though I was disappointed to see there were no restrooms. I found my assigned seat near the back. A young woman, probably in her early twenties, sat by the window. I slid in beside her and we rode in silence for the first ten minutes until I asked, once again, in hesitant Portuguese, “Fala inglês?” Her face brightened.

“Yes!” Are you American?”

“I am,” I said.

She told me her family lived in the Algarve, the southern part of the country, and that she was studying to become a nurse. We talked for the entire ride—about healthcare, families, politics and the challenge of learning a new culture. It was my longest conversation with a Portuguese person so far. Before we arrived, we exchanged contact information and I invited her to visit my town. It was a generous, easy conversation that settled my nerves.

“Do you know how difficult it is to get a Bolt at the bus station?” I asked her as we approached Lisbon. I’d discovered on my last trip to the city the previous year that Bolt, a car pickup service, was much cheaper than Uber.

“It should be very easy,” she said. “Just find the exit where all the taxis are and you should be able to call one there.”

The bus station was enormous — much larger than the small bus stand in my Virginia hometown. A dozen buses lined up in assigned slots along one side of the station. I found an exit, not knowing if it led to the taxis, but eventually saw the signs and found rows of waiting cars in a circular drive. Using the app on my phone, I called for a Bolt.

Even though the app said the car would arrive in five minutes, it hadn’t shown up 20 minutes later. The driver texted me and asked for clarification — in English — for my location.

“I’m near the taxis,” I texted. “I can see the Mercedes-Benz dealership sign from where I am.”

“I see it,” he texted back. “But I don’t find you.”

We texted back and forth while I watched his driving pattern on the app. Finally, he said, “I can’t find you. Done.”

I received a notice from the app that he’d charged me anyway. I was pissed. Not only had I wasted time and money, I feared I would miss my appointment. I gave up on the apps and walked to the nearest taxi and handed the driver a piece of paper I’d printed with the name and address of the hospital. We took off and arrived in 10 minutes.

At the hospital I found the hematology department and checked in. Since my insurance wasn’t yet active, I had to pay the full 125-euro charge.

The receptionist pointed me in the direction of a waiting room, where a woman wearing scrubs typed on a computer on a rolling cart. The adjacent long hall led to a series of offices with numbered doors. I presented my receipt to the woman and waited for instructions. She didn’t speak English but motioned for me to sit.

My appointment time of 6:20 pm came and went. An hour later, I began to stew.

What if the doctor wanted to do a biopsy? How much would it cost? What if he found I had cancer? How would I tell my kids? Would I have to immediately sell the condo I had bought and return home? Would I lose all the money it cost to move to Portugal? What kind of funeral did I want?

Around and around dark thoughts spewed from my brain like a broken sewer line.

At 7:30 I asked the attendant how much longer I’d have to wait, tapping my watch. “Bus at 9:30,” I said, hoping it made sense.

She shook her head gently, then held up two fingers. I didn’t know if she meant there were two patients ahead of me or if I had two more hours to wait. I watched patients who’d arrived after me come and go. Had I missed my appointment? If I missed the bus, would I need to find a hotel? How would I even do that?

Finally, at 8:15 she called me by my first name. “Charlotte Kent,” she said, pronouncing the “Ch” of Charlotte like the English “Ch” in Charlie.

I had dropped my first name as a 6-year-old — against my parents’ wishes — because I despised it. I had grown to like it as I grew older and now found it oddly comforting. As I stood the clerk held up one finger, indicating the correct door.

Inside a thin man with glasses and dark hair, I guessed him to be in his early 60s, sat behind an office chair. There was no customary exam table as in my doctors’ offices in the U.S.

“How may I help you?” asked Dr. Lopez, speaking fluent English. He had a warm smile and kind eyes and I immediately felt more at ease. I told him about my medical history and handed him the printouts of my bloodwork results from my October appointment.

“Well, I’m not going to do a biopsy,” he said after shuffling through the papers. My mind immediately went to the worst possible conclusion.

That’s it, I thought. I have cancer and he doesn’t want to waste time.

“Why not?”

“I don’t see anything here to worry about,” he said calmly with a shrug. “Yes, your M-spike is up, but all the other indicators are stable. Your average is still within range.”

I stared. My U.S. doctor had sounded so concerned.

Dr. Lopez explained that there were four components to MGUS, and that only one of mine was elevated. I was stunned but reassured.

“We’ll watch it,” he said. “Get new labs and come back in three months.” I agreed, shook his hand and left.

Relief flood me – but I was confused. Why had my old doctor been so alarmed? Was he behind the times or was Dr. Lopez too casual? Dr. Lopez was a professor at a medical university, so he should be knowledgeable. I stopped analyzing and accept that I was okay. I would not die — at least not yet — and I wouldn’t have to make a hard phone call to my sons in the U.S. The tight bands in my shoulders and neck softened.

Back in the hospital lobby area, I asked a receptionist to call a taxi. She did and I waited outside for nearly 20 minutes but saw no taxi. Concerned that I would miss my bus — it was nearly 8:30 — I returned to the woman, flustered, and told her that the taxi had not come. She called again and asked a security guard to escort me to the proper pickup place on the other side of the building. Within minutes I was on my way.

At the station, I examined my ticket and I saw numbers in various boxes with words I didn’t understand, just as I hadn’t understood at the bus station in Caldas. A young woman sat on a bench nearby.

“Desculpe. Fala inglês?”

Her face brightened. “Yes!” she said, grateful. Tired, hungry and emotionally drained, I wasn’t up for trying to translate a message on the phone app that didn’t always work. I showed her my ticket.

“Am I in the right place for the 9:30 bus to Caldas da Rainha?”

“It will arrive right here,” she said, pointing at the closest slot. I thanked her and sat with her. We chatted as we waited. She was studying chemical engineering and had recently traveled to Virginia Beach with her family.

“That’s where I’m from!” I said. “Well—nearby, in Newport News.”

We laughed, marveling at the coincidence. She named familiar landmarks. I felt a sudden pang of homesickness—and familiarity.

I’d made another Portuguese friend, although a temporary one. The synchronicity didn’t escape me. What were the chances that I would meet someone familiar with my hometown who spoke perfect English just when I needed help?

The bus was mostly empty. I found my seat and closed my eyes, overwhelmed. The day had been filled with anxiety, but also grace. Every step of the way, someone had helped: the American woman in Caldas, the kind young girl at the station, the nursing student on the bus, the receptionist at the hospital, the student at the Lisbon bus station with a connection to home.

These weren’t coincidences. These were angels. I didn’t believe this was chance.

Relief softened the tension in my neck and shoulders. I felt divinely protected and completely loved. A tear formed in the corner of my eye, and I was glad it was dark.

I whispered into the darkness: “Thank you, Bob. You always said you’d slay dragons for me. Today, you did.”

I felt invisible arms around me.

Back in Caldas less than an hour later, I had a momentary concern walking toward the car, not sure if I were going in the right direction. I wasn’t used to city streets at night, much less in a country I didn’t know. But the streets were lively. Couples laughed. Women strolled alone. I sensed that I was safe.

After several blocks the streets lined with shops and stores seemed to open up as though the town were stretching its arms out to welcome me. I arrived at the market square, lit up with early holiday lights, where diners and revelers gathered around outdoor tables with their friends, drinking, eating and enjoying the night. Music and laughter filled the air.

Noting the sign for the parking garage, I passed it, no longer urgent to find my car and leave. An overwhelming sense of peace flooded me, and I felt as though I were floating. I walked through a tunnel of white lights in the market area filled with brightly lit Christmas trees, lampposts and displays. A moment of awe and gratitude took my breath away.

I thought of the old Mary Tyler Moore TV show from the 1970s when she arrived in Minneapolis as a single woman, twirled confidently in the middle of the street and threw her beret into the air. I heard the theme song in my head: You’re gonna make it after all. I wished I had a hat to toss into the sky. I was home. My new home.

Twenty minutes later, I found my car and followed GPS home. I noticed that the map didn’t show the full route, only a few steps. Each turn I took advanced the map and revealed the next, just as my entire day had unspooled.

At home just before midnight, I stepped into my building’s dark lobby. Although the halls were initially dark, I took one step inside and the motion-activated lights switched on, illuminating the hallway ahead.

After changing planes in New York, I’d flown all night, too excited to sleep, and arrived in Lisbon at 10 a.m. October 31, 2024.

I gathered the six suitcases I’d brought—at a cost of $200 each—loaded two hand carts, sailed through customs and pushed the carts outside the airport to find Antonio, whom I’d met on a previous trip and had hired to transport me to Alcobaça.

We arrived at my new home 90 minutes later. Too excited to sleep, I began settling in.

It would take a couple of months for my shipment to arrive from the U.S., and I’d have to make do with the furnishings in the apartment and the little I’d brought in my suitcases. The kitchen had a few bare essentials the previous owners left behind, and I’d bought linens on my last trip.

I began taking inventory of all the things I needed to do to or buy to make the place my own – new light fixtures, colorful rugs and throw pillows, curtains, art for the walls, a new printer, additional bookcases and cabinets, a clothes dryer and paint. Since there was only one “mini-split,” located in the main living area to provide heat and air conditioning for the entire apartment, I knew I’d want some additional electric heaters for the bedrooms. And I’d been warned to get dehumidifiers because of the likelihood of mold due to Portugal’s persistent dampness.

I’d originally thought that I’d do a major renovation but nixed that since my house hadn’t sold. I decided to do only what was needed to make the apartment/condo feel like home rather than investing in “nice-to-haves.” I lucked out and found a great handyman, another expat, from South Africa. His rates were extremely reasonable compared to those in the U.S., and I would keep him busy for a couple of months making repairs and changes.

Within an hour of my arrival, Eve and John, my friends from Virginia who lived five minutes away, paid me a welcome visit. They were on their way to Lisbon for a few days, but popped in to say hello and ask if I needed anything right away.

“Yes,” I said. “My doctor is concerned about some test results and advised me to see a hematologist right away.” I told them about the phone call I’d gotten a few days earlier. “I have no idea how to do that.”

“You need Serenity,” Eve said. “They’re nurse case managers who help you find good, English-speaking doctors in Portugal, and I highly recommend them. I’ll send you the contact.”

I was relieved. Healthcare was my number one concern. I couldn’t imagine how I’d manage that on my own since I didn’t speak the language. When I received the contact, I emailed the company and immediately hired them for 200 euros for a year. The nurse assigned to me advised me on health insurance – MGEN was the only company that covered pre-existing conditions, so I signed up, even though it would be a year before pre-existing conditions would be covered. I didn’t know how that would affect me if the hematology workup showed that I had cancer.

Even though Portugal has nationalized health coverage, the system is strained and slow, and often public doctors don’t speak English. Health insurance was very reasonable – 275 euros per month. I’d paid four times that in the U.S. under the Affordable Care Act before eligibility for Medicare. MGEN required a 90-day waiting period before it covered any expenses. There was a reasonable copay per visit, usually around 22 euros.

I considered my options for Medicare, which doesn’t cover anything outside the U.S., and determined that I’d keep Parts A and B since reinstating them would result in a severe financial penalty if I were to return to the U.S. I wasn’t allowed to keep my supplemental policy as an expat, so that wasn’t a consideration. If I returned to the U.S. and wanted to purchase supplemental insurance again there would be a small penalty, but as long as I medically qualified, I could obtain it.

My next concern was transportation. I thought I might try to live without a car and rely on public transportation, but, unlike in other European countries, Portugal’s public transportation system is not as well developed. Trains, buses and subway systems are good in large cities, such as Lisbon and Porto, but are not prevalent in smaller cities and towns. The bus and train systems between major cities is fairly reliable, but getting around within cities and between smaller towns can be challenging.

After twice struggling to lug groceries from the closest store up a steep hill to my apartment building, I decided that I wasn’t cut out for the wayfarer life. In week two, I made an appointment with a car dealership, recommended by my relocation consultant, 30 minutes away.

I bought a small, fuel-efficient, one-year-old car, a Seat (pronounced see-aht), a Spanish brand with a Volkswagen engine. I’d told the sales rep ahead of time the general description of what I wanted and how much I was willing to pay, and he’d picked out the perfect car for me to test drive. In addition, an onsite broker set me up with insurance—much less than what I’d pay in the U.S.—and registration before I drove away. It was the best car-buying experience I’d ever had. A year later, I couldn’t be happier with it.

Meeting people and making new friends was high on my priority list, and I found many opportunities in the expat community. After announcing my arrival on Facebook pages for local expats and on WhatsApp groups managed by my relocation people, I immediately began receiving invitations for coffee and lunch and notices about activities. I met a number of other single women in Portugal, attended an exercise dance class and checked out several weekly meetups for expats in Alcobaça and nearby Nazaré.

I discovered that other expats were also hungry for making connections since most of us had limited language skills and had difficulty forming friendships with the Portuguese. I found that younger Portuguese residents usually speak English at some level, but often older citizens—those my age—do not. I met people from the U.S., Great Britain, Sweden, Malta, Canada, South Africa and other countries, and regardless of which countries the immigrants hailed from, they all spoke English.

I was determined to learn to speak Portuguese so that I could communicate in the native language, but for now, “fala inglês?” would be my fallback. It was embarrassing. I didn’t want to be “one of those” entitled foreigners who moved in and expected everyone to speak my language, but I’d had no time to study Portuguese before the move.

Until I could begin taking lessons, it would have to suffice. I was sure that I’d be a quick study to learn at least enough Portuguese to be able to ask directions, conduct basic commerce and talk about the weather with my neighbors. After all, I’d lived for a year in Germany when I was in college and picked up quite a bit of the language. And I knew a little Spanish from the two years I’d studied it in high school.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“I feel like I’ve lost both my parents in a year,” said Abram, my oldest.

“But you’ll visit me, and I’ll come back every year,” I said, as he helped me drag my luggage inside. I gave him a long hug.

“I know, but it’s not the same. I wish I’d spent more time with Dad, and now you’re leaving, too.”

I understood and felt a little guilty. But my sons had their own fully lives, and I could not sit around waiting for them to live mine. I wanted to spend what was left of mine, while I was physically able, making my own memories.

I would miss them, terribly, but I would not be deterred.

As I settled into the guest bedroom, my cell rang.

“Ms. Kent, are you still planning to move to Portugal?” asked my hematologist’s nurse practitioner. I’d been into the office the week before to get a final blood test before I left town.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “I leave in a few days. Why?”

“Because your M-spike is way up! If you were going to be here, we’d give you another bone biopsy.”

Ten years prior my doctor discovered a protein, called MGUS, in my blood that was behaving badly.

MGUS (Monoclonal Gammopathy of Undetermined Significance) is a common, usually benign blood condition where plasma cells produce an abnormal protein (M-protein), often found incidentally in routine tests, causing no symptoms. While not cancer, it’s a precursor that can progress to blood cancers like multiple myeloma or lymphoma in a small percentage of people. Though it requires regular monitoring, most never develop serious issues.

When it was initially discovered, the doctors performed head-to-toe X-rays and a bone marrow biopsy from my hip to make sure I didn’t have multiple myeloma. I was clean.

The quarterly blood checks also had been consistently fine. MGUS had been just a minor inconvenience . . . nothing I’d had to concern myself with for so many years.

“Holy crap,” I said. “What does this mean?” I couldn’t believe that after all this time – just before I was planning to leave the country – there was a problem.

“It could be nothing, or you could have multiple myeloma,” she said. “If you’re determined to leave, you must get to a hematologist as soon as possible after you move.”

I was in shock. What was I going to do? By this time, I’d burned the ships. How could I could turn back now?

I told my daughter-in-law, Jasmine, about the call.

“Do you think I should tell the boys?” I asked, meaning my sons. They’d always be boys to me.

“Would it change your mind about going?” she asked.

“No,” I said, after a long pause.

“Then wait until you know more,” she said, wisely.

I didn’t know if I was brave or stupid, but I was determined to go. I’d deal with the fallout later. If I needed treatment, I’d make another decision later. I owned a home in Portugal and had a one-way ticket. For now, that’s where my future would be.

While unsettled, I proceeded with plans.

That evening was my going away party at a local restaurant. Jasmine put my hair up in a fancy “do” and I dressed in a sparkly black top. I was going to be happy, dammit, and that was all there was to it.

More than 50 friends and family came out for a final hug and to wish me godspeed. A few made short speeches. One friend read a resolution commending my volunteer work for a local nonprofit.

I would miss these dear people I loved and who loved me. They’d supported and anchored me in Virginia for more than half my life. I urged everyone to visit in Portugal.

A few days later, Abram, Jasmine and my grandson Monty took me out for a final meal and then drove me to the Norfolk airport for departure.

After hugs and a few tears, I was gone, off to start a new life and into a future that I could not predict.

I’d researched the cost of taking them into the Chesapeake Bay on a boat, family included, but the cost was between $1,500 and $2,000. Penny-pincher that he was, Bob wouldn’t have approved of spending that much money.

Years before he died Bob said he wanted a “green” burial, meaning no embalming or cremation, but I could not find a viable legal option for that in Virginia. I told him that, unless he arranged it, he’d be cremated. And, so he was.

He’d emphatically told me he didn’t want his ashes taken back to Southwest Virginia. “Absolutely not! It took me too long to get out of there.”

There are local and state regulations about where ashes can be spread but I didn’t have time to research them and get all the valid permissions, so I decided to do it discretely in a nearby park. Jordan knew a spot inside the large park where we were likely to have privacy. Our three sons, daughter-in-law, grandson, and our granddaughter and her fiancé accompanied me to the spot that Jordan had identified.

I prepared the ashes by dividing them into small zip-lock bags so that each family member could participate. It seemed inconceivable that a human being, even less likely that the person I’d known, loved, lived with and had children with could be contained in such small, nondescript packages. We pay so much attention to our bodies — how they look, feel and function— yet we end up in such a pedestrian, unremarkable form, gray grit that is unrecognizable from that of any other person or animal.

Hidden inside a patch of woods off the beaten path on the edge of a lake, we found a beautiful, serene spot that Bob would have loved. There we scattered his remains under bushes and trees and into the decomposing leaves and water, returning him to the elements where he would become part of the circle of life.

I remembered the phrase I’d often heard since childhood—ashes to ashes and dust to dust. I preferred to think of him as stardust, temporarily conscious as a human who’d been my life partner, but who was now immortal as a spirit, free and whole.

We paused at the end of our somber task, and, wordlessly, our sons and I wrapped our arms around each other and gazed out into the peaceful water. It was a moment I’d always cherish. I wondered how and where they’d dispose of my ashes when the time came.

I saved a few ashes, thinking I might spread them in Portugal, possibly on the famous El Camino de Santiago pilgrimage walk that begins in various places and ends at the Santiago de Compostel, a church in Spain just beyond the Portuguese-Spanish border to the north, which houses the tomb of St. James. A Virginia friend had suggested we walk the trail together, and I was intrigued.

We went back to our house, stripped bare of most decorations and belongings, where the children had grown up. We had one final meal there before the dining room furniture was removed. Even though the house wouldn’t be sold, I knew I’d never live there again.

This was the end of an era and the beginning of a new one—one I could not yet fully imagine.

.

But it was 2024, just before an election, and not 2022 when people paid more for houses than the asking price.

My house, built in the early 1960s, had its problems. The roof was nearly 19 years old, the bathrooms needed to be remodeled – one was Pepto Bismol pink – and some of the floors were in bad shape. While we had updated the kitchen and painted the dark wood paneling in the den – both at my insistence – Bob had always resisted spending money unless something was broken. Aesthetics weren’t important to him.

Even when something was broken, such as the laundry drain that resulted in a flooded washer every time it emptied, he’d jerry-rig a fix. He’d done that in our laundry room, and it looked like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory with pipes crawling up and down the wall.

My husband’s “fix” for the overflowing washer. I took down the huge pipe from the side of the cabinet (right) and the washer flooded again, so I called a plumber and he repaired the problem properly. He removed all the extra pipes.

“Mom, nobody’s going to buy this mess,” Jordan said. He was right. I hired a plumber and had the whole contraption removed and the drainage repaired at less cost than Bob had spent with his “I-can-fix-anything-but-a-broken-heart” repair.

In addition, the air conditioner was on the blink. It had been on the verge of collapse for several years, but Bob had insisted that it was fine. One of my sons knew someone who knew someone who could replace it for a reasonable price, so I jumped at it.

I got a new air conditioner at a good price.

I hired someone to paint rooms that hadn’t been touched in years and covered bad spots on the floors with rugs. Before clearing out the rest of the furniture, I decided the house was ready for sale in mid-July.

I wanted to avoid paying the steep realtor commission, so I had the house professionally photographed, posted it on Zillow, bought signs and advertised it everywhere I could find.

I waited.

And waited.

Nothing happened.

Weeks later, only two people had made appointments to see the house; my sales efforts were obviously not enough. The only people who were interested in my house were agents, who buzzed around like vultures over a dead squirrel, annoying me with their inquiries about listing it with them.

It was time for Plan B.

In August I interviewed about a dozen realtors, negotiating the commission with several. Their suggestions for the listing price ranged by nearly $100,000. I had no idea who to believe and which agent could sell my house.

I settled on a woman who had a great track record and good reputation. She had the house photographed again by her preferred photographer, who used a drone to show the neighborhood and the house from a bird’s-eye view. She staged an open house immediately and about a dozen people attended.

I thought the house would sell quickly.

A month later, my house still unsold, she said that the market had gotten soft. In my military-heavy area, houses sold better in the early spring. And houses weren’t moving because interest rates were too high. People were waiting for the results of the 2024 election.

Be patient, she said.

Nothing happened.

In September I got a cryptic email from the agent’s realty firm saying that the agent had died. There was no explanation as to what happened to her other than “she was a private person.” I still have no idea if she had been sick when I signed the contract or if her death was sudden and unexpected.

I ended the contract with the realty firm and contacted an acquaintance who’d become a realtor in recent years.

Time for Plan C.

“I need to sell this house in the next month,” I told her. “Can you do it?”

She absolutely could sell it in a month, she said.

I signed a new contract. She showed the house a number of times, but it didn’t move. In the final week before my scheduled move to Portugal, we got an offer -- $60,000 below the assessed value.

I rejected it out-of-hand. The buyers offered $10,000 more, but I rejected that, as well.

I had no idea what to do. Should I leave it on the market and hope it sold after my move? How would I do that? I didn’t know if I’d have to return for the closing or if I could handle that remotely.

“Why don’t you rent it for a while?” suggested my lawyer friend, Robin. “I’ve got a client who’s a property manager. You’d have the cash flow to pay the HELOC on your Portugal condo.”

I moved to Plan D.

I interviewed the young man and was impressed with his business and his sincerity. While it wasn’t my desire to leave behind my unsold house, renting it seemed like the most expedient solution. I reluctantly signed an agreement to rent it for two years.

I had no idea what an albatross the house would become.

We’d lived in the same house since Nathan was a baby – 32 years—and Bob was, what could be kindly called, a packrat. I had my own pack-ratian tendencies, but they paled in light of his. He’d been raised with little in Appalachia in Southwest Virginia, and I think the fear of abject poverty trailed him throughout life. He never threw out anything.

Taken as a whole, we had quite the collection of flotsam and jetsam jammed into the five-bedroom, two-attic, two-car garage house. Every time a bedroom was abandoned by one of our sons as they left home, that room became storage. The house looked like an episode of Hoarders.

I’d begged Bob, five years earlier, to help my go through his stuff, downsize and move into a nearby condo that was on the market, but he balked. He was so resistant that we wound up in counseling. He would not agree to the move, but finally compromised, in theory, to sorting through all his things. I knew that if he didn’t, I’d be one left with the mess.

I’d reminded him of the “compromise” many times, trying to prod him into helping me make decisions about his old computers, records and notes from his years of community college teaching, and boxes-full of his things we’d moved from the attic of our previous house into this one without opening them. Every time I’d suggest we start, he’d say, “Not today.”

The only action he finally agreed to was disposing of four old computers he’d held onto for 25 years, paying a handyman to take them to the city recycling center at the dump.

I finally gave up. Eventually he was too sick to help and my entire focus was caregiving. I put it out of my mind, accepting that I’d be the one to handle it all sometime in the future, just as I’d predicted.

Nathan had moved from Richmond into our house in late 2022 to help me with his dad and to recenter his life after a failed relationship. He’d cleaned and reorganized the garage to make room for all his household items and furniture. During that time, Bob finally agreed to allow Nathan to throw out the 25 boxes of books, student records and notes he’d brought home 15 years earlier from his teaching job.

After Bob died in October 2023 and I made the decision to move to Portugal, the task of cleaning out the house loomed like an anticipated archaeological dig of my life and marriage. Not only would I face questions about what to do with every object, having to decide whether to keep or dispose of them, but I’d have to revisit all the glorious and painful moments they represented.

I didn’t know what relics of my past I’d unearth, but the thought of unearthing all those memories was daunting. Plus, I was overwhelmed by the pure physicality that such a clean-out demanded.

I researched estate sale professionals online and determined that I first needed to get the house in some kind of order before such a sale would be possible. In the end, they weren’t interested in our junk.

The first task was to clean out the garage for a staging area. After coaxing, Nathan rented a nearby storage facility for his things and moved them out.

Jordan and Abram unloaded all the boxes from the attics into the garage. Many of the boxes were so old that they crumbled from deterioration. Many of the oldest ones contained things I’d never seen – Bob’s Boy Scout camping equipment, old black-and-white photos of his grandparents, letters to and from his ex-wife and a former girlfriend, maps of the U.S. he’d drawn in the seventh grade and 1960-era deposit slips from his bank in Glade Spring, VA, his hometown. I knew he’d saved every tax return he’d ever filed (“I might want to see how much I earned in 1962”), but I had no idea about all of this.

I also uncovered boxes of my own memories: cards from my first love at age 17, the one who broke my innocent heart; wonderful, long letters from a college boyfriend who continued to write me during my year in Germany; and my mother’s teenage scrapbook and old greeting cards she’d saved for years, including Mother’s Day and birthday cards I’d sent. I even found painful break-up letters Bob and I had written each other early in our relationship when it didn’t seem as though things would work out.

As hard as it was, I knew that none of it could go with me. I saved only my mother’s scrapbook for the kids but threw out the rest. I took photos of some of the things I wanted to remember.

I found six—yes, six—old Christmas trees. When the kids were little, I’d decorated a small tree for each of their rooms. I’d stashed them in the attic over the bonus room, along with the hundred-plus Santas I’d collected, ornaments the kids had made, wreaths and other holiday paraphernalia. I decided to ship the ceramic Christmas village my mom made, but gave her ceramic tree to one of the kids and sold her beautiful crèche to a good friend. The rest was donated.

Abram and Jordan didn’t want the memorabilia. Nathan, the son most like his father, wanted anything that pertained to his dad. “It’s family history,” he said. “Don’t throw anything out until I look at it.”

“Okay, but you have to decide quickly,” I said. “I’ve got to get everything out of here.”

But Nathan, like his dad, didn’t do anything quickly. In the end, I made piles of “stuff” for each son to consider. If they wanted it, they had to get it out of the house.

Now.

If not, it would be donated or trashed. Nathan ended up moving many of the boxes to his storage facility without going through it. I wondered who would be the one to eventually discard it.

Jordan and Abram, for the most part, took furniture and household items. Jordan, who was ready for a move, leased a two-bedroom apartment, designating one of the rooms for storage. He was hoping to buy a house soon and would need my bedroom suite and some of the living room furniture, he reasoned.

When we married, Bob had an old jukebox in his den. It had been stored in our garage since our move to our larger house because it was wouldn’t fit through the door of the house. Eventually it stopped working after sitting for years in the cold, damp garage. Jordan had admired it, and Bob had wanted Jordan to help him restore it, but Jordan never had the time.

We always assumed Jordan would take it, but now he didn’t have the space. I advertised in online and sold it for $500 to a collector from Baltimore. Others told me I could have gotten $5,000 for the antique, but I was happy to have it out of the way.

I sold Bob’s old jukebox to this man from Baltimore.

Though Abram said he didn’t need anything, he took items that I earmarked for Cheyenne, my adult granddaughter.

Cheyenne also got my wedding rings. I’d separately asked her and her long-term boyfriend, Brandon, shortly before Bob’s death if they’d like to have them. I realized that I’d rather see them on her hand than to leave them in a drawer for her to find after my death. They were both thrilled. I’d passed them secretly to Brandon at my home after Bob’s service and assumed he’d soon give them to her, but it would be a year before he’d officially propose.

I had Bob’s wedding ring, one we’d had designed specifically for him, made into a pendant with the birthstones of our family members floating inside. I would wear it constantly.

I had Bob’s wedding ring converted into a pendant.

I advertised many of the more valuable items from the house that the kids didn’t want on Facebook Marketplace and sold them, dirt cheap. I donated Bob’s old car that no longer ran – the one I’d begged him to dispose of – to Habitat for Humanity. Jordan, who wanted to get rid of his car payment, got my old car.

I had dozens of photo albums with the kids’ photos virtually glued to the sticky sheets inside. I recruited my daughter-in-law, Jasmine, and my friend, Gretchen, to help me extract them so that they could be scanned. That was no small task. It required patience to peel them out and re-stick them individually onto printer paper.

I send several thousand photos to a company I found online and had thumb drives made of all the photos for my three sons, Cheyenne and me. I planned to throw out the paper photos, but Nathan wanted those, too.

I collected Bob’s shirts and sent them to a quilter I found on Etsy, and she made small memorial quilts for each of the children and my granddaughter. She appliqued trees – each one slightly different – on the quilts, with scraps from Bob’s shirts as leaves.

She made me a bedspread-sized quilt that I’d use as a spread for my bed. I asked her to design the quilt using Bob’s shirts to make a flight of butterflies and to include a line from a John Denver song, “The Wings That Fly Us Home,” which speaks to spiritual journeys and connection with loved ones after death:

“ . . . the spirit fills the darkness of the heavens
It fills the endless yearning of the soul
It lives within a star too far to dream of
It lives within each part and is the whole
It’s the fire and the wings that fly us home
Fly us home, fly us home.”

Bob had loved this song, and I played it at his memorial service.

I cried when she sent the beautiful quilts months later. Knowing that I’d sleep beneath this field of butterflies and words that he loved gave me a sense of peace and comfort.

The bedspread I had made from Bob’s shirts that would go with me to Portugal.

I hired another company I found online to make a blanket from our graphic t-shirts we’d bought on ski trips and family vacations and from organizations and causes we’d supported. I decided to use it as a spread for another bed in my new place.

I paid a company to pick up and shred tons of documents, including most of the old tax returns. At least half my clothes went to the local consignment shop, and I made a little pocket change from their sale. I still kept too many.

Trying to decide what to take and what to leave was gut wrenching. I went through every item in every closet and drawer, making thousands of small decisions that, as a whole, was overwhelming.

There was a reason such a downsizing is called “Swedish Death Cleaning.” While this process was necessary for my move, I also saw it as a gift to my children. I wouldn’t leave this task to them upon my demise.

I gave away much of the art that had been on our walls, but packed a few pieces in bubble wrap for the move. A few kitchen essentials went into the moving boxes, as did the best yarn out of the hundreds of skeins I’d purchased. The rest went to a crafty friend. I donated nearly a thousand books to my church for a fundraiser. I packed a few essential tools, but Jordan got most, as was Bob’s wish.

The hardest item to part with was my piano. I’d taken lessons as a teenager, playing a beat-up piano my parents had purchased secondhand, but hadn’t had a piano for many years until Bob bought one for me for my birthday when I turned 50.

It wasn’t until I retired that I had time to take lessons again. I started in-person lessons in 2019 at a local music school, but then COVID hit. For those next two years I took lessons online from a woman in Arizona.

Music was a lifeline during those years of isolation and a consolation for the difficult job of caregiving. I’d fallen in love with my piano again, and the idea of parting with it was like leaving one of my children, but I knew it had to go.

Cheyenne wanted my piano but she didn’t have room for it in her small house in Richmond. Storing it until she had space would have required paying for climate-controlled storage, so she eventually declined. Acoustic pianos no longer sold—they often were advertised online for free or nearly free. I ended up donating my beautiful piano it to my church.

My beloved piano.

When I was done, there were 25 boxes left of things I decided to ship. I contracted with a shipping company that quoted me a price of $3,500 – way more than the value of the things the boxes held—but I decided I needed to take some familiar things to feel at home in my new environment. It was extravagant, but I rationalized the expense.

I didn’t know that the cost would nearly double by the time I received my things on the other side of the ocean because of port fees. Nothing about this move would be cheap.

As difficult as the clean-out had been, it had also been cathartic. It helped me realize that possessions are only “stuff,” and most “stuff” is replaceable. My memories were intact, and they took no space.

I would take all of those with me.

I had to finish Bob’s estate, get my visa, and clean out and sell the house. I wanted to move by the end of October, so that meant I had five months. Ambitious, but doable, I thought, if I put my mind to it. I’d lived with deadlines as a news reporter and tended to perform best under pressure.

I’d snagged a visa appointment online for late May in Washinton, DC., the closest office, while in Portugal. Appointments are not automatic. I had to visit the website constantly and sign up for one as soon as it appeared. Only a few are released at a time. I felt sure I’d be ready.

My relocation consultant advised me to immediately obtain my FBI background report when I got home, which entailed getting fingerprints made at the local police station and sending them to the FBI.

“This could take a month,” she said, “so it will be tight. But even if you don’t get the report in time, keep the appointment. You can always mail them in later.”

Famous last words.

My friend Robin, who’d worked in D.C. as a young adult, offered to drive me there because she knew the area and I didn’t like driving in big cities. I was worried that Robin wouldn’t be able to handle the trip because she has emphysema and uses an oxygen generator, but she insisted she’d be fine.

On the way up, we began to hear a loud clanging noise as though something were dragging under the car. We pulled over to check and found that one end of the muffler was on the ground. We found a service station that jerry-rigged a temporary fix.

We finally got to D.C. and found the AirBnB where we’d be staying, a three-floor townhouse, but there was no nearby parking on the city street. The sweet young couple, who lived on the first floor, helped us unload our luggage, including Robin’s oxygen generator, and drove our car to a nearby parking lot.

We’d arrived late, so we asked the pair where we could get dinner. They recommended one of their local favorites, telling us that the restaurant delivered. We ordered enough food for everyone, and the couple ate with us in the second-floor apartment. They told us their life stories, and before the evening was out, we all felt like friends.

The next morning the young man brought our car to the street in front of the townhouse and helped us load up.

Robin and I found the office, VFS Global, a government contractor that handles visas for U.S. citizens moving abroad. I had reams of paperwork that my documents advisor I’d hired in Portugal had helped assimilate.

When my name was called, I was nervous but confident. I presented the stack of documents—my Portuguese tax ID number, bank statements proving I’d deposited enough money into a Portuguese bank to live on for a year, financial statements, a notarized copy of my passport, a personal statement explaining my reason for wanted to move and many others.

The clerk asked about my FBI report. I’d received the clean report by email, but I was supposed to bring the mailed copy without opening it, and it hadn’t arrived.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t proceed without that,” he said. He stopped shuffling my papers and folded his hands on top.

“But I was told I could mail it in later.”

“I don’t know who told you that, but that’s not the case.” He handed me back the forms.

“Please,” I pleaded, my voice cracking. Tears formed. “I had to drive three hours and spend the night for this appointment.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not allowed,” he said. “But you can call the Portuguese embassy, and if they say they will accept your application without it, I will agree.”

I called the number for the embassy in D.C. I found online, but there was no answer. Nor was there and answer at the New York office. What kind of embassy wouldn’t answer the phone? It was crazy. After several more attempts, I left the office and found Robin, waiting in the parked car.

I told her what happened, ranting about the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Let’s say a prayer, Gail,” she said.

“I don’t want to pray. I want to cuss,” I said.

“Okay, cuss then we’ll pray,” Robin said.

I did and then we did – mainly to humor her.

“Let’s go find the Portuguese embassy and try to get in,” I said.

“Okay, but I doubt they will let you in,” she said. “They have tight security.”

She was right. We found the embassy nearby, and I rang the buzzer outside the gate. Someone answered in Portuguese. I told them what I needed.

“Send an email,” the disembodied voice responded.

“Please!” I begged. “I drove three hours for this appointment and spent the night. Can’t you help me?”

“Sorry. Send an email.”

Dejected, I got back in the car, and we drove home to Newport News.

When I checked the mailbox, there was the envelope from the FBI. I wanted to scream.

It took weeks to score another appointment – this time in early July. Robin was game to go again, and we stayed in the same AirBnB as before. The couple, once again, lugged our stuff from the car to the second floor.

The next morning, I was even more nervous when I went for the appointment. The clerk, a different one from before, checked my documents and said they were in order. Relieved, my shoulders and neck relaxed.

Then she asked for the cashier’s check for the amount of the application fee. I presented the check I’d obtained at my hometown credit union where Bob and I had banked for decades.

The woman looked at the check. “This isn’t a cashier’s check,” she said. “It says, ‘official check’ – not cashier’s check.”

“It’s the same thing,” I explained. “It’s from a credit union, so that’s what they call cashier’s checks.”

“Can’t accept it.”

“Are you kidding me?”

She wasn’t. The other option was to pay by money order. Cash wasn’t accepted. The woman instructed me to go to a local drug store down the street and buy one.

“Will I lose my place in line?” I couldn’t face the possibility of having to come back yet a third time.

“No, just bring it to the desk when you have it.”

I found the store, bought the money order and returned within half an hour and submitted it. They took my photograph, which I took as a good sign.

Six weeks later I received an email from VFS Global telling me that my visa had been approved. I needed to mail my passport to them for the official stamp. In a week, I received it back.

I had until November 15 to get to Portugal. I’d already purchased a one-way airline ticket for October 31, so the timeframe worked.

Now that it was official, the reality of what I was about to do sunk in. Was I doing the right thing? In spite of feeling a bit wobbly, I pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

I had only months to finish all the preparations and sell my house. There was no time for second-guessing.

After my two weeks in Potsdam with Resi, I stayed in an AirBnB in Nazaré, Portugal, minutes from the ocean and 15 minutes from Alcobaça. There I was completely alone for the first time since Bob’s death. My son Nathan was still living with me at home in Virginia, and though he worked long hours and came home late, I was comforted by his presence.

Being alone in a foreign country felt both terrifying and healing. I took long daily walks on the beach, exploring tourist shops and enjoying cappuccinos at sidewalk bistros on the Marginal. I attended a performance by a pop Portuguese musician at a nearby theatre, a concert first for me.

I took a taxi to Alcobaça, where my friend Eve, who’d moved there the year before, organized a coffee for me so I could meet some women in the expat community.

Another day I met my lawyer at the notary’s office and closed on my apartment – the official reason for my visit to Portugal. Eve took me shopping at a home goods store for linens and other necessities and bought me a lovely decorative glass platter, a housewarming gift. My apartment began to look like a home instead of a sterile unit, but there would be more work to do after I moved.

There were still long, quiet hours to fill, and I didn’t know how to do that. For years, every minute of my days had been crammed with demands for my time and energy. Is this what peace felt like? Or, as Janice sang decades ago, was “freedom just another word for nothing left to lose”?

I wrote a poem about being alone in Nazaré:

Vegan Spaghetti in Portugal

I made vegan spaghetti just like you hate.

You lived on flesh not beans. Almost

blew myself up on the gas stove

making it. I hear you lecture about

combustion, the danger of igniting flames to cook.

I’m on the other side of the same ocean

where we walked the beach that time

before we married, the only time

I can remember, because you were

a mountain boy, not a beach lover.

You hated sand. But I’ve got

pictures of you on top of that

dune, your hair blowing wild, smile broad.

Later, pants cuffed high on

your calves, your feet played tag with the surf.

Alone now in Nazare, my sweater, a tortilla

tight around me, I walk the beach, March

wind gusting, gulls fussing, tide

lapping the edge of a different continent.

In town, English isn’t assumed. Narrow,

cobblestoned streets disallow

passing other cars at 35 mph.

Clothes dry on lines rather than in machines.

You’d hate it here.

What I find charming, you’d think inconvenient.

Slicing carrots, onions and

peppers for the boiling pot,

I play Leonard on YouTube,

my computer the only available

stereo. You tolerated him, even

digitized him for me, but your

Rocky Mountain high came from John

Denver and anybody’s band playing

Bluegrass. As Cohen’s smoky voice

wails, I think of you, now gray

silt in the cardboard box I

left on a shelf in my closet,

and my heart cracks.

Tears that would not come

when you passed spill down my cheek,

salting the pasta water.

I’d make you a steak if you were here,

listen to you complain about voltage

converters for small appliances,

and let you teach me AC theory

while I count out your pills.

Instead, I have Lenny. He promises

that the bells will ring, the light will come.

All I have to do is wait a while,

keep on breathing, and

eat my vegetables.

My friend Cindy joined me in Nazaré the third week of my stay. A fearless, independent woman who’d lived in Los Angeles for decades as a single woman, she wasn’t intimidated about driving as I was. She rented a car at the airport when she landed in Lisbon.

We took day trips to nearby towns, plus a two-night stay in Porto, located two hours north. She helped me move the few things I’d brought to my new apartment, where we stayed for the final few days in Portugal.

We flew together to Toulouse, France, where our friends Debby and Nelson met us and drove us the hour-and-a-half south to their home in Trausse. After showing us around the area for a few days, they left for the U.S. to meet family. Cindy and I, driving our friends’ car, explored towns, art galleries and museums within a 50-mile radius.

On Bob’s birthday, April 15^th, we bought a pastry at a local shop, stuck a candle in it and sang “Happy Birthday” to him. Privately, I tearfully whispered to him: If you’re here, I want to see some butterflies today.

Butterflies, symbols of growth and transformation, had played prominently in our relationship. Bob’s custom-made wedding ring had tiny butterflies embedded in the gold. Bob had promised, a week before he died, to communicate with me. They were the perfect sign to request.

That day and on the days that followed, I saw butterflies everywhere – in decorations, graphics and artwork. On a long solitary walk through the vineyards behind the town, I saw hundreds of living butterflies among the red poppies and wild flowers.

Every butterfly moment felt like Bob’s arms wrapping around me, comforting me and letting me know that he was okay and that I was not alone.

He’d heard me.

He was there after all.

“What?!?” said Jordan, alarmed. “Mom, you’re too old to do this.”

“Will I be any younger if I stay here?”

“Of course not, but who’s going to take care of you in Portugal?” Did my kids see me as an invalid now that I was a widow?

“I’m going to take care of me,” I answered. “I’ve been taking care of all of you, now I’m just going to take care of myself.”

I’d first helped care for my dad beginning when I was 14 when he developed colon cancer; I learned to draw morphine into a syringe and give him injections for pain. I helped Mom with cooking and household duties while she worked as the only provider for the family for the last 10 years of his life.

After marrying young the first time and having my oldest son, I later became a single parent, receiving no support from his father. A few years later, I met and married Bob and had two more sons. Then Bob was ill with Parkinson’s disease for nearly the last half of our 40-year marriage.

I’d done enough. I was tired. I didn’t even want plants or a pet.

“But you’ll move back if you need long-term care, won’t you?” Jordan asked.

“I don’t know. It’s less expensive in Portugal. We’ll see when that time comes.”

I talked a good game but inside I questioned my sanity. It had only been three months since my husband died. The Golden Rule of widowhood was to wait for a year before making any big decision.

I didn’t allow myself the option to reconsider. I tended to make decisions quickly and then lived with the consequences. There were “what ifs” in my mind, but I chose to ignore them and propel, like a loaded semi, into my future. What would I gain by waiting?

My husband had loved my spontaneity when we met, but after marriage our most frequent and intense clashes had been about my need to change things and his resistance. “You’re the car going 90 miles per hour and I’m hanging onto the bumper,” was his favorite expression.

My plan was to sell my house and use the proceeds to buy the apartment, but I’d need a bridge loan until that happened. After transferring funds from CDs I’d cashed for the down payment, I obtained a home equity line of credit (HELOC) for the remainder. I assumed I’d have no problem selling our house, located in a desirable neighborhood, and the loan would be repaid in months.

Meanwhile, my friends Debby and Nelson in France asked me and a mutual college friend, Cindy, if we’d like to house and cat sit for two weeks while they visited the U.S. in April, just a few months away.

I needed a break from the avalanche of estate paperwork that was burying me, and I jumped at the chance. I decided to combine the trip with another two-week visit to Potsdam, Germany, with my friend Resi and a month in Portugal between those two destinations.

All the paperwork of death was overwhelming at the time when I had the least energy to do it.

A month in Portugal, I reasoned, would give me a good picture of what life there would be like, and I hoped to tie up the legal ends on my apartment purchase while I was there. Cindy said she’d join me for half my trip, arriving in the middle of my month in Portugal and then travelling with me to France.

Two months in Europe felt like an extravagance, but I told myself that I deserved it. I made travel arrangements and thought I was leaving my troubles behind for a while with the European adventure.

Unfortunately, what had happened in the U.S. didn’t stay in the U.S.

My friend Sue, whose husband died a year before mine, wisely warned me: the second year will be harder than the first because you’ll be so busy dealing with paperwork that you won’t have time to grieve.

That would prove prophetic.

Bob and I had set up a trust for our estate years earlier to make it easy, so we thought, for the one left behind. But there were so many things neither of us foresaw – Social Security forms for survivor benefits, utilities that had to be changed from a joint account to just mine, decisions about our 401Ks and so much more.

In some cases, Bob, unknowingly, had locked me out of our accounts by naming me as co-owner by using my middle name, Gail, rather than my legal first name. No amount of identification, including birth and marriage certificates, seemed to satisfy the account managers.

I began to think I’d need to submit blood and stool samples.

In one case, the only way I was able to access funds was through my financial planner, who knew a higher-up in the company. He made a call and the funds were finally released.

All of it was maddening, disorienting and distracting. I wanted to curl up in a ball, but had no time for that. I was making huge decisions alone, and I doubted that Bob would agree with many of them. He’d been infuriatingly stubborn about spending money and slow to make changes, but together, we’d balanced each other out.

I’d been the free spirit in our relationship; he’d been the anchor. I was the mylar balloon; he’d been the one holding the string. Now that no one was holding onto the string, would I float away, drifting into the clouds?

Coupled with this crazy-making paperwork and legal demands were lingering questions: What now? What will I do with what’s left of my life? Will I continue rattling around in the five-bedroom house where we’d raised our family? Would I sit around waiting to die, hoping for occasional visits from the kids when they could fit me into their schedules?

Nobody needed me now. Bob was gone. Our children had their own lives.

What did I want?

I wasn’t sure, but I knew it wasn’t that.

Remembering my conversation with Bob the year, I realized that I really could move to Portugal now if I wanted. But did I? I’d told him I planned to move there after he passed, but, now that I could, it seemed like a wild idea, bordering on lunacy.

In December I messaged my friend Eve in Portugal. By then she and John had lived there for a year.

“I’m thinking about moving to Portugal,” I wrote. “But will I be isolated? I don’t know the language and I don’t have a partner. I’m afraid I’ll be stuck somewhere all alone with no friends.”

“Oh, Gail,” she wrote. “You won’t be alone. We just had an open house at Thanksgiving and more than 100 people showed up for dessert. There’s a large, active expat community here, and it’s easy to make friends. And you can learn Portuguese.”

Thoughts of my trip from Portugal the preceding year occupied my mind . . . was I ready for such a move?

I slept on it.

I desperately needed a change of scenery—something to look forward to. I’d fallen in love with Portugal when I visited the year before and had always dreamed of living in Europe again.

And truth be told, I was sick of the gun violence in my country. I was tired of looking for an escape route should there be a shooter in the grocery store, theatre or shopping center. And I was disturbed by the political division in the country that seemed to be getting worse by the day.

I decided to go for it.

After all, if I didn’t like it, I could always return to the U.S. As I would tell my children later, the only decision in life that’s irreversible is parenthood.

I scheduled a Zoom call for January with the relocation folks that had helped Eve and John find their home and assisted them with the details of the international move.

“What kind of place are you looking for?” the consultant asked me when the time came.

I’d anticipated discussing the pros and cons of moving to Portugal and perhaps visiting the country for a second look. I hadn’t really expected to commit to a plan.

“Oh, I think I’d want a condo,” I said, “Not a house.” I was tired of yard maintenance. I’d wanted to move to a condo years before Bob died, but he’d balked.

She pressed for a description.

I told her I’d want three bedrooms, two baths, elevator, heat and air conditioning. I’d learned that many Portuguese apartment buildings didn’t have elevators, and many homes didn’t include heat and air. As an American used to creature comforts, I wasn’t willing to compromise on those.

“That apartment that you stayed in when you visited last year just went on the market today,” she informed me. “It has all those things.”

I remembered the apartment as simple but comfortable and spacious. It was fully furnished with decent, contemporary furniture that wasn’t entirely my taste, but it would make moving easier. And I could eventually pick out new furniture and decorate the condo to make it my own.

Anticipating that my children and their families would visit often, I would want room to be able to house them comfortably. Downsizing from my large house would be an adjustment. I didn’t want to be crammed into a tiny, one-bedroom space. It was just around the corner from Eve and John and the price was right.

I paused. Was I ready to make such a life-changing decision?

“Okay, I’ll take it,” I declared, surprising myself. And just like that, within 15 minutes, I bought real estate in another country.

Bob would have been horrified.

He’d wanted to die for months and he’d even asked me to take him to Oregon for assisted suicide. None of his doctors would provide the needed documents – mainly, a letter saying he had less than six months to live – because they feared prosecution.

For this I was angry at the Commonwealth of Virginia and his doctors for denying his wish. If he’d been allowed to end his own life humanely, the whole family would have been at his side. He could have decided to take a prescription drug, provided by an Oregon doctor, to stop his breathing when and how he wanted.

I felt guilty that I wasn’t with him when he died. I hadn’t realized that his extreme agitation the night before was a sign that death was near, and I’d left him alone to go home and sleep.

I even felt responsible for his death. I’d requested powerful narcotics from his hospice kit to calm him, not realizing that they would hasten his passing. Had I, in fact, murdered my husband? I thought of calling the police and confessing.

I felt relieved—for him and for me. He’d struggled for so long and now he was out of it. I felt guilty and conflicted for feeling my own relief. I was so exhausted as a caregiver, and there were times I didn’t believe I could go on another day.

But another part of me, the part that loved who he’d been and who we’d been together, hadn’t wanted him to go.

I felt numb. I cried with our family when they gathered around his body in the assisted living facility, but then I couldn’t cry again for such a long time. Was I broken inside? What was wrong with me?

Two weeks after his cremation we held a memorial for Bob at a local funeral home. I’d instructed our three sons to send him off with their favorite stories—even better if they were funny.

Some of the flowers we received after Bob’s death. We’d requested memorials be made to The Michael J. Fox Foundation for Parkinson’s research, and several thousand dollars were raised.

Abram, the oldest, spoke first, telling the story about his dad, ever the penny-pincher, trying to instruct him to clean up in the bathroom by using only two squares of toilet paper. “Sorry dad,” he said. “I’m a three-square man.”

Jordan, our middle son, talked about his father’s stubbornness, a trait that only grew stronger as death approached. Only a week before his death Bob refused to sign our tax return unless we’d take him home to look up and check information on his computer, an impossible expectation. I wrested control of them with Jordan’s help, who promised his dad he’d pay any penalty if they weren’t correct.

Nathan, the youngest, told the story about how his dad, as a kid, tried to make dynamite with shotgun shells to reopen a crack in the town reservoir at the top of the hill in the Southwest Virginia town, Glade Spring, where he grew up. He and his friend hoped to recreate the previous leak that had, for a short time, produced a frozen path that sent their sleds flying down the hill and almost a mile through the streets.

We played “Morning Has Broken,” our favorite Cat Stevens song and one we’d had sung at our wedding, while projecting photos of him throughout his life.

After the service, I smiled and hugged all the people lined up to greet me, never once crying. I felt dead inside. I was a walking, talking zombie, going through the motions. Unmoored from anything familiar, I didn’t know who I was anymore.

“Normalcy,” whatever that was, returned. I bought and cooked food. I ran errands. I took out the trash.

I also slept with his ashes.

I began getting lost in my own neighborhood. I had to pull up Google Maps on my phone to find my way home from familiar places. At night while sleeping I heard Bob call me and I’d jump out of bed to run to his room, as I had for months. Was I losing my mind?

“No,” said my family doctor at my annual checkup. “You have widow brain.”

I’d never heard of it. She said brain fog and confusion were normal reactions to the loss of a spouse and that I needed to cut myself some slack; be gentle with myself. I didn’t know how to do that. I hadn’t taken care of myself for so long. What did that even look like?

“I feel so guilty for putting him in a facility for this last three weeks and about the way he died alone,” I told her.

“You have nothing to feel guilty for,” she said. “I’ve never seen anyone in his condition kept at home for so long. You should have moved him there a year ago.”

Her words allowed me to exhale. Maybe I wasn’t crazy. Maybe I did my best and I needed to forgive myself for everything I had and hadn’t done. Maybe I needed to live now.

But how?

First, I needed to cry.

That happened on November 2, 2023 with the release of the last Beatles song, “Now and Then.” That song, begun by John Lennon in 1978 as a demo, was completed by the two living Beatles, Paul and Ringo, with the magic of artificial intelligence.

I was driving when I first heard it. The ballad, a vow of love despite the passage of time and the end of a relationship, seemed to have been written and recorded only for me.

I pulled into a strip shopping center parking lot, turned off the engine and wailed.

Morning—and mourning—had broken.

The cover of our wedding invitation 40 years earlier.