Displaced creative Sally Rose
We expats may sound like we’re living in a dream or fairy tale, but many of us have lived through nightmares, too. Last time we heard from Sally, her story was running along the lines of her wonderlanded interview for this site. Having spent five years in Santiago, Chile, she was in need of new thrills and was trying to figure out where to go next. But then, one day, just as she felt her plans were coming together, her entire world came crashing down. Sally, I commend you for her honesty in telling this part of your story. Readers, I hope you will join me in offering your condolences for Sally’s heart-breaking loss. —ML Awanohara
I went to church today. Just stopped in, as I’ve often done over the past five years. I’m not Catholic, but I like to sit and look at the statue of the Virgin Mary at the Basilica de la Merced in downtown Santiago.
It’s cool and peaceful inside, painted to resemble pink marble. There’s a center aisle and the pews are lined up on either side, in two sections, before and after the hanging pulpit.
The statue of the Virgin Mary is set into a niche behind the altar. The back of the niche is painted royal blue. She’s wearing a flowing, white cape and a silver crown.
I read somewhere that she protects the innocent by bringing them close and covering them with her cape. I love that idea.
The basilica always smells of floor polish and candle wax. The first three years that I lived in Chile, there was a caretaker who, every time I went in, was there, polishing the wooden floor with a buffing machine.
Nowadays, I still see him from time to time. Today he recognizes me and greets me cordially. I find out his name for the first time: Fabián. He agrees to let me take his photo.
At noon, on weekdays, the church chimes ring out, just after the cañonazo, the firing of the cannon at Cerro Santa Lucia.
For five years, at straight-up twelve o’clock, I heard “Boom!” And then, the sweet notes of a recognizable song. I don’t know what its title is, but like an old friend, it became familiar to me over time. I will miss it.
Everything is falling into place…
I arrived back in Santiago on April 1. My apartment lease was expiring on June 4, and I had decided not to renew it. Since, for the past couple of years, I’ve been traveling a lot and spending as much time outside of Chile as I have in Chile, it no longer makes sense to maintain a year-round apartment here.
My goal was to turn myself into a global nomad and visit several places every year, spending a few months in each one. Hyper-organized nerd that I am, I immediately went to work, selling off furniture and clearing out my apartment. Within two weeks, every stick of furniture had been sold. I felt like Wile E. Coyote in the old cartoons, left spinning around after the roadrunner whizzed by me.
Everything was falling into place, as if the Universe were whispering, “Yes, yes. This is the right move for you.”
Nostalgia kicked in. And sadness, a sort of grief. I started missing Santiago, even though I’m still here. I started thinking of all the places I’d meant to visit, all the things that I didn’t get around to doing since I’ve been here. Wishing I had more time. Wishing I weren’t leaving. Wondering if I were doing the right thing, wondering where I’m going next, wondering whether I’ll ever be back.
I found an apart-hotel and got halfway moved in, expecting to be in Santiago until my usual “can’t-stand-the-heat” date of mid-September. Then, I would go back to the US to sort out some business and to spend time with my son and his fiancée, before heading out again to Parts Unknown.
…until the phone call no parent should get
That’s when the phone call came. That most horribly personal phone call that no parent should ever have to receive.
My son had died in the early morning of May 4. He was 34 years old. The coroner took his body away for an autopsy because why does a 34-year old die? He hadn’t been sick. Or had he?
He had been, but he had not told me. Because I was so far away, I wasn’t aware of his physical condition. Not that I could have prevented his death had I been closer. But if I had known, I would have tried.
In tribute to Phillip
So began another grief. Deep, heavy waves of shock and sadness and guilt that left me with almost no energy to continue doing what I needed to do. To finish moving out, packing up, and getting myself back to the States for an indefinite period of time.
Sooner now than I had expected. Not to see my son. The best I’ll be able to do is memorialize him. His fiancée and I will be getting to know each other without him, and I will be a “repat,” at least for awhile.
My suitcases are already bulging, but I will be taking back a small replica of this Virgin Mary, Virgen de la Merced. I hope that she brings me as much comfort from afar as she has in the church that’s named after her.
Perpetually Perplexed, and Now Devastated
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Sally, I honestly can’t imagine the grief you must be feeling. You were planning where to go next, only to land on the dark side of the moon. Thank you for taking us on this part of your journey as well. If it helps to know, we are all here for you. We are privileged to share in your heart-felt tribute to your son, whom I feel certain was as remarkable a human being as his mother. —ML Awanohara
Born and raised in the piney woods of East Texas, Sally Rose has lived in the Cajun Country of Louisiana, the plains of Oklahoma, the “enchanted” land of New Mexico, and the Big Apple, New York City. Then she fell in love with Santiago de Chile and has been “telling tall tales” from that long, skinny country since 2009, and living in that city for the past five years. But where will her next act take her? The author of a memoir and a children’s book, Sally has an author site where she keeps a blog, and is active on Facebook and Twitter.
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