On Grief...

The Journey to Paradise by Danielle Johnson

“When you’re going through hell, keep going.” – Winston Churchill

In the summer of 2004 I found myself in Aruba with my husband and his family.  By no means compact people, we decided to save money by renting a compact Toyota to drive around the island in search of rougher beaches.  Our goal was to body surf.  Earlier in the morning we had studied our tourist map and set our sights on Boca Grande.  It was known for exceptionally rough waves, and my husband and brother-in-law had grown tired of the cool, calm, blue, waters outside of our timeshare.

            Aruba is the A in the ABC Dutch Islands (B standing for Bon Aire and C for Caracao).  The island is nineteen miles long and six miles across.  For such a small place the environment is incredibly diverse.  The west coast is highly built up for tourism, which became the countries’ main source of income when the oil refineries left.  Here the island looks like any other in the Caribbean, with the standard Holiday Inn, Hilton, and Embassy suites scattered among the shorter pink and yellow resorts hosting names like Paradise Inn or La Cabana.  Each hotel sits on a sandy white beach surrounded by turquoise water.    The middle of the island is a desert, scattered with cacti and roaming goats.  The Northeast coast is trademarked with rough coral that meets the wild ocean. The water here is the color of midnight and foams white as it crashes against the black rock.  The Southeast section of the island is almost abandoned.  The sand there is blackened with oil and home to a fence that catches trash blown fiercely across the horizon.  Although the temperature is a perfect 80 degrees daily, the winds that allowed for successful trade in the 1700’s make is almost unbearable to be outside at times.  Trees bend over halfway at the trunk from years of abuse.    

            In Aruba, the end of the day is the most beautiful time.  The sunset streaks the sky with lavender, bubble-gum pink, and orange sherbet.  The palm trees look black against this canvas.

            After breakfast we piled into the cramped white car.  My husband was still too young to rent a car; I was afraid of driving stick shift, and my in-laws had never owned a credit card – so my brother-in-law was stuck obtaining and driving this vehicle.  With Roger at the helm, over one thousand pounds of passenger took off on a voyage.

 We soon left the tourist coastline to find ourselves among the run-down shacks owned by locals.  The discrepancies in living conditions for visitors and natives were jarring.  Tattered clothes hung out to dry.  The purple, orange, and green homes looked abandoned and impoverished.  As we drove they became fewer and farther between.

  Within thirty minutes we reached the edge of the island and got out to see if we had found what we were looking for.  Near our condo people were everywhere, but here we mostly had the beach to ourselves.  We tried to approach the water for swimming but found ourselves stuck in sandy oil.  My mother-in-law and I laughed as our feet turned black and sticky.  A couple approached us, and we decided to ask where we could find Boca Grande. 

            “Baby beach?” they repeated in rough English. 

            “No…  Boca Grande,” I said.

            “Baby beach?” they repeated.

            “Thanks…” we said and headed back to our car. 

My uncle’s girlfriend had told me to visit baby beach.  Apparently you can wade 100 feet out and still be only waist deep in water with few waves.  This sounded worse than our home beach.

            We drove for a bit until we came across a car appearing to be driven by locals. 

            “Can you tell us how to get to Boca Grande?” one of us asked.

            “Baby beach?” the driver inquired.

This scene repeated itself about three more times.  We knew if we were going to find the rough waters, it would be on our own.     

            Aruba is home to 100,000 inhabitants representing over 40 different nationalities.  Twelve native languages are common on the island, so though most residents speak English out of commercial necessity, most do so with such thick accents it is almost impossible to understand.  However, the people who live here are some of the nicest you will ever meet.  I asked one local why people were so hospitable.  He asked how I would feel if I woke up every morning in paradise.  It almost never rains and the sun is always shining.  You are never more than minutes from a beach.  This place makes people happy. 

 I got to know one local rather intimately while getting my nails done as my mother-in-law was getting a massage.  She told me that her goal was to make people enjoy their vacations.  She works seven days a week because she never wanted to deny someone their enjoyment as they escaped life for awhile.  The woman explained that it made her especially happy to provide services for guests like my mother-in-law.    

            “How bad is she?” she whispered in my ear as she leaned over.

            “Bad...” I said.  “She is not receiving treatment anymore, so it’s just a matter of time.” 

All trip I’d wondered if people knew Debbie had cancer.   I thought of how I once heard that the worst part about losing your hair is that your disease enters a room before you do.  Now I realized I was an idiot.  Of course people knew she was sick.  Her bald head bobbed up and down in the water as we snorkeled, she would run off to the bathroom several times during some meals, and her eyes sometimes looked sad and distant even in this paradise.    

We knew that the road system basically stopped outside of the tourist section of Aruba.  Jeeps were available for rental to roam through the sandy hills in the desert section of the beach.  My brother-in-law was headstrong and determined that our car could make the trip.  With no map we decided to just get off the road and head north until we found something we liked. 

At night Roger, Sephus and I go swimming in the ocean.  We are alone.  It is almost pitch black except for the glare of the moon off the water.  As we wade we move our arms back and forth to skim the top of the water.  It is serene and therapeutic.  This trip is for Debbie, but it is for us as well.  We have grown closer than ever this summer but talks have centered around Debbie’s calorie intake, chemo options, and opinions of doctor competency. 

            Whether or not to come was a big debate.  This was supposed to be my husband’s and my real honeymoon to celebrate our one year anniversary.  We could hardly afford to take ourselves let alone the rest of the family.  Was she too sick to travel so far?  Could they accept their kids paying for an extravagant trip?

            I thought we had made the wrong decision when we got to the airport and they would not let her on the plane because she had a hospital, not state issued birth certificate.  It fit the Murphy’s Law curse that had followed her during this illness: “This is completely curable in all but five percent of patients…” “Only three percent of the two percent that have a severe reaction to the first medicine react poorly to the second…”  “She is seeing a burn doctor in addition to her oncologist because the anti-seizure pills have caused her skin to chemically burn itself from the outside in…”

            One morning Debbie and I sit underneath a palm tree hut.  We laugh while watching Sephus and Roger build sand castles.  Until I met my husband he had never been to the beach.   Now he and Roger kneel, swim trunks brushing the sand, seeming like children.  Big brother tells little brother to get more and more water for the creation.  Debbie smiles, closes her eyes and puts on her headphones.

            As I hear her humming, “Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I want to take ya,” I know we have made the right decision.  

            Once we were deep in the sand ruts made by the drying sun, we found ourselves bobbing up and down as the car slipped in and out of the holes.  The car would get stuck from time to time.  We discovered that the best thing to do was have several of us get out and walk next to the car to change the weight distribution.  This was not easy.  Eighty degrees along the coast is not the same as eighty degrees in the desert.  The sun would beat down through the cloudless sky and scorch the earth.  The hot dirt seeped in through my flimsy black flip flops, along with the occasional cutting rock.  We were thirsty and sweaty.   My mother-in-law was a nervous wreck.  She figured we would get stuck and not be able to get out. 

            Although there was something obviously risky about taking a car off the beaten path, I never really worried.  Roger had always been cautious, and I believed he would not lead us into danger, especially in a car whose owners had his credit card on file.  I tried to champion for him when the arguments started about turning around and not risking our lives.  As my reward he would sometimes let me stay in the car when his dad and brother had to get out.  Of course, none of the cars in Aruba came equipped with air, but the roof offered a slight shade.  Plus, I could soak in the beauty of the strange landscape.  I had been to several tropical islands but could not get over the amazement of seeing cacti in a small area surrounded by beach.  It seemed strange to me that the two could coexist so close together.  However, never could you really see both the beach and the desert at the same time.  Each made the other hard to remember.    

           

            The one rule of the trip is that we were not allowed to talk about it.  But Debbie broke the rule as she and I sat alone on the patio the last morning of our trip.  We had sat outside everyday after swimming and dinner.  The water that evaporated from our legs left abrasive salt which chafed me in my regular clothes put on for the plane ride home. 

            “I don’t worry too much about Sephus,” she said.  “He has you… plus he has always been better about moving on.  Roger worries me.  He seems to get stuck in the past.” 

            I know it is important that I let her talk but I am not sure how to validate her comments.  I say something… but now I cannot remember what.  I try to imagine something poetic I can use to fill the missing holes in my memory but come up blank.  There is simply nothing beautiful to say in response to worries like this. I guess a mother knows her sons. 

           

            As our tiny car struggled up the washed out road to top yet another rocky hill, even I started to convince myself we may have made a bad decision. At this point the novelty of the uniqueness of the tropical desert had worn off.  I was no longer snapping pictures of cacti or goats.    I was done.

But at the crest of the hill, the most beautiful thing I had ever laid eyes on popped into vision.  A tiny crescent shaped cove lay hidden at the edge of this dessert.  Large cliffs of coral created a hideaway just for us.  We parked the car and ran for the ocean.  The waves were more than the boys had hoped for.  They jumped in with reckless abandon and let the tide pull them under time and time again. 

            I enjoyed it for as long as I could but found the abuse to be too much after awhile.  The seaweed that collected in my swimsuit as I was knocked down became obnoxious.  I headed off to the blanket to sit by Debbie and admire this haven.

Although we knew this private body of water to be part of a much larger ocean, the circle made by the cove caused it to appear as a sanctuary.  Perhaps this land and water truly touched no other.  I wish desperately to describe the whole landscape but no words exist.  All senses were appealed to.  My skin was sprayed with water that beat off the coral.  The roar of the ocean and rush of water calmed and beat out the sounds of all else.  We felt like kids who had stumbled across something they were not supposed to find. 

       Debbie and I found ourselves nostalgic.  We talked about trips to the beach from her childhood.  She told me how her sister Susie would always get seasick and how they would sing Beach Boy songs while they swam.  As we conversed, water washed into the mini holes created by sand and rock.  We swished our toes in the clear pools and listened to the shouts from the boys in the distance as they disappeared and reappeared.  We bathed in the sun.  We were happy. 

            I have always found grief to be a bit like the ocean.  It knocks you over from behind.  You are not sure how you will ever survive these falls.   You suck in salt water and your nose burns as tears well up in your eyes.  The sand scratches your body.  You paddle and struggle to get your own two feet back on the ground, but you are not in control.  Then suddenly you find yourself standing.  You may even admire the power of the ocean.  You brush tiny seashells off your legs and convince yourself you can handle this when another wave sneaks up behind you…   

            Eventually some hard core local surfers pulled up in Land Rovers.  We visited with them and found they snuck out here daily but rarely saw a tourist unless one wandered away from a jeep tour.  They seemed happy to share their secret for a bit. 

They asked us how we got there and laughed when they saw our car in the distance.  There is no way you will get out of this they assured us. 

We assured them we would.