And what we’d say if we could send them messages

I was going to write about something else today but my self-of-one-year-ago kept popping up so I decided to write about her instead.

Raja and I have gone through such a major transition – moving from Jordan to the US – in the last year that time feels very weird. Sometimes it feels like years since we lived in Jordan, and sometimes it feels like only days ago we were living there in our little rooftop apartment on Nassouh Al-Qaderi street in Amman near 7^th circle.

But we moved last April. And it was exactly one year ago this week that we got The Email we had been waiting on for over a year. The Email told us that Raja had his green card appointment at the US embassy in Amman in a few weeks’ time.

We’d been waiting almost two years for his green card, but there were different phases and approvals along the way. So just over a year of the total wait was spent waiting for this particular Email, which would notify us that we’d reached the final step for his green card to be processed.

Tears were shed waiting for this Email. Countless hypothetical calculations were made about when the Email would come. Then remade. Then remade. Prayers were said. Emails were sent about this Email (we started emailing my senators and House reps to see if they could make the process move any faster). Hours and hours of conversation were taken up with the topic of this Email. I got sick of talking about it, and I’m sure my family and friends got sick of hearing about it.

Then one day it came.

I remember exactly where I was when I got it. I was at my office in Abdoun, a fancy neighborhood of Amman, about to pack up and leave for the day. From my office I was going to walk over to my friends’ house for dinner, and Raja was going to meet me there.

One of my colleagues was at the office too, bent over her laptop. I shut my own laptop and checked my personal email on my phone.

And there it was:

I ducked out of my office and into the stairwell, because I wasn’t close with my colleague at all, and she felt like the absolute wrong person to have in the room with me at that moment. There were so many people I wanted to share this moment with but she was not one of them.

My heart was pounding and I could feel the adrenaline in my arms, wrists, hands and legs as I dialed Raja.

“Hello?”
“Did you see the email?”
“What email?”
“The Email.”
“What?”
“I’m forwarding it to you right now. Wait, you have it already. Check your email.”

There is much to say about what happened after: floating, flying, or levitating over to my friends’ house for dinner – I can’t actually remember how I got there – meeting Raja there, us telling them the news, opening a bottle of wine, calling our families.

Then, the flurry of preparation over the next few weeks for his interview at the embassy. Then his interview, where a smiling consular officer told us on the spot that his green card would be approved.

Then, a few days later, receiving his passport back with the visa to enter the US printed in it (a beautiful sight!). Then, moving to the US another month after that, and setting up a life for ourselves here from almost-scratch.

There is more to say about the chain of events that was set in motion by this Email, which I’ll try to capture in another post, but what kept popping up for me this week was the before. Especially the right before.

It seems strange that just one year ago we hadn’t gotten The Email and we were going about our normal lives in Amman.

This week, Strava showed me my “activity from one year ago”. It was my usual run through my old neighborhood of Amman. Apparently a year ago I was running my usual run, having no idea I was three days away from receiving The Email.

I nearly always ran the same three-mile loop. Up our street, turn left and cross Ibrahim Al-Qattan, down the big hill towards that one street jammed with restaurants, turn left at the bottom of the hill and run along the main road past Starbucks, Espresso Lab, and the little supermarket called Khalik Fil Bait (“stay at home” – a very odd name for a supermarket).

Up and over the little hill by the Royal Automobile Club (has anyone actually been in there?), left again by Chili House and the American Community School (one of Amman’s most prestigious private schools, where all the kids of diplomats go). Turn back onto Ibrahim Al-Qattan and slog up the hill towards home.

I think as humans our bravery stretches as far and as long as we need it to. Sometimes we think, “I absolutely cannot do that thing.” But we actually can. Sometimes we think, “I’ll never make it until ____.” But we actually will.

I thought those things when I moved back to Amman in late summer 2020 to wait out the green card with Raja there. I didn’t feel very brave at the time, and I didn’t think my bravery would stretch very far.

I didn’t want to live in Amman anymore; I’d already lived there for four years previously and wanted to come back home to the US. I didn’t know how long I’d be there, though I now know that it would be 20 months.

Those were a hard 20 months for many reasons. One reason: we were caring for Raja’s mother a few days a week who was and still is very sick with Alzheimer’s. More reasons: navigating the family dynamics of my in-laws. Working full time while caregiving part time. Dealing with some really bad anxiety. Missing my family.

All those things were hard, but the hardest part of those 20 months was just having the sense that this is not how I wanted things to go. I don’t want to live overseas anymore.

(There were some good things, of course. My favorite part of life there was seeing friends and my brother and sister in law – Raja’s brother and his wife – and their two adorable little boys who lived across town from us.)

Looking back now, I want to reach back in time and give my self-of-one-year-ago a hug. And maybe a shoulder massage. And tell her, “The wait will be over soon.” And say, “You are doing great, keep going.”

The thing about humans and bravery and waiting is: I probably would have just kept running my 3-mile loop even if it had been months longer, not just three days.

I would have kept going to my office, and going over to see Raja’s parents, and cooking, and making my coffee in the little silver Moka Pot in the mornings, and vacuuming the living room rug when it got dusty.

I feel like sending my love retrospectively to the Georgie of one year ago. “You’ve been really brave,” I’d like to tell her, and, “Soon the seemingly endless green card wait will be over.”

Which of your past selves would you like to send a message to, knowing what you know now? And what would you say?