I first wrote about this subject around ten years ago. I'm going to revisit it, because it's an aspect of expat life I don't think gets enough mentions. It's a topic that gets swept under the carpet... and it affects most of our lives eventually.
I call my parents back in England every couple of weeks. It's what good sons have to do. I should probably call more often but there isn't an awful lot to talk about. I chat very briefly about any trip I've taken recently, how the weather is, and what I'm having for dinner. Then I ask about Mum and Dad's health issues. And their lengthy step-by-step, appointment-by-appointment accounts generally fill the rest of a half-hour call.
Back in the 90s, keeping in contact with family - for me anyway - meant trekking to the old Central Bangkok Post Office on Charoen Krung Road, sitting in a soundproofed coffin of a phone booth, and praying the line held up long enough to say a few words before being charged half your monthly salary. No emojis. Just static, echoes, and financial ruin. They were simpler times.
It’s easier to keep in touch nowadays, of course. We’ve got cheap mobile plans, video calls, Facebook Messenger - you name it. All designed to shrink the distance between you and your ageing loved ones. But you still hang up and feel about 6,000 miles too far away.
The ageing elephant in the room
My parents are now well into their eighties. Like many of their generation, they smoked like chimneys and ate vegetables only when they came deep-fried or inside a pie. Unsurprisingly, the body starts sending out invoices for decades of abuse. Mum’s got two dodgy knees that can take her as far as the garden gate. Dad’s been through more tumour removals than I’ve had visa renewals. One year, he even spent Christmas Day in hospital. I called him in the middle of the festivities, holding a beer in one hand and my heart in the other. It’s hard to hear someone you love sound so frail, and harder still knowing you’re utterly useless from this distance.
You say all the right things - Be strong, You’ll be OK, At least the hospital food’s edible - but deep down, you feel like you’re shouting support through a letterbox from across the street. Helpful, but not really.
Long-distance helplessness
I recall a particularly grim spell when Dad had a series of strokes while living in Spain. Almost every day I’d call the hospital, clinging to the hope he’d say something like “I’m getting stronger, son.” Instead, he grumbled about the snoring patient in the next bed and the hospital food (“You wouldn’t give it to a dog”). Reassuring, it was not. Eventually, he recovered, only to be then diagnosed with bladder cancer. You start wondering if life’s just taken out a long-term lease on misery.
Stories from the expat trenches
None of this is unique, of course. Every long-term expat has war stories. We’ve all had that call. We all know what it’s like to do the midnight panic-scroll through flight options or try to book a last-minute ticket from Swampy at 2am - even if we don't actually end up needing to go.
One teacher I knew well had to drop everything when his mum was diagnosed with late-stage cancer. Fair play to his school - they told him to go straight away, no drama. They'd get someone to cover his classes. He got home, sat at his Mother's bedside for three weeks while she rallied - and then, just days after he returned to Thailand, she passed away. Cue another frantic trip back home and another painful goodbye - this time at the funeral.
Then there’s the flip side: I knew a guy teaching at a language school in the 90s who couldn’t afford to go home. His mother was dying, but he had no savings, no credit card, and no relatives to beg from. So he did the unthinkable - he listened to his beloved Mother pass away over the phone. That stuck with me for a long time. He was the life and soul of the staff room - always cracking jokes, lifting moods. But after that call, something changed. The room just felt... heavier. No one knew what to say for the best.
And let’s not forget my friend Tom, a Bangkok expat with an American passport and a saint’s patience. He flew home to the US six times in a year to care for his mother in a nursing home. Six times. That’s not devotion - that’s air miles martyrdom. Every time we met up and the conversation turned to family, Tom would just sigh and mutter about his "lost year".
The grim arithmetic of age
When I moved to Thailand in my mid-20s I was bullet-proof. My parents were only in their 40s and full of beans. It never occurred to me they’d age. You think they’ll always be fine - always be just a phone call away. But they don’t stay that way forever. No one does. Now, every video call home feels more loaded. Every cough, doctor's visit or hospital story lingers in your mind longer than it should.
And don’t even get me started on celebrity deaths. Every week, another name from your youth bites the dust, and it’s like some cosmic reminder on a loop: Time’s ticking.
So what's your story?
Do you have elderly parents back home? Have you done the long-haul red-eye panic dash? Or maybe, by twist of fate or family feud, you’re spared all of this now - no ageing relatives, no funeral flights, no guilt-ridden school days.
Being an expat often comes with a price. Sometimes that price is paid in Baht. Sometimes it’s paid in tears. But eventually, most of us pay.