Kids look after their dad
SUNDAY, December 13 – No shortage of options, ideas, and suggestions, but the boys can’t agree. Until Eamonn says, ‘Let’s go back to bed.’ It’s nine-thirty and I concur wholeheartedly. We jump into the big bed, where we snuggle up to each other, laugh, and try to lie still as long as possible without moving a muscle. The record is 32 seconds before someone starts to grin. Just imagine: we make tangible progress by simply lying in bed, being silent and motionless.
11:00 – ‘Papa, it’s about time you started going to the gym again. Go on, we can stay home alone,’ Eamonn is advising me unsollicited. He wants to make sure that I stay healthy and he’s been caluculating how often I should go to the gym in view of the fact that I now take the dog out every day. I am touched bythesesimple questions and the almost philosophical musings of my youngest son.
So, off I go, for the first time since Jennifer’s death. Easy exercises on the various pieces of equipment under the watchful eye of G, the in-house physiotherapist and trainer. During a break, I told him what had happened, which explains why he hadn’t seen me for a while.
I continued to sweat my way through the exercises until I notice that suddenly he’s standing next to me, with tears in his eyes. He just wants to give me a quick hug. So there we stand, my sweaty torso in a close embrace with his muscular body.
At home, the boys were playing. Indeed, they really are old enough to stay home alone for an hour or so.
Diary of a Widower 