Diary of a Widower

Daily entries by a husband, who stayed behind with his two sons

Archive for the month “June, 2013”

09 Jun 2013
3 Comments

A highlight, or so they say

WEDNESDAY, June 9 – Election day in The Netherlands. A celebration of democracy, a point I do my best to impress on Sander and Eamonn whenever there’s an election. You have a right to vote, to actively participate in the political process, and you’d be a fool not to take advantage of the opportunity. I give Eamonn the red pencil and let him color in the circle I’ve selected, and then push the paper ballot through the slit.

It ought to be a journalistic highlight. The build-up, the excitement of the final days of the race, the vacuum on the big day, leading up to the evening broadcasts with the results and the hectic sequel. A journalist’s dream, and even more important for me, as deputy-head of the biggest and best news organization in the country?

The truth is: It doesn’t interest me one bit.

The fact that I’ve acknowledged that lack of interest is probably the worst sign of all. I can’t help it. I’m not on my toes and I can’t get excited about anything. There’s no rush of adrenalin, no energy and I’ve resigned myself to the situation.

Which is strange. These elections were always the sort of thing I truly enjoyed. I could have made a real contribution to all the new projects where journalistic crossmedia are put to the test. I just trail along, and although I feel a few pangs of guilt, the end of the story is that I can’t swing it.

My head is simply overflowing. With pictures of Jennifer’s memorial bench, the medical developments, the up-coming trial, the confrontation with the motorcycle cop, Sander who is overwhelmed by the thought of the trial, and telephone calls about his music lessons, Eamonn who cycled home on his own for the first time, arranging for care for the boys, thinking about accommodation for the summer, the unpaid bills, the tax returns that should already have gone out.

To be truthful, I feel as if I’m losing my way. So what else is new? 

Posted in Back to work, Paper work
08 Jun 2013
1 Comment

Letting go of my fear

TUESDAY, June 8 – A new day dawns, in spite of everything. So, you pick yourself up and get on with it. You have no choice.  At any rate, in my view. In that respect I am uncompromising. Life goes on.

Eamonn had brought up his particular question the week before, and I suppose I should have been delighted. But now his request made me swallow hard.  His question: Wasn’t it about time for him to bike back and forth from school by himself?  Under any other circumstances I would have given the kid a hug and wished him good luck out in the wide, wide world. But now I was terror-stricken. Biking on his own?

Love means letting go of fear, a little more each time.

So this morning I decided to let him go on his own. I told Eamonn that I’d be right behind him but that I wouldn’t say anything. He was surprised. ‘You mean we’re not going to talk to each other?’

Nope. The twinkling in his eyes said it all.

I can’t count the times he’s scared me half out of my wits. By chattering away as if he was oblivious to the traffic around him. By colliding with other cyclists.  By crossing the street diagonally without even looking behind him. I don’t know how many times I’ve warned him. It was as if he was unaware of all the dangers.

For months after Jennifer’s accident, he refused to go anywhere except by car. Cycling was taboo. Until the weather improved and he saw the advantages. Now it was time for the next step.

With his ‘invisible’ father behind him, he was a totally different kid. Concentrated, cautious, and, but yet self-confident. Braking, watching, waiting, and yet resolute.  In the midst of all those pedaling daredevils who populate the morning traffic, Eamonn held his own. Nothing seemed to faze him.

The crucial test came on Minerva Lane where he had to cross Stadion Road:  a busy intersection with no traffic lights but plenty of cars, bicycles, taxis, trams and no doubt the odd police car. Three hundred meters east, Stadion Road crosses Diepenbrock Street, where his mother was knocked to the ground. Eamonn had never revisited that spot and he closed his eyes every time we drove past it.

He crossed the road with verve. The rest of the route was a piece of cake. The final test came as he approached the school, where he had to cross diagonally to get to the school grounds. ‘And… how did I do?’ he asked expectantly. The mistakes amount to… zero!! Proud, proud, proud! And despite – or maybe because of – the stumbling blocks we encountered this past week, I do a little dance.

This afternoon we’ll repeat the exercise. And then I’ll have to get used to the idea.  Whether I want to or not.

It’s called ‘letting go’.

12.30 – When I went to pick up a package, I had to show them my ID. I put my wallet on the counter, flipped to my driver’s license, and out rolled my wedding ring. I’d forgotten it was there. The cashier pretended she hadn’t noticed.

The envelope was sent from France by one of Jennifer’s best friends in college. There was a note, with photos of her wedding to G, now years ago. Jennifer had been her maid of honor. Five photos of my radiant wife. And yes, you can still tell which finger I wore my wedding ring on. Nothing wrong with that, I mumble to myself.

Posted in Remembering, Three Guys, Traffic victim
07 Jun 2013
3 Comments

It can actually get worse

MONDAY, June 7 – Oh my God. So things can actually turn out to be worse. New facts of our fucked- up reality turn up in the formal analysis of the medical report, with the maddening conclusion in black and white:

“The final conclusion is that during the hospitalization of the patient there was a degree of carelessness within the intensive care unit. If it were not for that carelessness, the death of Mrs. Nolan could have been prevented. Without medical intervention the injury resulting from the traffic accident was lethal, but a medical intervention undertaken in an earlier stage might have prevented her death. It is likely that if the secondary bleeding resulting from the cranial injury had been discovered earlier, the patient would have survived the accident.”

Could have been prevented. Could have been prevented. Could have been prevented. Could have been prevented. Could have been prevented. Could have been prevented. COULD HAVE BEEN PREVENTED!!!!!!

These are the conclusions that followed a study of the medical file that was recorded by an external expert at the request of the Public Prosecutor. Is it never going to stop, goddamn it? Of course, it says that it could ‘possibly’ have been prevented; the crushing blow of that possibility is something I’m incapable of dealing with right now.

It brings me back to that afternoon, to the early evening in the hospital. I had wanted to stay with her. I could see her pain and the blood coming out of her ears. I talked to her, discussed whether I should stay or go home to be with the children. I said I didn’t want them to see the blood, since in the end everything was going to be alright. That’s what the ambulance driver had told me. That’s what the doctors had told me. It would be better for the boys, I reasoned with Jenn, to come back the next day, when she would be better able to talk. I was confident that she was getting the proper care and yet I still felt the urge to do more, to care for her. But they told me to go home.

COULD HAVE BEEN PREVENTED.

The report says so.

I start pacing through the house, from living room to dining room, through the  hall to my bedroom and, by way of the bathroom, back to the living room. Faster and faster, with loud bellows somewhere between a sob and a shout. Tears, more tears, curses and maledictions. I could have saved her. Shouldering the blame. I could have saved her.

Which is downright nonsense, of course. But emotions take over. I didn’t save her.  And for me that conclusion means that she has died again. And died needlessly. I’m lying on the floor, and so the morning passes. 

Posted in Grieving, Traffic victim
06 Jun 2013
1 Comment

‘Worry less. Laugh more’

SUNDAY, June 6 – Phone call from the States: a rundown on the dedication ceremony earlier today, during which a bench was unveiled on the campus of Swarthmore College in memory of Jenn.

According to her mother, there was comfort to be gleaned from the occasion which was full of warm and positive feelings. Emotional, of course, not least because it was attended by some fifty of Jennifer’s classmates. They were there to celebrate her life, with lively stories and fond memories.

Jenn’s mother talks about the attendees, about herself, about the speeches, about the bench itself, about the atmosphere, about the drinks and refreshments, and about the magnificent spot where the bench is situated. And about the text on the plaque, of course:

‘Worry less. Laugh more.’

In loving memory of

Jennifer Nolan ‘90

The year she graduated. This weekend was the twentieth anniversary. Jenn was there, according to her mother, who was conscious of her presence. In July we’ll be visiting the campus and no doubt that’s a better spot to scatter her ashes. Central Park would have involved a few logistical problems.

I don’t apologize for the tears I shed on the phone.  They were simply tears of joy.

Posted in Family & Friends, Remembering
05 Jun 2013
2 Comments

Traumatised by the images

SATURDAY, June 5 – Back to square one. That’s what it feels like. The physical numbness, the uncontrollable tears, the big hug on the baseball field when Eamonn threw in the towel. The will is there, but he can’t do it. All because of him. He hates him, and I understand those feelings all too well.

Yesterday Eamon walked into my study where Sander had just discovered an article with the news that the motorcycle cop is soon to be prosecuted. The photo knocked him for a loop. Luckily, there was no photo of the ambulance men putting his mother on the stretcher. But there was a silent witness: the overturned motorcycle.

That was the image that remained imprinted on his retina. It continued to haunt him this morning, paralyzing his body. He couldn’t think of anything else and all he wanted was to be held tight. In the dugout, on the sidelines, in the parking lot… He wanted desperately to play, but he couldn’t. Because baseball was Mom, and Mom was baseball.

All he said was ‘I want Mom back’.

We went home after the warm-up. On the way to the car Eamonn said: ‘Let’s stay real close to each other today.’

I feel strong. I want to be there for Eamonn, for Sander, for myself, and for Jenn as well. I know I can do it – the trial is not too far away. I intend to make use of my legal right to speak. In my mind the first few sentences are taking shape. I will talk about  determining exactly where the truth lies. The judicial truth, but above all the truth of our life. The facts of the investigation and the facts of our day-to-day life.

Posted in Kid's grieving, Three Guys, Traffic victim
04 Jun 2013

Compassion, despite the hate

FRIDAY, June 4 – I was furious, but I didn’t let on. When Sander called to tell me how his whole morning was screwed up, I served as a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on.

Things went wrong almost from the start: he couldn’t concentrate and his head was full of images of the accident.

His teacher took him aside and it was clear that his frustration had to find an outlet. ‘I want to smash something to pieces,’ Sander said, and she gave him a canvas to give free rein to his anger, and work off his frustration.

That didn’t really help, Sander said, so she gave him a knife and told him to use it on the canvas. At that point, I asked, ‘And what did you do?’

‘I pretended that the canvas was R,’ he said, ‘and I began stabbing him.’

I felt the floor give way under my feet, but I didn’t let on. Mentally I cursed the teacher, who undoubtedly meant well but should never have allowed something like that to happen. It’s contrary to everything Jennifer and I have tried to teach our boys.

Violence is never the solution, no matter how great the hate and loathing.

Violence doesn’t solve the problem and imagining that you’re plunging a knife into the body of the man responsible for your mother’s death is totally unacceptable.  I understand his feelings of unspeakable hatred, but I know that the only thing you can do with hate is to transform it into anger.

From hate to anger, and from anger to acceptance.

It is quite something else to imagine R sitting in front of you, while you call him all sorts of horrible names. That can actually bring a kind of relief. Imagining what it would be like to use violence against him won’t get you anywhere. I’ll have to talk to Sander about this. Both boys know that Mom preached compassion. Even for the man who killed her.

Posted in Kid's grieving, Traffic victim | Leave a comment
03 Jun 2013

Punching at our sad reality

THURSDAY, June 3 – Bought a punching bag today, with three pairs of gloves. To work off our anger and frustration. Eamonn goes first, but quickly throws himself face-down onto the bed, in tears. ‘What I realize is that Mom will never see us grow up.’

I know, Eamonn.  I know.

I often think of my father who never saw me grow up either. He sees the connection. ‘That’s really sad,’ he says, as he considers what that means in the here and now, ‘because you have a really good position at work.’  And I add, ‘But also because my father never saw what great boys you are.’

His boxing gloves feel soft and smooth against my shoulder blades. For now, no more blows fall.

Posted in Kid's grieving, Three Guys | Leave a comment
02 Jun 2013

In-laws just don’t get it

WEDNESDAY,  June 2 –  Learn from your forgets, Eamonn pronounced. Sander had a tip of his own: ‘Just stay home for a couple of hours, lie down on the couch and fall asleep.’ The boys are right.  Work can wait for a while. Fall asleep and forget, then wake up and move on. Lights out.

Ah, forgetting. But I can’t. Especially this. Last December the brothers-in-law – solemnly promised that the boys would always be welcome, and that I could count on their support during the summer months.  So, I made plans for next month; but now they’ve let me down, just when I need them the most. Were those offers of help nothing but empty promises?  It certainly feels that way.

This morning they propose that the boys spend a maximum of ten days with their three families, in three different states. A ridiculous itinerary. I am then informed that I’ll have to take my summer vacation a week earlier and fly back to Holland a week earlier than planned so as not to overburden the grandparents. That last point is something I fully understand, but the fact that I’m now expected to come up with a solution on my own is what really hurts.

This means, for one thing, that I can throw away the two return tickets and that I’ll have to buy new tickets. Also, I’ll have to totally revise my schedule at work. But above all, I must face the fact that I’m the one who’s responsible for my children, and no one else. Aunts and uncles can return to their daily routine. Their promises were no more than that. Hollow.

I sleep for an hour and then get up. I know where I stand and I accept the reality of in-laws. I’m angry and disappointed, but I’m also proud, and I decide to avoid a confrontation. I recall my brother-in-law’s words: ‘We’d do better to simply forget the first year and agree that the past year doesn’t count.’ Nonsense. This year counts more than ever and I’m not planning to forget anything.

Posted in Family & Friends | Leave a comment
01 Jun 2013

Relief in a ‘vale of tears’

TUESDAY, June 1, 2010 – The N236, a winding country road between Amsterdam and Hilversum,  has become my personal ‘vale of tears’. This morning, in a wide bend in the road, the tears suddenly appeared. Followed by the crying jag, the contorted face. Then, just as quickly, it’s over. A quarter of a mile down the road. Sometimes it brings relief. But not always.

Posted in Grieving | Leave a comment

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