Diary of a Widower

Is life some kind of contest?

SATURDAY, August 28 – I give in. I can’t go through it all again: grab hold of him, kiss his forehead, and try to talk him into it. Convince him that the pleasure that baseball once gave him will come back, that he’s a good player and that his team needs him. I’m trying to make him realize that he well… what actually?

I give in. He looked at me with that wounded look. I saw the pain in his eyes. I saw his contorted body. I felt the tension in his head, the throbbing of his heart. I heard the desperation in his voice when he asked: ‘Papa, do we really have to go to baseball practice?’

I give in. Why should I keep trying to persuade him? Why force him? Why bring back those memories that cause him so much pain?  He told me himself. ‘When I go to baseball practice, I go through it all over again.’ Why pretend to him and to myself that continuing to play baseball, the sport that he and his mother loved, can become part of a healing process?

I give in. ‘Okay, Eamonn. We’re not going to baseball practice. Maybe we ought to sit down and talk about the rest of the season.’  He visibly relaxes. Is this a victory or a defeat?  I don’t know;  but if today I happen to bump into the convicted motorcycle cop, he can expect an enormous punch in the nose. Maybe two.

I’ve finally given in, I say to C, in search of understanding or at least a bit of support.  She looks up, ‘How do you mean, given in? Is life some kind of contest?’ Good point, I admit.

Not just another first school day

THURSDAY, August 26 – ‘I’m going to be late for work, on purpose,’ I whispered in Eamonn’s ear. It was the first day of the new school year and things were as chaotic as always.  The children are super-nervous, and the parents themselves are so worked up they can’t seem to calm their offspring.

For some inexplicable reason, I thought I could just drop him off and then go on to work where I had an important nine-o’clock appointment. I was going up the stairs of the school when I realized that I probably wasn’t going to make it. Eamonn buried his face in my coat and clung to me.

I went inside with him into the jumble of careening children, tense parents, and teachers doing their best to put on a heartwarming face. Eamonn opted for the role of statue and I was his pedestal. The hands of the clock moved inexorably toward nine o’clock. I tried to pry him loose by telling him that I was almost certainly not going to get to Hilversum on time.

He saw his chance. ‘Will you come to the classroom with me?’ he replied. I couldn’t refuse. Just this once, I thought to myself. There was another boy who’d also persuaded his father to go along to the classroom.

‘Do you know why this is so hard for me?’ Eamonn whispered in my ear. ‘My new teacher doesn’t know about what happened.’

‘Of course he knows.’

He didn’t believe me.

Fortunately the teacher came straight over to us. Unasked, he came up with a solution. ‘If necessary, Eamonn can call you during recess. And we have people here he can talk to if things get to be too much for him.’

I looked at Eamonn. ‘You see?’

His face brightened. A new year, but everything was familiar. He would find a place for his grief, in his heart, in the classroom. He gave me a kiss and walked down the corridor with his teacher.

That afternoon he called me:  ‘My teacher is fantastic. He’s telling jokes all the time.’ I talked to Eamonn while I was at the pre-seasonal press conference of the Dutch public broadcasting networks. Surrounded by colleagues I’d last seen a year ago, I tried to launch into interesting conversations; however, my attempts were invariably stranded in a brief silence that gave rise to the question:  ‘And how are you doing now?’

Will it ever get any easier? Maybe when there are people around me who don’t know about our ordeal?

Terribly angry and desperate

TUESDAY, August 24 – I had a premonition.  Despite a hug here, a giggle there, it was a quarter of an hour before I actually shut the door behind me. Even after I again promised that I’d be at the baseball field at the stroke of six and not a second later. ‘I’ll be on time for your game. Honest!’ He still looked at me as if he didn’t quite believe me.

I’d laid out his uniform on the bed. His new glove on top and the new shoes next to the bag with helmet and bat. Bottle of water. All this so he won’t have to worry about that when his coach comes to pick him up. Good preparations are half the work and yet this proved to be the herald of an unexpected relapse.

Eamonn called just after lunch. He wanted to know, ‘why can’t I get home sooner?’ Patiently, I explained that I had several appointments at work and that later in the afternoon I had to go to Amsterdam for another meeting; but, I assured him that I’d be at the field on time. He went on grumbling. I began to lose patience and spoke to him in a gruffer more-businesslike manner.

Less than a half hour later, I had good news. One of my appointments had been cancelled, so I knew for sure I’d be there well before the start of the game, maybe even during the warming-up. Telling him the news, he burst into tears. ‘I miss you, Papa’.

Sigh. I told him I missed him, too. On my way to Amsterdam, he called again. Couldn’t I get there a little bit earlier. Impossible. Could I tell him what time I thought I could get to the field. No later than ten to six, I promise with my hand on my heart. This was getting to be annoying, but in a way I understood. The first game after the Summer break. Of course, he’d be nervous after five weeks off.  It’s also only a couple of days before school opens.

Triumphantly I set course for the field. With any luck, I should be able to make it in half an hour. Then, suddenly, I got a text message from Sander. Could I call him back right away? Something had happened at home. I’d barely gotten through when I heard Eamonn  ranting and raving in the background. A bit of a crisis, I was told.

The phone was handed to Eamonn who was crying in long, anguished gasps. Then he said something.

‘I’m sorry, Eamonn, I can’t understand you.’

Still unintelligible.

‘What did you say?’

Again, I couldn’t make head nor tails of what he was saying.

‘Calm down, Eamonn! Take a deep breath and repeat what you just said.’

For a moment he was silent.

‘Papa,’ he began, and then he told me what was bothering him, and what he’d been thinking about.

A brief pause on my end.

‘Son, do you really feel that bad?’

‘Papa, I’m so terribly angry.’

‘I know, son, I know.’

‘No, you don’t, Papa. You don’t know how angry I am.’

He was probably right. This morning I left the house thinking he was going to have fun with his baseball buddies. It was only normal that he was a bit nervous. But so angry? And so distraught?

I kept him talking until I got home. The front door flew open and he came running. The phone fell on the doormat. We held each other tight and without saying anything, walked inside, went upstairs to my bedroom and lay down on the bed, still holding each other tight.  We still didn’t say anything. I didn’t feel anger, but there was fear.

‘Were you really that angry, Eamonn?

‘Yes, Papa, terribly angry.’

‘That surprises me a little. I thought things were really improving.’

‘I’m angry every day, Papa. Every day.’

‘Every day?’

‘Yes, a little bit. Sometimes a couple of times a day. But I usually know how to deal with it. Until today. I just got angrier and angrier and…’

I decided it would be better not to go into what he’d said on the phone. Earlier this year he’d promised to come straight to me. That was now. He had come to me. And I was there.

‘What are you angry about?’

‘About everything.’

‘Are you mad at the motorcycle cop?’

‘A little bit.’

‘Are you angry because Mom isn’t here anymore?’

‘Yes, that’s part of it.’

He buried his head in my armpit and nodded. ‘A little bit.’

I understood.

‘Are you angry because I’m at work, and not here with you and your brother?’

‘Yes’.

Damn it. He had every right to be angry. Damn it.