SUNDAY, January 24 – I’m rested, my energy is returning, and my dirty house must pay the price. I feel an urge to embrace the outside world, starting with Facebook. Sometime ago I turned my back on most of my virtual friends. My scribbled messages were too personal. Now I want to make friends again, invite them to become part of our daily life again. There’s nothing to hold me back: the windows are wide open again.
FRIDAY, January 22 – Three months since Jennifer and the boys went to the park with Elsa which had been only the third day she’d been taken out for a walk. It feels like three seconds ago.
I remember clearly that around four o’clock, Sander had called me at work. Come right away. Mom’s had an accident. He couldn’t tell me what had happened. Just come home. Now. Okay, Sander, I’m on my way.
It happened right around the corner. In our minds, it’s still right around the corner. What a waste, what a crime, what a ridiculous, absurd, unacceptable, unfair accident. Have we come to understand it? No. Do we realize that? Sometimes. Are we dealing with it now? Yes.
We have no choice. The choice was made for us. Three months ago. Three beings that will never forget. The memory will always be there. I hope with all my heart that we will remember the right things. Memories are merciless.
TUESDAY, January 12 – According to my colleague, herself a widow, more women than men write about the loss of their partner because: ‘Men are much quicker to find themselves a new sex partner.’ Does this mean that I should stop everything and do what is expected of me ‘as a man’?
Being both ambitious and pushy, should I rather focus on two goals at the same time: writing and screwing? Why the hell not? Hmmm… it remains to be seen whether I’m up to it since a certain tendency towards impotence has made itself felt this week. It takes jerking off endlessly, perhaps, suggesting a teensy ejaculation dip. Is this yet something else that mourning does to you?
SATURDAY, January 9 – Is this the beginning of depression knocking at the door, just as bereavement experts predict, or did the beast already sneak into the house while I wasn’t looking?
FRIDAY, January 8 – I was still dreaming when I got up at 5:48. In the final scene I went downstairs, where the whole family was strolling around. Jenn had just put on her coat and we were about to say goodbye to her. Mom was finally going to go on that week-long meditation retreat she’d been contemplating for so long.
Until I woke up, that is, initially still in a cheerful mood. It disappeared within a second and a half, when I realized that I had experienced all that in my sleep and that Jennifer had left for a retreat that would last forever. I felt an icy shiver run through my body. I went for a shit and then headed back to bed.
When the alarm went off at 6:15, I didn’t feel like getting out of bed. I stared at the ceiling until 6:45, when I had to answer the call of duty. Children, dog, breakfast, lunch, school, and then what? I stayed home, didn’t feel like working, dilly-dallied with odd jobs. Found a morsel of satisfaction in the most minimal chores. Tomorrow’s another day.
MONDAY, January 4 – In the end, it was a joyful occasion: the actual closing on our new house. The boys were excited and enthusiastic and their mood rubbed off on me. I felt thankful for this since I had woken up this morning with a strange feeling, conscious of the bizarre day that lay ahead.
After a final inspection, we were off to the notary public by bike. The seller is, himself, a widower. His wife had owned several apartments in Amsterdam which he is now successively selling. The word closure has a double meaning. What I kept telling myself as I was getting dressed was something that our American real estate agent had impressed on us after we’d sold our house there.
‘When all is said and done, the sale of a house is no more than a transaction.’
In other words: forget all the memories and emotions that lie hidden in your house. The new occupants will replace them. They’ll look at the rooms, closets, kitchen and bathrooms with different eyes. What takes place during the conveying of a house is that two parties sign their names on a pile of documents and that one party hands the other a check. It is a transaction, pure and simple.
But this morning such a down-to-earth approach proved to be a bit much for the boys. We had barely taken our seats at the large wooden table in the stately office of our notary public when they began to get itchy. I sent them out into the hall and suggested they occupy themselves with their iPhones. Luckily they quickly complied, since I had a premonition about what was to come.
On the first page of the contract, at the bottom, was a painful piece of text the notary was about to read aloud, and that was gonna hit me like a sledgehammer. Officially, this is who I am:
Mr. Thimotheus Henricus Maria Overdiek, residing at 1077 DN Amsterdam, Gerrit van der Veenstraat 37-11, born in Tilburg on the second of April, nineteen hundred and sixty-five, legitimating himself with his passport, number X, issued in Amsterdam on the ninth of June, two thousand and nine, unremarried widower of Mrs. Jennifer Mary Nolan and not presently or previously registered as partner, who intends to take possession of the above mentioned house, henceforth known as ‘the buyer’.
‘The buyer’ had tears in his eyes when the notary came to the passage in question. He was handed a glass of water. The procedure was resumed. The boys came back just in time to witness the signing of all the papers pertaining to what was both a transaction and a joyous occasion.
SUNDAY, January 3 – Eamonn brings up the subject in the car. ‘Where do you think Mom is right now?’ It’s a tough question. Fortunately, he tries to come up with an answer himself since it is something he and his mother had discussed.
‘Mom believed in reincarnation, didn’t she?’
A difficult word, which he pronounces without a hitch. He also says he understands what it means, my little smart aleck.
‘Yes, Eamonn. And if that’s true, which no one knows for certain, then Mom lives on as a better person, because she was kind, and loving, and because she was a good human being. Don’t you think so?’
Silence.
‘But she could come back as anything, couldn’t she? Read more…
FRIDAY, January 1, 2010 – In front of the house, three young men are loudly saying goodbye to each other. Apparently they’ve spent the first seven hours of the new year in a state of extreme inebriation. One of them proclaims loudly that he’s ready for a good fuck. Typical macho blowhards.
I’m one of the poor souls who are not on their way home, but is up early in order to take the dog out and, to her horror, the sound of fireworks continues unabated even if off in the distance. Just after seven o’clock taxis are snagging their last and most lucrative customers. A fire engine races past with wailing sirens and flashing lights. It’s approaching the intersection where our life came to a standstill, above all, Jennifer’s.
The fire engine went through red – which it’s allowed to do – and in a split second I’m back to that moment when Jennifer, after duly waiting for the light to turn, quite unsuspectingly crossed the street. That motorcycle cop went through red, and without warning. I wasn’t there, the children were, but I can still vividly see the accident happening as it did, down to the last detail.
I often cross at the ‘scene of the crime’, and each time a shiver runs down my spine as I leave a footprint behind on the very spot where Jennifer’s head made contact with the asphalt. No wonder Eamonn won’t go anywhere near it and Sander still refuses to cross the street. Reaching the park, I enjoy the last rays of a blue moon, that is, the second full moon in a calendar month.
Sander doesn’t regard the first of January as a totally new start. Rather, it is the conclusion of a rotten year, as he had explained shortly after the big bang at midnight. Eamonn nodded in agreement. He was wide awake, eager to keep celebrating; but, I was exhausted and shortly before 1 a.m. we headed upstairs.
Eamonn was already in my bed. Sander just confessed that the fireworks made him nervous, so we dragged his mattress into my room and the three of us snored our way into the new year: 2010. Am I justified in calling this a precious memory? Before turning off the light, I made them a promise: we’re going to make up for all the parties we missed last year.
THURSDAY, December 31 – The quiet morning hours provide the time and some breathing space to think about the final hours of this calendar year. I want to have a good talk with the boys. It won’t be about New Year’s resolutions… they don’t amount to much in comparison with the heavy burden we’re already carrying.
Again I announce: Friday the first of January 2010 will not be a perfect kick-off in a new game. It is no more and no less than just the following day in a difficult, personal struggle. Yet, I want to be able to look back at the close of 2009 and compliment the boys on their admirable resilience.
But I must be careful, and not be tempted to think that everything is fine since such thoughts are deceptive. On the other hand, I haven’t cried once since we got back from the States. Two days without crying. That’s unprecedented. Is this progress? A false reality? Sometimes it’s as if it hasn’t registered. Am I suppressing reality?
Thank heavens there’s no danger of that with the boys around. In their own way, they manage to make their immense grief known to me. Understanding and patience, that’s what it’s all about in the reality of our everyday life. Let’s make that our resolution for the New Year. And may it be a reaffirmation of my commitment as a father. Quietly, I try to get through, one day at a time, with tact and understanding.
I love you, Jennifer. I love you, Sander. I love you, Eamonn. And yes, I love myself.
19:45 – Goddamnit, Overdiek, there you go with your pious promises about patience and understanding!! This time I went off the deep end when I lit into Sander. He’d been working on some kind of building kit, gotten glue on his fingers, and came to me to complain. Not just any old glue, but ‘three-second’ glue. Try getting that off your fingers!
I called him a numbskull, a botcher, a stupid bungler – out of sheer frustration because I hadn’t been checking on what he was doing. His mistakes were my responsibility and I realized that I couldn’t remedy those mistakes. While Jennifer would have undoubtedly known exactly how to remove the goddamned glue. All Sander and I could do was shout at each other.
Eamonn, the peacemaker, came between us. He begged us not to argue, especially on the last day of the year. He was right, of course. I apologized to Sander, who also said he was sorry. Together we fixed dinner. Au Pair Meal: pasta with meat, according to one of Jennifer’s recipes that he remembered. He did a good job. It was delicious.
MONDAY, December 28 – Back to Amsterdam on board a packed plane. Initially only Sander and I had a boarding pass. Eamonn was on a waiting list. I was getting more and more nervous. I went up to the counter and managed to produce a few theatrical tears, purely for the effect. To make it clear what our situation was. No way was one of us going to be left behind.
We got it all sorted out, of course, but it brought home to me how easy it is to lose control – and how easy it is to play the sympathy card at crucial moments. With Sander and Eamonn beside me, I feel fatigue setting in. In fact, I’m exhausted by the emotions and the intense pain.
A sign of healing, they say. Here’s hoping.
Diary of a Widower 