Diary of a Widower

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

Archive for the category “Grieving”

26 Dec 2012

Talk or don’t talk about her

SATURDAY, December 26 – And here we are, in bed early. All three of us. Eamonn is next to me, by now sound asleep. Sander has his own guest room. All three of us want rest and quiet, or – as Sander put it – ‘I’m sick and tired of all these people.’

Grandma who talks at the top of her voice, Grandpa who can’t understand what she’s saying, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews vying for attention. The special charm of the Nolans:  boisterousness.  But not right now.

What I’ve noticed, and what disappoints me, is the fact that all mention of Jennifer is painstakingly avoided. Consciously or unconsciously. No one brought up her name. There were no indirect references, no anecdotes, nothing at all. Only my sister-in-law asked me how  I  and the boys were doing.

The rest of the family stuck to the usual subjects. Football, memorable family vacations, Seinfeld imitations, the latest movies. Jennifer did not feature in any of these conversations. Maybe it was better that way, but to my way of thinking there was something really wrong. Weren’t we all gathered here precisely because of her?

In a sense, it was understandable. At least this way we weren’t constantly being confronted with her death, but suppressing it and pretending it had never happened was getting on my nerves.  So much so that in the midst of this large and loud family I was feeling lonelier than ever. However, if the reverse were the case, and Jennifer was the sole topic of conversation, I would probably have been just as miserable.

Sander just came in. Couldn’t get to sleep. He wants to go home and, further, he has two wishes: He wants the new year to start and he wants Mom back. I start promising him all sorts of things, but actually that isn’t even the problem.  I hold him tight. That’s enough. He and I don’t even have to talk about Mom. We don’t need words… a simple hug says a lot more.

Posted in Family & Friends, Grieving, Kid's grieving | Leave a comment
23 Dec 2012

‘Dear Boi. I love you because’

WEDNESDAY, December 23 – It only gets worse. Her presence is palpable in every nook and cranny, or rather, her visible and tangible absence.

In my toilet case I find a folded piece of paper:  it is yellowed and the ink has run.  It dates from the fall of 2005 and it was written on the stationary of the Hilton in Brighton, England, where, on a whim, we spent a weekend, the four of us.

Jenn had left it next to my toothbrush and accessories, and since then this precious note had accompanied me on all my many trips. ‘Dear Boi. I love you because you know when it is time to take a break. xxx  Jenn.’

Oh, Jenn.

Posted in Grieving, Remembering | Leave a comment
21 Dec 2012

Lost after our home-coming

MONDAY, December 21 – What do I write? What is there to observe or to register in this quiet house in suburbia, where I’m lying on the same creaky double bed the two of us shared for years. Though it was on the narrow side, it was still a perfect match, our bodies meeting in various places.

What to say about the place Sander refers to as our home away from home, since we’ve spent so many summers and winters here. Less than three hours by car from Washington D.C. and only an hour from New York, it was a welcoming destination whether we were coming from London or Amsterdam.

A familiar headquarters, a home base from which to visit the shore and family and friends, or explore other cities – all activities that we cannot summon the energy for right now. What to say about our host and hostess, Grandma and Grandpa, visibly suffering the pain of their absent daughter.  Every day they’re a year older as they busy themselves trying to entertain us, all the while asking themselves, just as I do, ‘Oh, Jennifer… where are you?’

What can I say about the photos scattered on walls and tabletops around the house: in the living room her formal high school portrait, and the sweet photo of her – back then with long hair – in front of a Dutch windmill after she moved to Holland; the one on the fridge, taken on Sander’s eleventh birthday when he celebrated with a cake he’d made himself and in the dining room the various family portraits taken over the years, including our wedding portrait.

What to write except for this:  what was, is. What is, once was. The past is pervasive in the present and we crave the invisible strength that will show us the way to the future.

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18 Dec 2012

Fighting a war of grief

FRIDAY, December 18 – Why not, I thought. If it makes such an impact on friends, why shouldn’t other people who follow me on Twitter?  Right now there are over two thousand who do, so I twittered:

This is a shameful – make that a proud – plug: Sign up as an organ donor. My late wife Jennifer has made it possible for four people to live on.

It reached a great many people, which was the object of the exercise. I hope it results in a slew of registrations. Some people have already announced their intentions on Twitter and tomorrow I’m going to issue a subtle reminder. Short-term activist … always better than long-suffering widower.

23.50 – Just back from a small farewell party for my colleague P, who presented his last broadcast tonight. I stayed for an hour or so, spent most of the time with M., a dear colleague. She compared the impact of my loss to that of her Jewish mother, who lost her entire family during the Second World War – all exterminated by the Nazis. Her mother’s life was shaped by the war.

According to her daughter she would have said,  ‘This is Tim’s war.’

Tim’s war? That’s not the way it feels or the way I see it. Maybe I should sleep on it. Tim’s war?  Tim’s battle? Tim’s amputation? Tim’s betrayal? Tim’s revolt?

But then I knew. Tim’s victory!

Posted in Back to work, Grieving, Remembering | Leave a comment
15 Dec 2012
1 Comment

Suddenly she was there again

TUESDAY, December 15 – Last night the nightmare was briefly suspended. Not because I woke up, but because I dreamed about it. Suddenly Jennifer had walked into the living room. Not our living room, but some random place where her father and I were sitting at a table.

She walked into the room, as cool as could be. Smartly dressed. High heels. Tight-fitting jeans and a blouse I’d never seen before. A silk blouse with a colorful pattern. She was wearing make-up, her hair was short, and had earrings on that were just a bit too big.

My father-in-law and I were too surprised to say anything. ‘I know,’ said Jennifer, ‘it’s hard to believe, isn’t it? I’ve been conscious since twelve o’clock. No problem. That’s why they released me.’

I looked at my father-in-law, and again nothing was said. So it was possible.  Stupid! We’d taken her off the machines because she was totally brain-dead!  So miracles do exist.

Jenn went around the room, adjusting things here and there. I got up and walked over to her. You’d expect an embrace, but we kept some distance from each other since she was busy gathering up some papers and was bending over just about to deposit them in a recycle bin.

At that moment it became clear to me that it was a dream and I fought against waking up. I wanted to get back into the dream. I did everything I could, fully aware how difficult this was. Awake is awake.

I buried my head even deeper in the pillow in an attempt to recapture the dream or at least anchor that image of Jennifer in my head. I hoped it was still the middle of the night and not the moment when the alarm was scheduled to go off at ten to seven on this vacation day.

It was ten to seven. The alarm went off and I was back in our nightmare.

Posted in Grieving, Remembering
12 Dec 2012
2 Comments

So where is she now?

jennmeditationSATURDAY, December 12 – My alarm clock was set for 5:15, so that I’d be up well before the boys. I felt the need to meditate. It’s been 49 days since Jennifer’s death. Her Buddhist friend N had written me to explain that according to the Tibetan Book of the Dead, Jennifer – or her soul – would now be entering the next phase of the bardo.

Forty-nine days after her first passage, her consciousness finally undergoes the process of reincarnation. This is our last opportunity to do something for her.  Meditation is one way of helping the roaming spirit to achieve the most positive reincarnation.  N also added that he was not entirely convinced that this was true.

And I certainly wasn’t… and yet, like N, I felt that, at least, we should not let this moment pass. So, I knelt down on my meditation cushion to wish Jenn a good journey, but on this day I never actually reached a meditative state.  In spite of my frantic efforts. I was trying much too hard to breathe slowly in and out, in an effort to achieve a higher level of awareness.  It was hopeless. Read more…

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving, Remembering, Three Guys
11 Dec 2012
5 Comments

Phantom pain in an empty bed

FRIDAY, December 11 –  Every morning, somewhere between dream and reality, I still stretch out my arm to feel whether you are lying next to me. I run my hand over the mattress. Not that I expect to feel your bottom or your back, but, simply, because after eighteen years I’m still not used to lying there on my own in that huge bed.

Your pillows aren’t there anymore. They’re in the dresser. Every night I quite effortlessly fall asleep on my side of the bed.  Not in the middle of the mattress, but on the right, where I belong. Read more…

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving, Traffic victim
08 Dec 2012

Grief is not a mental disorder

TUESDAY, December 8  –  Back in control!  I have brought both the counseling and care at school equally into question. The breaking point came when one of the teachers suggested that it might be a good idea to call in a psychiatrist.

That made me angry.  Mourning is not a psychiatric disorder. Separation anxiety is a manifestation of grief. So I’m in charge again.

I had a forthright conversation with Eamonn and we forged a couple of iron-clad agreements.  He understood, and now everything’s going along fine. I’ll take him to his classroom and then say goodbye. We tried it out this morning, and it worked.  He stayed in the classroom as agreed, despite the pain that was visible in his face.

Yes, we can!  I love him.  And I love myself!

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving | Leave a comment
07 Dec 2012
1 Comment

Don’t look at my blind rage

MONDAY, December 7 – Eamonn can’t make it any clearer, as we stand in the hall outside his classroom.  ‘I’m worried about you.’  He clings to my pants, my jacket, my hand – anything he can grab hold of.  He’s crying.  In a loud whisper he says that he doesn’t want me to leave.

He is convinced that if I were to leave now, I would be deserting him.  Or even worse, that something bad would happen to me:  the realization of his worst nightmare.  He’s lost his mother and now he’s going to lose me, too.  He indeed can’t make it any clearer: ‘I worry about you.’

His separation anxiety only increases.  Each concession to his fear leads to an escalation which is counterproductive.  At least that’s how it seems.  Another week to go until Christmas vacation and I’m already at the end of my tether.  I want to make it to Friday afternoon in one piece.  We make a deal: he only has to go to school in the morning and this appears to ease his anxiety.

We agree that I’ll walk him to his classroom and that I’ll leave as soon as the first of his friends arrive. That’s the plan. The reality is that he won’t let me go.  I try everything: sympathy, understanding, severity, mock anger, and – above all – unconditional love.

But he won’t let me go.  This morning I leave him behind with a counselor and walk away without looking back.  He starts crying and screaming, and has to be restrained. I don’t turn around.  Mainly because I don’t want him to see my tears. Or the pain in my heart, the rock in the pit of my stomach, the dizziness in my head. I cry as I pedal home and once inside I start ranting and raving against  the desperation of my life and my blind rage at her death.

All I want is for my little boy to be happy again.

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving
30 Nov 2012

‘Papa, what if you also die?’

MONDAY, November 30 – Shit, shit, shit!!!  I screamed my lungs out on the way from Amsterdam to Hilversum.  Eamonn couldn’t get going this morning and wouldn’t let me leave the schoolyard.  I left him behind, took care of a few things at home, and bought some presents and stuff for the St. Nicholas celebrations on December 5th.

I was in the store when my phone rang.  Eamonn.  Headache, stomach ache, but basically his heart was bleeding. I tried to be stern, but couldn’t.  I promised I would arrange for him to come home early.  How?  I simply didn’t know, and on the way to work I burst out crying.  I swore.  Shit, shit, shit!!!

I’d been in the office less than ten minutes, when the phone rang again.  Someone from school. Both Sander and Eamonn were now sitting disconsolately in the counselor’s office.  All sorts of things were going wrong.  Every imaginable complaint had been laid on the table, but behind it all was the pain in their heart- a pain which I shared. I turned to my colleague and said I had to leave.

On the way back to Amsterdam I realized that right now there is no cure for what they are suffering from. The best we can do is to stick together, at home on the couch, battling what fate has sent our way.

15:00 – Sander and Eamonn on the couch, with me in the middle.  Frantic attempts to understand it all. But it’s quite simply incomprehensible.

Sander: ‘It’s all true, and I still can’t believe it. That she’s gone forever.’

Eamonn: ‘I think of her every second of the day.’

No one says anything.

Eamonn: ‘Papa, you need a backup.’

Me:  ‘What do you mean?’

‘In case you die, too. Someone will have to take care of us.’

‘Do you have someone in mind, Eamonn?’

‘I was thinking of Grandma, or Grandpa.’

‘Or one of your uncles?’

‘Yeah.’

‘But listen:  I’m not planning to die in the near future.’

‘I know that.’

Sander: ‘But why Mom? Why her?’

Posted in Back to work, Grieving, Kid's grieving, Three Guys | Leave a comment

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