Diary of a Widower

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

Archive for the category “Grieving”

13 Nov 2012

Playing dead for ten minutes

FRIDAY, November 13 – There was only the one letter on the doormat. From Swarthmore College where Jennifer went to school.  It was a  letter of condolence which contained this notice: ‘In keeping with our tradition, we will place a book of remembrance in the McCabe Library Collection in which is engraved JENNIFER  M. NOLAN, CLASS OF 1990.’  I burst into tears, fell to the floor, and lay there crying until Elsa came down the stairs and lay down against me. After ten minutes playing dead I got to my feet.

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11 Nov 2012

Pain feels like a paper cut

WEDNESDAY, November 11 – Math is no longer Eamonn’s favorite subject.  In fact, he says he hates it.  Why, I ask him, as he keeps repeating that mantra while we wait in the schoolyard. I hate math, I hate math.

‘But why, Eamonn?  You’ve always been good at math?’

‘Yes, I know, but I still hate math.’

‘I don’t understand. Explain it to me.’

He drags his feet.

‘I hate math because Mom always signed the tests I brought home. And now she can’t anymore.’

Oh, shit.

‘It’s the little things that hurt the most, isn’t it?’ I say.  ‘But from now on I can sign your homework.’

But, of course that’s not the same.

‘Do you know what it feels like, Papa?  It feels like a paper cut.’

Damn, he’s right. That sharp pain you feel when you cut your finger on some stupid piece of paper. Brief but intense.

Eamonn explained.  ‘A paper cut so small you can hardly see it, but it really hurts.’

I was astounded.  What a metaphor for the wounded life that all three of us are living at this moment. I thanked him for those lovely words. ‘You just made my day’.

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09 Nov 2012
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Gathering outburst of fury

MONDAY, November 9 – Crap day.  Cried in the lawyer’s office. Cried while I walked the dog. Cried on the toilet. Cried with Eamonn on my lap. Cried getting dinner ready.

Am I coming out of shock?  It’s all true, true to life, and I feel rotten.  Anger is  boiling up inside me, an outburst of fury is gathering.  Anger at the stupidity, the idiocy of traffic.  I’m incensed about the motorcycle cop. It all comes together when I happen to see one thoughtless neighbor after another run a red light or fail to stop at a cross walk.

Then the nightmare takes on a new dimension, dear Jennifer, and you can’t do a thing about it. Our mortgage is no longer valid.  We bought the apartment less than two months ago, and now it’s about to slip through my fingers.  With two incomes we could swing it and we were proud that we’d done it together. But the life insurance policy isn’t valid, since your appointment for the medical checkup was scheduled for three days after your death. Because you’re an American citizen, the notary public needs more information in order to establish the right of inheritance. The police investigation is going to take a while.

Is this only the beginning?

Posted in Grieving
06 Nov 2012

Crying over her obituary

FRIDAY, November 6 – Good morning, Jenn.  You would have loved this. Eamonn is sitting on the couch with your laptop.  (Naturally Sander knew what your password was.)  He’s just started on a book, and prefers writing to watching TV. The story is about living food, and Uncle Pete appears in the form of a peach.

10.50 – Our first session with the family therapist.  N is petite, just like Jennifer.  Her office is near Vondelpark and is, thus,  close enough to go to by bike. She’s British and we speak English with her.  It feels strange. The boys wonder why we’re there. Let them discover that themselves. Read more…

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