Diary of a Widower

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

Archive for the category “Grieving”

13 Jun 2013

Beyond longing for sex

SUNDAY, June 13 – My bedsprings creaked as a result of all my tossing and turning, and I woke up to find myself in a state of extreme confusion. Under the shower I rinsed away my nocturnal fatigue, ran a towel over my face, and looked in the mirror. Then it became clear.

It’s so simple, flirting with single colleagues and mothers in the schoolyard, and sampling various other romantic possibilities.  It’s satisfying, enjoyable, sexy, and good for your ego. But God almighty, how do you keep it up? How do you combine it with work. With children?  And why?  What’s the object of the exercise?

In her book You Can Call me Anytime, author and widow Karin Kuiper says that the patience of the people around you usually lasts about six months. They figure that the period of mourning ought to be over, and before long the potential partners descend on you like flies on molasses. And she’s right. I’ve seen it happen. And while it’s fun, in the long term it doesn’t get you anywhere.

This is something I realized during a long telephone conversation with C. I’d been corresponding with her for some time by email. She’s a recent divorcee with two daughters. At the moment they live in France, but they’ll soon be moving to Amsterdam. This morning was the first time we’d spoken to each other. It’s clear that we have a number of things in common, but we have more to offer each other than consolation. We are genuinely interested in each other, and this morning under the shower I was conscious of a kind of turning point in my present life:  one step back in superficiality in exchange for one step forward towards potential love

19.30 – Damn it, stomach ache. I mustn’t let on. Stomach ache due to nerves, but I see to it that my face is all smiles. Again and again I emphasize how jealous I am and what a lucky dog he is to be able to go on the trip. He just nods.

The youngest son is going on a class trip.

Not a day trip to an amusement park, but three days in Brussels, for Space Camp to learn what it’s like to be an astronaut. The high point is the micro-gravity experience:  the sense of being weightless. That’s what he’s really looking forward to. Just as I’m looking forward to the moment when I can put my arms around him again. Damn it! Why am I so worried? He wants to go, he’s enthusiastic, he’s going to be away three nights and he’s excited that he’ll be sharing a room with two of his best friends. So what’s the problem?

I pace back and forth holding the letter from school, with the list of things he’s supposed to take along and another list with the things he’s not allowed to bring.  Sleeping bag, pillowcase, mattress sheet, shoes with white soles, three pairs of underpants plus one extra, socks, three T shirts and an extra pair of pants go into the sports bag. In his backpack he’ll have his Dutch passport, a copy of his insurance card, and twenty euros for the souvenir shop. Cell phones are taboo, but they’ve made an exception for Eamonn.

He’s raring to go. But I’m not. I remember how he came home holding the letter in which the space camp was announced.  He was simply wild about the idea. Jenn and I exchanged glances, thinking how big our little guy was getting. We had all sorts of plans for those three days. We would have no problem finding an address for Sander for three days.

In the week after her death Eamonn announced that he would definitely not be going. He didn’t feel like going anymore and he couldn’t bear the thought of being away from home for even one night. Far away from me.  I said: we’ll see how you feel when the time comes.

And now that the time has come, I’m grateful and deliriously happy that he’s looking forward to the trip. Which is why I have a stomach ache.

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving, New love, Sex | Leave a comment
07 Jun 2013
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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
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.

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30 May 2013

Does this first year not count?

SUNDAY, May 30 – Uncle Pete is going back to New York. At Schiphol Airport we have time for a sandwich and we discuss the months to come. I confess that I’m a bit worried about the boys and how they’ll be looked after. It’s important for the uncles to understand that their nephews are no longer happy, carefree children able to forget about their grief as soon as they set foot on American soil.

Am I being overprotective? That seems to be what Peter is suggesting when he says that everything is going to be all right. I impress on him how difficult all this is for me. He must realize that and he must also impress on his brothers that the last seven months have been pure misery. What I want is for him to take a little bit of our shit back home with him and to realize what we’ve been going through, day in and day out.

He puts his arm around me. ‘Tim, we don’t know how to handle this. I don’t know. You don’t know. My parents don’t know. Or my brothers. There’s no blueprint for situations like this. That’s why we’d do better to simply forget the first year. Accept that we’ve made mistakes, that we’re doing our best to survive this year. And agree that the past year doesn’t count.

I understand what he’s getting at, and I appreciate what he’s saying, but his reasoning is faulty. This will be thought of as the most precious year in my life – this year following Jennifer’s death – no matter how awful that sounds. The intimacy that has grown between the three of us, the alternating sensations of intense grief and delirious joy, the certainty and the gnawing doubts about single parenthood, and not least of all the many mistakes we’ve made this year and will continue to make in the future. Forget this year?  Not on your life.

Posted in Family & Friends, Grieving | Leave a comment
24 May 2013

Single dad or grieving widower?

MONDAY, May 24 – I email a thank-you note to the hostess:

‘Thanks so much for inviting us to the barbecue. It was a great bunch of people and the kids certainly enjoyed themselves. Sometimes I realize that there are things that keep me from accepting invitations. As a single dad with certain responsibilities, you have a totally different social life. But I’m slowly learning to shrug things off and the great group you had there last night really made me feel good.’

Is that it?  Am I now a single father instead of a grieving widower? Do single women or mothers no longer see at a glance what kind of shit I’m carrying around with me every day? I wonder if they see what I can still see: that there was once a wedding ring on my left hand.

Posted in Grieving, New love | Leave a comment
18 May 2013

Grandpa, but no grandma

TUESDAY, May 18 – A colleague calls to tell me that he’s become a grandfather. I remember his son from our stay in the States, when he was in high school. Wow!  Solid proof of how time flies. I smile at the thought of my friends as grandparents and I’m reminded of the two baby quilts that his wife W made for our boys, the oldest of whom is now a high school student himself. Baby. Grandparent. Me someday.

But never Jennifer.

Posted in Family & Friends, Grieving | Leave a comment
14 May 2013

A clean slate? Total nonsense

FRIDAY,  May 14 – If you hear something often enough, you start to believe it. That must be the motto of all the friends and acquaintances who keep assuring us that a new house means a fresh start, a clean slate. They assume that we are now free to move forward full of confidence; leaving behind the memories of the old house and starting with a clean slate. Problem solved. In my book that’s wishful thinking, and this papa says: Fucking bullshit. Total nonsense. There are a great many well-intentioned individuals who absolutely do not know what they’re talking about.

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12 May 2013

Time to celebrate again

WEDNESDAY,  May 12 –  I never knew we had such beautiful plates and cups and stuff. All of it was stored on the bottom shelf of the cabinet in the dining room and I’m seeing it for the first time, as I unwrap the various pieces.  Dinner plates, bowls, serving dishes.  Magnificent.

Never seen them before – or maybe never noticed them, due to lack of interest. Everything was unused. No doubt wedding gifts from aunts and uncles, carefully tucked away, afraid something might get broken which would have been a shame.

There were more surprises. Things the boys had made over the years, which I had long since forgotten. An imprint of five-year-old Sander’s hand in a plaster heart, for Mother’s Day. A snowman made out of an old sock, with ‘Eamonn’ scrawled across the front. The most touching memento was hidden in the wooden shoes someone gave us when Sander was born:  a handwritten card accompanying the flowers that Eamonn had bought for Jenn last year:

Happy 41st* B-Day Mom!

The asterisk was clarified on the reverse in red letters:  ‘Even though you look 25’.

This afternoon Eamonn came up with the idea of organizing a party on the 28th of this month, her birthday and to ask the same people who were invited to the Halloween Party that was cancelled last October. Eamonn declared that ‘it was time to celebrate something again’.

I told him he was a wise child.

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving, Three Guys | Leave a comment
07 May 2013

My wife in a moving box

FRIDAY, May 7 – Had a rotten night. Woke up a few times, dreaming of Jennifer. Tossed and turned, wishing the move to our new house was over.  Delays due to a snag:  the oil used on the wooden floors was spoiled, leading to white spots. Now they have to sand, oil, varnish, polish and then varnish again. At least I think that’s the right order.

What do I care? By Sunday evening the floor will be perfect. Here’s hoping. The movers are coming early Monday morning and by the end of the day we’ll take possession of our new abode, two streets away. I’m dreading the whole operation, but trying desperately not to lose my cool.  I’m tired. So tired. Even too tired to worry.

Tonight I’ll pack a small box with personal things. In other words: Jenn in da box. Weird… I walk around with the box in my hand. (Do you want me to put you down here, sweetheart?)  Relax. Fucking urn.  Shoved into a cardboard moving box without a single token of respect. The movers better keep their hands off my sweetheart.

Posted in Grieving, Paper work | Leave a comment
06 May 2013

Signs of life nor death

THURSDAY, May 6 – Call it a sign of life. After what’s been – for me – an excruciatingly long silence, I finally receive a brief text message: ‘It’s snowing here’.

I reply: ‘Hey, fantastic’.

And we leave it at that. Sander reports on developments in the Swiss Alps and I let him know that we’re thinking of him.  We seldom call. ‘Big guy’ and his old man don’t need to talk every day.  He’ll be back in four days. I miss him, that’s for sure. It’s oddly quiet without him. Eamonn agrees.

I was about to write ‘deathly quiet’, but that’s something else again, as I know only too well. Deathly is the silence that Jenn left behind in October. No more notes, which I sometimes long for. No quick text message to let me know where she is. The scribbled note on the table, with a request. Often an email or just a ‘mental note’:  the realization you’ve been thinking of each other at exactly the same moment.

I think of her so often.  These days my thoughts come with a split-second of terrible anger, because she is not able to think of me. The one-way traffic of a truncated life. Unbearable longing for a sign of life, even a sign of death. Just something I can hear or see or feel. Even that turns out to be asking too much.

Posted in Grieving, Remembering | Leave a comment

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