Diary of a Widower

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

Archive for the category “Grieving”

08 Mar 2013
2 Comments

Not being a good father

SUNDAY, March 8  – The boys are standing in front of me. At this moment all I want to do is read the Sunday papers, undisturbed, and at my leisure. What are we going to do today? When children ask this question, it usually means they’re bored to death and don’t feel like doing anything. I counter with ‘Well, what do you feel like doing?’

The answer is predictable: Don’t know. Beach? Don’t feel like it. Walk in the forest? Not again!  Movie? There’s nothing interesting playing. Museum? Not really.  Okay, you come up with something. No ideas. We’re bored.

At that point I’ve had enough.  Into the car, the two of you!  No nonsense. It’s not until I’m sitting behind the wheel that I decide to head for the beach, with the dog.

Outside of Amsterdam we hit a traffic jam and in the back seat all hell breaks loose. I lose my temper and inform them that I’ve had just about enough of their griping and, further, that I’m sick and tired of having to dream up things for the two of them to do because they don’t have any ideas of their own.

My elder son then retorts that Mom would have had plenty of ideas and that she always came up with something. Besides that, I insisted on doing things on the weekend when they’d just as soon stay home. After digesting his words, I turn around and head back to the city. I apologize to them. I had to admit I haven’t been much of a father today. I just didn’t have it in me. I was really sorry, and I said so.

I drop the boys off at the park that’s close to home, together with the dog: ‘Take Elsa for a walk. I’ll expect you back in three quarters of an hour, and no sooner. Toodle-oo!  Papa’s going to go home and read his paper.’

When they got back, each of the boys told me separately that I wasn’t a failure as a father and also that they hadn’t been such good sons. With a hug and a kiss, everything was okay again. Oh, and would it be all right if they used my computer?

‘No’ was clearly not an option.

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving, Three Guys
04 Mar 2013
3 Comments

Stop thinking about sex!

THURSDAY, March 4  – Memo to self: stop thinking about sex!  Stop, stop, stop! I’m becoming obsessed by the thought of some heavy fucking – subject or object makes no difference – and now! Overdiek, turn off that switch in your head. Or go have sex – get someone into your or their bed, whatever. But stop thinking about it, please! Fuck it!

Posted in Grieving, Sex
03 Mar 2013

She would have known

WEDNESDAY, March 3  –  Parent-teacher conferences at school. I feel awkward and self-conscious sitting at the table, on a stool that’s much too small for an adult. My presence here alone, is painful; especially since during our talk, with my son at my side, I can no longer fall back on Jennifer.

She would have known exactly what to say. She would have been familiar with the method the teachers were using and where there was room for improvement. Now I’m responsible. The teacher’s looking at me and so is Eamonn.

I choose the path of least resistance and stammer: ‘And what do you think yourself, son?’ because I,  for one,  am totally blank.

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving | Leave a comment
02 Mar 2013

Hell has many rooms

TUESDAY, March 2 – Wonderful responses to my email. (Except for the woman who said I could always call her if I was feeling lonely.)  That’s the whole fucking point, dumb ass.

Many friends and acquaintances had similar stories to tell. After the death of a close friend, parent or sibling, they were inundated with sympathy which soon disappeared – like snow from the sun.

One journalist friend was shocked.  He hadn’t heard. Understandably, as his wife is dying of cancer. He has other (or rather, similar) things on his mind. After a brief exchange via email, he wrote:

It’s hard to fathom. Hell has many rooms, and even suites. Sometimes we’re ordered to walk around for a while. The true art is to then set course for the light, hand in hand with your loved  ones, as close as you can get. Fantastic to know that you’re working on it. Just as it’s great that you’re walking alongside us. 

Posted in Family & Friends, Grieving | Leave a comment
01 Mar 2013
4 Comments

Dear friends, let me tell you

MONDAY, March 1 – The weather is gorgeous this morning. In response to the sun on my face, I decide to send my friends an update on our doings and to break the somewhat uncomfortable silence. I realize that that I occasionally take antisocial advantage with my answering machine, and without a qualm; but, presumably, my friends don’t know that.  So, here goes:

Dear Friends,

Let me tell you how we are doing.  In a nutshell: the sun is beginning to shine, at least from time to time. The rays are faint, but still. Little by little, Sander, Eamonn and I are starting to crawl out from under the enormous shadow that was so cruelly cast over us at the end of October and that movement feels good. We’re not there yet, not by a long shot and I can’t say that everything’s fine. That’s certainly not the case. We miss Jennifer terribly and we still cannot understand why this happened. We will probably never understand why.

Yet we know that we have to move on and that we can do it. The three of us are unbelievably close. In a sense, this is a very precious period in our lives, to which I automatically add that I’d give anything not to have to be going through it. I wouldn’t wish this nightmare on my worst enemy. And that’s what it is – a bloody nightmare.

Now, four months later, we have picked up the thread of our lives. For us, at least, nothing will ever be the same. We keep busy with school, with work, and with the day-to-day concerns. As of three weeks ago, we have also had the help of E, an American au pair who we got to know while we were living in Washington D.C.

This means that we have both more stability and more flexibility in our lives during these hectic and emotional times. We also have a weekly appointment with a psychologist and there are people at school the boys can call on. I’m fortunate in having a number of friends whose support I can rely on and who know where to find me if I want to be found.

I know that many people think of us regularly and that gives me strength. I also realize that I haven’t always had the energy to pick up the phone or to respond to emails. When you’re deep in shit, you want to be alone and when everything’s going your way, you want to concentrate on the good things. Now, as we’re slowly but surely readying ourselves to reconnect with the world, we are aware that in the meantime many of you have gotten on with your own lives.

Thus, I wanted to send you this little note. We want to hear from you, even though we might not always respond immediately. We want to hear how things are with you and yours and all about those things that are part of everyday life.

On the other hand we would really rather avoid having to cross that awkward and painful barrier of: ‘I really want to know how things are with you and the boys, but I’m afraid to ask.’

Please talk to us about the ordinary things, what ‘s going on that makes your life pleasant or unbearable – that’s the way it goes, as I’ve discovered. Life does go on.

Our life does too. In fits and starts: now and then there’s a positive development and then you fall flat on your face, again.

Just wanted you to know.

Warm greetings,

Tim

Posted in Family & Friends, Grieving
28 Feb 2013

Exhausted? Yes, but also rested

SUNDAY, February 28 – We leave England in the pouring rain. The boys are contented. They’ve seen their school friends and nothing much has changed – for them, at least. I’m carrying around a lot of raw emotions that I discovered while amidst Jennifer’s friends.

Yesterday evening, during a party, it was too much to handle. Got to bed late and this morning we were up early. Exhausted. But in any case I felt a real sense of satisfaction. Not until we turn onto the French highway continuing back to Holland did I realize why.

I’m  actually rested. Rested and recharged.

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving, Remembering | Leave a comment
27 Feb 2013

Meeting her ‘my gay best friend’

SATURDAY, February 27 – We arranged to meet in Le Fromagerie, a tiny and, thus, overcrowded cheese shop. Jenn and J used to meet here for lunch that would often drift into happy hour, or started with a cup of tea that would end with dinner. They talked and talked, the two of them: she a garrulous American, he a gossipy guy from Portugal.

She called him “my gay best friend”, something that many women in their thirties and forties cultivate.  He played the part with verve. He’d volunteer advice on her derierre and her breasts, which he referred to as ‘your tits, darling’. Together, they laughed their way through life, but it was more than that. The two of them had had a deep and strong friendship and I wanted to taste something of the joy they had shared.

Jenn had always said that J made her feel happy: ‘Wherever we are, whatever our mood, we always have fun together.’

He and I were now celebrating that friendship with a wine and a cheese platter. When we raised our glasses, I started to cry – just for a moment – but,  still. I had expected him, not me, to give way to emotion He’d been the sensitive violinist who, during the cremation ceremony, could scarcely hold his instrument; I was the one now who unsuccessfully fought back tears.

Maybe it was because, as he explained, he was too sad to cry. ‘I’m not depressed,’ he explained. ‘but I no longer have the energy to enjoy life. It’s beyond me.’  We talked about the past. About certain choices that Jennifer had made during her life. About things she had done, sometimes behind my back. About everything he knew, and didn’t know. About his understanding. About his disapproval. About him and her. About her and me.

I was touched to hear him talk about the adventures they’d shared. I knew most of the stories, since Jenn always enjoyed recounting them as soon as she got home, usually at the kitchen table. He now confirmed the fun they had shared often using the exact same words and gestures. Their friendship was unrivalled and irreplaceable. Again and again he sighed deeply. ‘That’s the way it is. That’s the way it is.’

His words kept resounding in my head; even if, not particularly eloquent, all things considered I found myself wondering what is the way it is?  And, besides, what does that even tell us?

Posted in Grieving, Remembering | Leave a comment
17 Feb 2013

Getting away the easy way

TUESDAY, February 17 – Got drunk with my colleague G.  Always good fun from time to time. Except for the damned alarm clock the next morning.

Posted in Back to work, Grieving | Leave a comment
14 Feb 2013

No roses, no cards, no kisses

SUNDAY, February 14 – Valentine’s Day. We didn’t celebrate: no roses, no cards, no kisses. Why should we? I did tell the boys how much I love them and how much I loved Jennifer, and still do. The afternoon dragged on.

I’m sitting and staring at the empty page in my diary as I’d had in mind elaborating on how I was planning to buy lingerie for her. How I still walk past store windows and visualize how good she’d look in this dress or in that skirt.

I could have gone on and on about her breasts, about the first day I was allowed to kiss them and fondle them, how they clung to my body. How her breasts became boobs during her pregnancies, how she showed them off , and had me photograph them. (That photo must still be around somewhere.) How on her deathbed I caressed her breasts, which were smaller then, this one last time. And kissed them.

I simply didn’t have the urge or the energy to explain it all in detail here on paper today. The memory was enough, but also too painful. I read what Sander had written on his mother’s Facebook wall: ‘Are you dead? Well, that’s what it feels like. Papa tried to mash cauliflower tonight. It wasn’t a great success. Why can’t we ask you how you do it? Love you.’

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving, Remembering, Three Guys | Leave a comment
13 Feb 2013

Crying and sobbing by ourselves

SATURDAY, February 13 – Irritations pile up. Between the au-pair and the children, between her and me, between the children and me. There is something more than time needed in order to accept a woman into this house. I call a meeting and we compare notes on the first few weeks. Her physical and mental presence is overwhelming and she also wants to know what we think. Communication is the key.

Am I going to tell her what we think, how we feel? Not always. At most I give her a few vital details about the kind of fucking life we’ve been leading. She’s right here in the middle of everything, but can’t seem to grasp it all. She can’t see, let alone experience the pain that once again swept so mercilessly into our living room  this afternoon. It started with a clash between Sander and me. The trigger was the homework which he refused to do and which I in turn ordered him to do.

Of course, that wasn’t what it was really about, but the two of us need to thrash it out. A knock-down, drag-out fight over nothing; but fury at the reality of Jennifer’s death. The powerlessness of the situation. The frustration and the hatred, genuine hatred towards him, that bastard who has all this on his conscience. Frightful arguments, really, with Eamonn as unwilling victim along the sidelines. We ended up on the floor, all three of us, crying, sobbing, and cuddling.

Totally defeated, I was the first to get myself up again. I took a chair, placed it in the middle of the dining room, tied a pillow to it and told the boys it represented the motorcycle cop. I took the lead and started swearing at this empty chair, save for a pillow. I ignored the idiocy of the situation. No blows, just words. Shouts. Then the boys took turns. One at a time, we faced the imaginary motorcycle cop and gave him hell.

It didn’t solve anything; but, we felt better and after that we went go-karting. When we got home later that night, we were in high spirits and E looked at us a bit puzzled. She’d been downtown all day. Still, peace reigned once again and we didn’t say a word about our temporary breakdown that afternoon. That was between just the three of us.

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

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