Diary of a Widower

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

Archive for the category “Kid’s grieving”

20 Mar 2013

Angry. Just angry. Very angry

SATURDAY, March 20 – Listless and agitated at the same time, I get angry with Sander for no reason, which makes me angry with myself.

I’m pissed off at the parents of Eamonn’s friend, who have simply dumped their son on us, while they go downtown to shop together. Together. I think bitterly of the fun they’ll have.

I stroll down Beethoven Street and walk into a couple of stores, just to watch people. I’m lonely. I feel abandoned. I know Jennifer would have thought up something interesting to do with the boys, done something on her own, or all four of us together. And me? My specialty is making time pass by doing nothing.

I pace around the house, walk into her study, and with a wide sweep of my arm, I send everything on the table crashing to the floor. Her handbag comes to a halt upside down, and a tampon lands at my feet.

16.40 – Five shirts ironed. Now what?

Lying on my bed, I stare up at the ceiling. Have no idea what the boys are up to. Somehow or other they’ve managed to get through the day. Just as at some point it’ll dawn on me that it’s evening. That’s how meaningless it all seems. So somber. So insignificant within the all-encompassing entity of life.

Is every day going to be like this? The rest of the year? For years to come? Who’s going to guide the boys through high school and on to college? Who’s going to encourage them and kindle their enthusiasm?  Who’s going to do all that? Right now I see myself as a worthless, totally inadequate human being. The only thing I manage to do is keep the household functioning: a meal now and then and the laundry.

I iron the two remaining shirts.

23:00 –  Eamonn was sitting dejectedly on the couch right after his friend left – who proved  that he wasn’t a real friend by calling him an ‘oddball’. Fine. We won’t be inviting him over again. It was all too much for my little guy, the reversal in a false friendship. Who can he rely on?

He mumbled something about not having very many friends at school and that sometimes he felt excluded. Later on I realized that all I had to do was give him a big hug, but I went on and on, trying to impress on him how special he was, how intelligent, how generous, in short:  a cool kid.

He retorted that I shouldn’t say that because it wasn’t true. We tossed a few complimentary and less complimentary traits back and forth, until it seemed like a good idea to just go to bed. However, not before he grabbed hold of me and said, ‘I wish Mom was here.’

I know all too well that Jenn would have been able to give him more love and self-confidence than I did. But I’m doing my best and he knows it.

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19 Mar 2013

In and out at the hospital

FRIDAY, March 19 – The damned ring is still visible. Or is it my imagination?  Sander has a dental appointment today, at the AMC, the hospital where Jenn died. Where I was handed her wedding ring, engagement ring, and a few other pieces of jewelry in a plastic bag. That was when we were still hoping that she would awaken from her coma.

Hoping in vain.

It turned out to be not as bad as I had expected. The orthodontist was satisfied and Sander doesn’t have to go back for a surgical procedure the dentist had tentatively considered.  When we get home, the emotions that had been switched off while we were at the hospital break loose. We both start to cry.

‘I’m so tired of everything,’ Sander says. I couldn’t agree more. We light three candles in front of Jennifer’s photograph, the way we did that night when we said goodbye to her. Back to that day, the source of all evil for us.  It feels good.

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17 Mar 2013

Again, the ‘taking a shit’-theory

WEDNESDAY, March 17 – After lunch, I finally get Eamonn to go along to the park with me, to give Elsa a run. However, the dog chooses this moment to have an attack of the shits on Beethoven Street, which results in numerous gagging passers-by, including Eamonn. He wants to go home, but I force him to keep walking.

I know how it works. Once we’re in the park, everything will be all right and we’ll end up having fun. That’s my goal today, having fun in the park – despite the fact that our route includes a tricky crosswalk. Not the one where Jenn was knocked down, but one further ahead, just around the corner where Stadion Road crosses Beethoven Street. We’re in luck: the light is green.

We can keep walking, instead of waiting, in which case thoughts might stray to that Thursday in October, some two hundred yards from here. As we cross, things go wrong. Well and truly wrong. In the distance, a siren sounds. The ambulance is heading in our direction at top speed. We’re already about a hundred yards from the crossing when the ambulance whizzes by behind us.

I reach for Eamonn’s hand without looking at him. He holds my hand tight, and we keep going. I try to broach a neutral subject, but Eamonn turns away.

‘It’s not about Elsa’s poop,’ he says.

‘I know, Eamonn. It’s the ambulance, isn’t?’

‘Yes.The ambulance.’

‘I was thinking the same thing, Eamonn .’

We walk on another hundred yards or so, and we’re almost at the entrance of the park when he jumps into my arms and begins to cry, and cry, and cry. We stand there for several minutes, motionless. If Elsa hadn’t had an attack of diarrhea on Beethoven Street, if she hadn’t taken a shit first, then we would have long since been in the park and none of this would have happened.

But it did happen.  Slowly, we walk back home, carefully avoiding ‘the crosswalk’. I try to make it clear to him that it might help if, at some point in the future, he went by the place where the accident took place. To see with his own eyes that it’s nothing but an ordinary crosswalk.

He looks at me angrily and says, ‘It isn’t an ordinary crosswalk. It’s a shit place where my mother was killed.’

Again we hold each other tight. Now we’re both crying. What’s left to say? Quite a bit, it appears, during our walk home. Eamonn tells me that ‘after the accident, while Mom was lying on the ground surrounded by medics, there were a couple of teenagers hanging around who started making jokes about it all, and calling it cool.

At that moment Eamonn had been sitting on the curb. ‘Later I wished I’d smacked them in the face, so that they fell on the ground and died.’

We walk on in silence. When we get home, Eamonn immediately starts on his homework.

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08 Mar 2013
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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
05 Mar 2013
1 Comment

Writing the ‘Regret Person’

FRIDAY, March 5  –  I’m in the park with Eamonn and the dog and I’ve taken along a baseball glove. Spring practice has already started and I’m going to do my damndest to get my youngest son onto the field, but it’s a no-go. Nothing works and, for him, there’s no pleasure in the park. Too many memories of Mom.

Nothing works. He cries when I toss him the ball and he won’t go after it. He cries when I put the ball into his glove and ask him, plead with him, order him to throw it back. Then he comes over to me and says, ‘Could we write the regret person that I wish I was never born?’

I tell him that Mom considered the birth of her two boys her greatest gifts. You must never, never regret that you were born. He doesn’t get the message. We walk home again, the dog somewhat confused that the fun in the park is already over. I try to imagine what the regret person in Eamonn’s head looks like.

Posted in Kid's grieving, Remembering
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.

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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.

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25 Feb 2013

Trip down memory lane

THURSDAY, February 25 – We’ve only been in England for a couple of hours and we’re already making an unadulterated trip down memory lane. Coming here had been Sander and Eamonn’s idea, for months. ‘When are we going to England again, to London and Gerrards Cross?’ This week I gave in, on condition that it would be a short stay. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to it.

I think about this outing while on the train to London. We boarded in Gerrards Cross, a town just outside the beltway, where we had lived for three years. It was a period when Jennifer and the boys were exceptionally close while I was away working most of the time as the multimedia correspondent for NOS News. Much of what they were experiencing completely passed me by.

This afternoon the big moment came when we turned off the A40 and approached the circle that would take us to their old school in Hillingdon. Suddenly the voice of Johnny Cash filled the car, with Ring of Fire. Sander told me that they wanted to play it here again, ‘Because Mom always played it in her car, at this exact same spot.’

Eamonn sang along at the top of his voice.

That’s what made it special for them – those brief remembered moments. They were events I hadn’t shared with them, but that they wanted to re-live in the few days we would be spending there. This travelling back into their personal memories might work as a way of looking ahead into their shared future. It was important for them to anchor those memories.

That morning Eamonn had woken me up by whispering in my ear: ‘It’s so great to be in England.’ In the shower, Sander was singing. As soon as we had gotten off the Eurotunnel train and were surrounded by the rolling hills of Kent, both boys told me that for them it was like a homecoming. I’d been baffled, but now I understand.

Just to be on the safe side, they assured me that there was no reason for me to feel offended by the remark. I said that this was not at all the case (as I pulled a face). But, in a sense, it worried me. I was afraid they might experience a rude awakening when they realized that there were painful memories lurking here, as well and that, in the end, they would be even more keenly aware of the loss of their mother. I was wrong.

Jennifer had been a substitute teacher at the international school. She had made many friends among the American families, who often moved on at the end of the school year, as is customary in the expat world. We stayed in touch with some, but had long since lost contact with the others that proved to be too fleeting.

The bond with their old school has remained strong. In October it was heartwarming that the principal and the music teacher had come from London to attend Jenn’s cremation service. They brought with them a bag full of cards, drawings and letters from the small community which, from a distance, had felt our pain and shared our grief. Those messages said they had not forgotten us.

That’s why we’re here. The boys are enjoying themselves and they’re constantly  smiling; but, it’s different for me. Too often I have to brush away tears as we retrace her footsteps or follow the routes she drove in her yellow Mini Cooper. Unlike the boys, I take no joy in visiting our old haunts. But the hugs and greetings are sincere and I have Jennifer to thank for that. She was genuinely interested in people and she provided her boys with stories that were retold and experiences that were relived.

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

Stuck at the fatal scene

WEDNESDAY, February 24 – Sander called during the Evening News. He should have been home already from conservatory.  He always calls when he’s finished with his lesson. The usual chat. How did the lesson go? Are you hungry? And be careful on the way home.

That’s what he and Jennifer used to do: their phone calls were an exchange of idle chatter, like ours are now. But he’s still a child, and I’m still a concerned parent. So an alarm bell sounds when much later than expected the phone rings and his number appears on my mobile. I answer as calmly as I can.

‘Papa, I’m at the spot where the accident happened. Can you come?’

‘Of course, I’ll be right there.’

It’s just around the corner.

He’s standing there, holding onto his bicycle, near the infamous crosswalk. I slowly walk over to him and give him a hug and a kiss. I don’t say anything.

‘I felt as if I ought to come here and once I was here, I couldn’t leave. As if I was paralyzed. That’s when I called you.’

‘I’m glad I can help, Sander.’

Then he points to the tree across the road. ‘See, high up in the branches. The plastic bag for Elsa’s poop is still there.’

‘That’s what we call a silent witness, Sander.’

Neither of us speaks.

‘Shall we go home together?’

So that’s what we did. I was glad I was there. For him.

Posted in Kid's grieving, Traffic victim | Leave a comment
19 Feb 2013

Return of the blue scarf

FRIDAY, February 19 – Another miracle. I took Eamonn to school by bike and said somewhat warily that I’d like to head straight for the gym. ‘Oh, fine,’ he said. Then he gave me a kiss and disappeared into the crowd in the schoolyard.

On this last day before February break, everything seemed to be okay. That is, it did when it came to dropping them off at school. When I went to pick them up at three-thirty, it was clear that something had gone well and truly wrong. Eamonn didn’t want to talk about it. He just held me tight on the way home. Not until he had sat down on the couch did he feel safe.

‘This afternoon there was a play in the auditorium. Sort of dull, but okay. It was about Frog, played by Miss N. It was a few minutes before I realized that she was wearing a blue scarf. The exact same color blue as the scarf that Mom always wore and that she was wearing on the day of the accident. That really upset me. I started to cry in school with all the other kids around me and I couldn’t get the thought out of my head.’

He lay in my lap and cried. I held him tight and tried to explain that things like that are bound to happen in the future, as well. He said: ‘This week it felt sort of as if I was recovering, and then this happened.’

As sad as the remark sounded, it cheered me up. He was beginning to realize that things were improving. What had happened was no more than a bump in the road. Recovery. A wonderful word for this day. And the scarf. Sander had asked me about it the other day. I had to stop and think, but at the same instant we both realized that the blue scarf, which she had looked so good in, had gone into the casket with her.

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

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