Diary of a Widower

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

Archive for the category “Kid’s grieving”

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
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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
03 Dec 2012
1 Comment

Taking off my wedding ring

WEDNESDAY, December 3  – Before the clock has struck 7 a.m., Eamonn is walking around with a song in his head, which he sings at the top of his lungs and then hums under his breath. He tries out the melody on his electric guitar, waving the instrument around the way only The Beatles could.

Here comes the sun …

Just as I’m getting ready to take the dog out, he announces:  ‘Papa, I’m going to let my hair grow, just like Ringo Starr.’

That’s an excellent idea, my son, an excellent idea. The rest of the morning I can’t get the song out of my head. It feels good.

Here comes the sun

Dootin doo doo

Here comes the sun

And I say it’s alright…                                                                                            

Weddingring15.20 – At work, and it’s alright, doo da doo da.  Everybody in the building stops me – on the news floor, in the hall, by the elevator, even in the restroom – just to ask me how I’m doing which is not surprising given the mass outpouring of sympathy in the week after Jenn’s death. The organization was deeply affected by the news and the sincere involvement of my colleagues with our well-being has continued to grow.

I choose my moments of visibility and contact with the hundreds of people who work here. This creates the illusion that I’m back, batteries fully charged and raring to go.  Which, of course, is not the case.  I just walked out of a meeting because I had totally lost interest in the topic being discussed.

I also find it difficult to concentrate since my attention is riveted on the wedding ring on my left hand.  While all sorts of important business is being discussed, I can’t think of anything but the very pressing issue of whether or not I should remove my wedding ring, whether the other people at the table have noticed that I’m still wearing my wedding ring, and whether they can tell that I’m thinking about my wedding ring.

In short, let the record show that on this day, at 15.09, I removed my wedding ring.  So be it.  Totally without ceremony, here at my desk, in an empty office.  Now,  let’s see if anyone notices or ventures a comment.  In any case, it’s only a ring.  I put it in my wallet.

Posted in Back to work, Kid's grieving
01 Dec 2012
2 Comments

Every right to be furious

TUESDAY, December 1, 2009 – Glad to be mad.  Eamonn exploded at last, and to my great relief.  After four weeks of frustration, pent-up emotions, and often hellish silences, he finally vented his anger.  The rage had to surface sometime, and this morning it was unleashed in my direction in a salutary avalanche of reproaches.

First he demanded that I get rid of the dog.  It was all her fault, he raged.  ‘ If Elsa hadn’t dropped her toy…’ That same reasoning had briefly gone through my mind, only to be rejected.  I was able to make it clear to him that it wasn’t her fault and that we should focus our rage on the motorcycle cop, and on him alone.

The cop had made the mistake and we have a right to be angry with him.  We were lying on the bed and I was holding him tight.  I asked him to explain in words how he felt.  ‘Tell me exactly what you’re thinking now.’

He said he’d tell me, but he was afraid I’d be angry about his choice of words.  I told him not to worry.

‘I’m pissed at the motor guy for the shit mistake he made.’

So am I, I said.  So am I.  We hugged.

But there was more.

‘And I want the bitch to drag his dick into jail.’

What?  The wording was so comical that I couldn’t help laughing.  Eamonn as well, but only for a fraction of a second since he was too furious to laugh.

We went on hugging each other. Then, he began lashing about with his fists and hammering the pillow as hard as he could.  The pillow went flying across the room.  Then he started pounding the mattress, after which another pillow went sailing off in the direction of the window.  Then he got up, went downstairs, had a snack and sat down to read his book.

Posted in Kid's grieving, Traffic victim
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
29 Nov 2012
2 Comments

Getting rid of her clothes

SUNDAY, November 29 – Sleepless night. The first since Jennifer’s death. I stagger to the john and try, in vain, to piss away yesterday’s skid marks. Then, I happen to see the shelf with the toilet freshener and some candles. There’s also a mug with a toothbrush, and a little jewelry box with two tampons. I’d never noticed them before.

I throw them all out. Stubborn traces of a past you have no desire to erase. Jennifer always saw to it that the house was spic and span and I cling to that thought.

Then, a grin appears on my face. Just look at me, cleaning house. Who would have thought it?  I start on the second drawer of her dresser, then the third, followed by the bottom one. It’s not easy. Understatement.  I feel as if I’m doing something furtive.  As if any minute someone could walk into the room and catch me at it. But at what? Read more…

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving, Remembering, Three Guys
28 Nov 2012
2 Comments

Taking over Mom’s tradition

SATURDAY, November 28 – I start the day by preparing two breakfasts and taking the dog for a walk.  I’d rather have taken the day off and the boys understand that, but when the youngest looks up at me with that innocent look on his face and the oldest announces that I’m the only person on earth who can make a ‘super bagel’, then I capitulate.

But my weakness was conditional:  I demanded the ‘last bite’.  They agreed, and this was a biggie. The last bite had always been reserved for Mom – no discussion.  Last bites were consumed by no one else but the woman who had brought them into this world and by the woman I was married to.

Once in a while we’d forget, and Jennifer would pretend to be shocked, offended or just disappointed.  Oops, sorry. Then we’d look for an excuse:  so scrumptious that we totally forgot about the last bite.

It was a family tradition, and one that was firmly anchored:  Last bite was for Mom. Wherever I was, I would automatically spear that last bite, to give to Jennifer.  Even in the office canteen or in a restaurant during a working lunch, I felt the urge to hold up my fork. Here, the last bite.

For you.

At the dining room table Jenn and I fantasized about this Nolan tradition.  How it would continue for generations, how our children would initiate their grandchildren in the tradition of ‘the last bite’.  I hope that it will become a culinary legacy and that I will continue to feel that automatic reflex at the dining table.

Sander just gave me his last bite. I thanked him with a kiss. We didn’t say anything.  It felt right and it was delicious.

21:15 – Holy shit. I’m feeling totally devastated.  Have I just dropped into a yawning chasm of emptiness?  I remember my mother’s loneliness and desolation after the death of my father. As such, I began busying myself with things that were doomed to be counterproductive.

Cleared the top drawer of her dresser. Panties, bras, lingerie… straight into a garbage bag.  I don’t want to think of anyone else wearing them. I wouldn’t want that. It was beautiful underwear intended for her body and no one else’s.  Out it goes.

Aha, one empty drawer. Next, I changed the queen-sized bed, evenly dividing the sheets and blankets, which wasn’t necessary, since she no longer pulls all the bed covers over to her side. I have the bed all to myself.  I can snore as much as I want to.  No one there to give me a kick.  No one who finally retires to the spare room and, over coffee the next morning, makes it clear to me that I really went to town last night.  There’s none of any of that, merely the emptiness of the night ahead of me.

Tomorrow I’ll empty drawer number two.

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving, Remembering, Three Guys
24 Nov 2012

Scared to also lose his dad

TUESDAY, November 24 – Crying while riding a bike is never advisable, especially in traffic.  But I couldn’t help myself.  I’d just left Bickers Island, where Jenn had rented a desk at the Wordsmithery, a non-profit writers’ office. She spent two or three days a week on the island, in the shadow of Central Station, with its slightly wacky residents, their gossip and intrigues.

She loved the animals at the nearby Children’s Farm and passing dogs knew she always had a treat for them. Jenn was excited about the prospect of taking Elsa with her to Bickers Island. She’d already calculated how long it would take to walk there so that the dog could get used to the noise of the city before letting her trot alongside the bike. Read more…

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving, Remembering | Leave a comment
22 Nov 2012

Her last words in her diary

SUNDAY, November 22 – A month since the accident. That’s how milestones are created. I clearly remember the day that Sander was exactly one month old.  That was another Sunday morning, August 27, 1997.  Jenn was breastfeeding him and I went to the front door of our house in Weehawken, New Jersey, to pick up The New York Times from the doormat.

The latest news was splashed across the front page:  Lady Di has been killed in a car accident in Paris. Like the rest of the world, we were in a state of shock. We sat there on the bed with the baby, who knew nothing about life and death, happiness and unhappiness, and who did nothing but drink ravenously at his mother’s breast, occasionally looking around with those big brown eyes of his. Read more…

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving, Remembering, Three Guys | Leave a comment
20 Nov 2012
1 Comment

When the crying just doesn’t stop

FRIDAY, November 20 – At 8.17 in the morning I raise my arms.  Via Facebook I let my friends know ‘that I’ve fixed two breakfasts and two lunches, taken the dog out, done two loads of laundry, signed school papers, had a bite to eat, got myself dressed (more or less), and am now about to take the boys to school.  I am King! Thank God it’s Friday!’

On the way to school Eamonn says, ‘You know what, Papa, I feel like going over and playing with my friends, but I also want to stay with you.’

‘You should do what you’d rather do.’

But that was the whole problem. He didn’t know. I realized that this was an opportunity. Read more…

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving, Three Guys

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