Diary of a Widower

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

Archive for the category “Remembering”

07 Jul 2013
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The amazing person, my Mom

WEDNESDAY, July 7 – At the stroke of seven, as agreed, he’s sitting there with the gift-wrapped present on his lap. Next to him a sleepy older brother and opposite him a worn-out father, who has decorated the living room with paper chains, balloons, cards and that one big present. The one the birthday boy isn’t sure he’s going to like. ‘Eamonn, don’t worry. Just open it.’

He looks a bit doubtful as he tears off the gift paper and he sees what’s underneath. He looks at me, then at the present, and then back at me.

‘Papa, this is against the rules.’

‘Yep,’ I say, with a touch of triumph in my voice.

‘Mom would be furious with you.’

‘Yep,’ I say again, with that same triumph.

Sander laughs out loud. ‘Mom would be sending you ‘post-death’ divorce papers.’

‘Yep,’ I say. That’s the morbid humor I share with my older son, which we’re gradually perfecting.

2:00 p.m. – I awake with a start in the movie theater. The film is nearing the end, so I must have dozed off for three-quarters of an hour. On my left are the birthday boy and his brother and on my right three boys from his class. Toy Story 3 is about Andy, who at the age of seventeen, takes leave of his puppets Woody and Buzz.

In one of the scenes Andy is about to leave for college. His mother, who’s standing in his bedroom, is suddenly overcome by her emotions. Behind the dark 3-D glasses I feel the tears welling up. Damn it. Here I am sniveling while the five boys are laughing, chatting and devouring popcorn.

That film fragment went straight to my heart: the mother sees her grown son leave home. Something not reserved for Jennifer and her boys. Boom. I let the tears flow. In the dark no one notices.

7:00 p.m. – Eamonn had made his announcement that morning. Now the moment has come, and as soon as everyone has a glass, Sander broaches the subject. ‘Eamonn, it’s time for a toast.’

He doesn’t mince his words. He’s knows what he wants to say, he’s rehearsed it, and he means it. ‘To Mom. Cheers.’

Cheers! That’s all. What had to be said has been said.

10.30 p.m. – When asked what the best part of the day was, he said, ‘That I’m in double digits now.’ He’s turned ten. A job well done, I say, but it’s also an inevitable and painful step. What makes it so damned hard is the realization that he is no longer nine years old, the age at which he lost his mother. This birthday increases the gap.

Towards midnight I get out the speech that Eamonn had written himself (including the sole misspelled word) and had also been planning to read during the cremation service.  He couldn’t manage it, but that wasn’t a problem. On his behalf, I spoke the following words:

“The amazing person, my Mom

Mom, I only knew you for only 9 years, and I have decided that that is too short. I hope that you can understand that, because you were way too young to die. You didn’t deserve to get hit by that motorcyclist. I remember that you always liked music and Buddhism, and I hope that you always will. We are all very upset about this incident, and we hope that you will have a peaceful life from now on. You were the strongest and bravest Mom that I have ever known. Please be strong and kind forever, and we will always belive in your cheerful spirit. RIP Mom.”

Posted in Kid's grieving, Remembering, Three Guys
05 Jul 2013

Dreading his 10th birthday

MONDAY, July 5 – He doesn’t know what he wants. He knows that he’s not enthusiastic. It’s not that he’s sad or anything. He just isn’t cheerful and expectant, the way you ought to be two days before your birthday. It’s more like ‘been there, done that’. He doesn’t feel anything at all.

So I grab hold of him. Eamonn, it’s going to be a fantastic birthday.  And that’s a promise.

He’s not convinced. If you ask him what he wants for his birthday, then he knows. And can easily put it into words. ‘The present I want is impossible.’  

Don’t mince words. ‘Son, I know that what you want most of all is to get your mother back.’ I put my arm around him. And again I promise him:  ‘You’re going to have a wonderful birthday.’

Later that day I go into action. I buy tickets for the movie Toy Story 3, and inform three mothers that their sons will be picked up on Wednesday afternoon. I arrange for a birthday cake, which a good friend has offered to make. I dash into a store that sells party goods, and buy a selection of paper streamers, balloons, and candles for the cake. And then I buy a present that’s much too expensive and very much against our principles.

Principles. For years, Jenn and I had made it clear to the boys that we were against video games at home. They weren’t good for the children’s development and because we kept to our beliefs, they had stopped asking for them. But, now things are different and I decide to risk a posthumous marital quarrel. I buy a Wii.

I promised him a fantastic birthday, and that’s what he’s getting!

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26 Jun 2013

Saying ‘hi’ to a dead girl

SATURDAY, June 26 – Facebook puts you in touch with long-lost friends. And once you have friends in your virtual social network, an automatic FB setting lets you know that there are ‘friends’ who haven’t been in touch for quite some time. This morning Facebook suggested that I ‘reconnect’ with Jennifer Nolan:  via a simple click on the correct link I could say hello. That’s how easy it is in internet heaven. Hello, Jennifer!

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20 Jun 2013
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Writing to my late wife

SUNDAY, June 20 – Father’s Day. No breakfast in bed, no card, no present. But this is even better. Closeness. All three of us woke up at the same time, at the campgrounds. We lounged around on the porch of our cabin. All three of us with a laptop. Together. Every once in a while one of us says something:  about a post on Facebook, or laughs at a funny film on YouTube, or fixes something to eat, while Eamonn snacks on his popcorn, and it begins to rain, I write her a letter about my fatherhood.

Dearest Jenn,

I wish you could see us now. You’d almost certainly object to all the time the boys spend on the computer. Believe me, they don’t really sit there all day staring at a screen. I can be strict with them, too. But sometimes – and you may recognize this in me – I’m inclined to give them a bit more leeway. What’s difficult – at least I find it difficult! – is constantly having to correct and guide them, and to step in when there’s a disagreement. Since I can’t ask my beloved wife to take over for a while.

How I’d love to put my arms around you this very minute, as the father of your – our – children, and show you how much I admired you as a mother, what a great job you did, often on your own because I was off on an assignment. That’s what makes me a bit sad today, but it also gives me strength. For many years I failed to pull my weight when it came to bringing up the boys – as you justly pointed out – blithely counting on you to fill in the gaps. In this respect, I have failed in my duties as a husband and a father.

I’ve come back stronger than ever, but it’s awful that the circumstances forced me to do so. I am there for the boys, unconditionally; but for you that was self-evident from the day that you knew that you were going to be a mother. For me, as well, but in my case it was more words than deeds. You regularly pointed that out to me, and last year in particular we discussed the matter at length.  It was time for me to put my money where my mouth was, and to make it clear what was really important in my life and in our family life, and how that affected our marriage.

I wish you could see us now. You’d find a threesome, invincible in spite of the devastation your death has caused. I’m not afraid to say that I’m a good father, that I can make up for your absence (even though I still have trouble dealing with all the everyday stuff), that I slog away but that at least I’m going forward and not backwards, and that I struggle and – most of the time – emerge victoriously.

I make mistakes, and so did you. We made them together, in order to learn from them. I’m afraid of the future, which is so uncertain.  But at the same time I’m confident. You helped them on their way, and I’ll hold them by the hand until they leave the nest. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past eight months, it’s this: ‘Being there’.

Unconditionally – both physically and mentally – providing them with the security and safety they will need now more than ever. This is my gift to them. What I promise them, as a father. I wish fervently that you could see that today.

I love  you.

Posted in Remembering, Three Guys
18 Jun 2013

When all you need is Mom

FRIDAY, June 18 – A stop along the French highway. We sit outside and order French fries (Eamonn), pasta (Sander), and salad (Papa). Elsa is lying at our feet, looking around a bit anxiously.

I notice a family of  four at a picnic table nearby.  She’s making sandwiches and he’s kicking a ball around with two little boys. Then the youngest takes a tumble. He starts to cry and the father goes over to him. The older brother stands there, smiling sheepishly. His father goes to pick up the little kid, but he makes a beeline for his mother, who scoops him onto her lap and gives him a big hug.  I remember Jenn doing the same thing. At moments like this, dads don’t even come close.

An embrace that offers security and warmth and love that ripened nine months through the umbilical cord. Is there such a thing as phantom pain in children?  Is the loss of a mother much worse than that of a father because the child still senses the presence of the familiar umbilical cord? And does its absence cause even more pain?

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16 Jun 2013

Not alone. That helps

WEDNESDAY, June 16 – One minute you’re in a business meeting discussing a particular NOS program and the next minute you’re in the middle of a personal conversation during which the person opposite you casually mentions that he lost his mother to cancer when he was eight and his father when he was sixteen.

There are people who – without being explicit – let you know that everything’s going to be all right and wish you the very best.

And I know: I am not alone. That helps.

14:00 – I’m in the park with Elsa, a sun-drenched afternoon. And damn it, what do I see? Jennifer, in the distance, sitting in the grass against a wall, bicycle on the ground, shoes kicked aside, dress pulled up to allow more sun on her legs. Writing in her notebook, oblivious to her surroundings.

Or in the middle of a stretch of lawn, I see her sitting on a picnic blanket next to another mother, with the children around them. Jenn takes some fruit from her bag as she talks a mile a minute with her friend, collecting stories she’ll recount later on when she gets home.

Beyond the bridge, on the other side of the water, Jennifer is lying in the shade, looking straight ahead. She’s laid her book aside for the moment, saving that last chapter for tonight when she gets into bed. Never read too fast, was her adagio – as if she ever took her own advice. Books were devoured, and there were always new ones waiting for her.

Of course I’m not seeing ghosts.  I see women who could have been Jennifer. That’s the way I saw her before me: relaxed, totally herself, enjoying life’s small pleasures during an hour stolen from work. This no longer makes me angry, but it does take away some of my courage and when I find myself thinking that she should have been there in the park, my heart takes a plunge.

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

Growing at a standstill

MONDAY, June 14 – In Manhattan, long ago, Jenn had made a special trip to get them:  T-shirts with the letters E and S, which stand for two of the city’s subway lines. Eamonn’s was the E line from Manhattan to Queens: a blue and white circle on black. This morning Eamonn put it on and then took it off again.

‘Papa, this shirt doesn’t fit any more.’

Growing pains take no notice of a life that’s come to a standstill. Boys grow out of their clothes, get taller and older. Extending the distance between then and the moments yet to come. Jenn was 41 and would never turn 42. Sander was already taller than his mother and Eamonn was heading in the same direction.

But now, that moment of looking each other in the eye at the same height and cheating a bit with your toes is reserved for father and sons. There’s a future to look forward to. It’s only a matter of time, and already I’m wondering how we’ll look back on this period. In any case, it’s been a process of growth. Fortunately, catharsis does not stand still.

Posted in Remembering, Three Guys | Leave a comment
08 Jun 2013
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Letting go of my fear

TUESDAY, June 8 – A new day dawns, in spite of everything. So, you pick yourself up and get on with it. You have no choice.  At any rate, in my view. In that respect I am uncompromising. Life goes on.

Eamonn had brought up his particular question the week before, and I suppose I should have been delighted. But now his request made me swallow hard.  His question: Wasn’t it about time for him to bike back and forth from school by himself?  Under any other circumstances I would have given the kid a hug and wished him good luck out in the wide, wide world. But now I was terror-stricken. Biking on his own?

Love means letting go of fear, a little more each time.

So this morning I decided to let him go on his own. I told Eamonn that I’d be right behind him but that I wouldn’t say anything. He was surprised. ‘You mean we’re not going to talk to each other?’

Nope. The twinkling in his eyes said it all.

I can’t count the times he’s scared me half out of my wits. By chattering away as if he was oblivious to the traffic around him. By colliding with other cyclists.  By crossing the street diagonally without even looking behind him. I don’t know how many times I’ve warned him. It was as if he was unaware of all the dangers.

For months after Jennifer’s accident, he refused to go anywhere except by car. Cycling was taboo. Until the weather improved and he saw the advantages. Now it was time for the next step.

With his ‘invisible’ father behind him, he was a totally different kid. Concentrated, cautious, and, but yet self-confident. Braking, watching, waiting, and yet resolute.  In the midst of all those pedaling daredevils who populate the morning traffic, Eamonn held his own. Nothing seemed to faze him.

The crucial test came on Minerva Lane where he had to cross Stadion Road:  a busy intersection with no traffic lights but plenty of cars, bicycles, taxis, trams and no doubt the odd police car. Three hundred meters east, Stadion Road crosses Diepenbrock Street, where his mother was knocked to the ground. Eamonn had never revisited that spot and he closed his eyes every time we drove past it.

He crossed the road with verve. The rest of the route was a piece of cake. The final test came as he approached the school, where he had to cross diagonally to get to the school grounds. ‘And… how did I do?’ he asked expectantly. The mistakes amount to… zero!! Proud, proud, proud! And despite – or maybe because of – the stumbling blocks we encountered this past week, I do a little dance.

This afternoon we’ll repeat the exercise. And then I’ll have to get used to the idea.  Whether I want to or not.

It’s called ‘letting go’.

12.30 – When I went to pick up a package, I had to show them my ID. I put my wallet on the counter, flipped to my driver’s license, and out rolled my wedding ring. I’d forgotten it was there. The cashier pretended she hadn’t noticed.

The envelope was sent from France by one of Jennifer’s best friends in college. There was a note, with photos of her wedding to G, now years ago. Jennifer had been her maid of honor. Five photos of my radiant wife. And yes, you can still tell which finger I wore my wedding ring on. Nothing wrong with that, I mumble to myself.

Posted in Remembering, Three Guys, Traffic victim
06 Jun 2013
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‘Worry less. Laugh more’

SUNDAY, June 6 – Phone call from the States: a rundown on the dedication ceremony earlier today, during which a bench was unveiled on the campus of Swarthmore College in memory of Jenn.

According to her mother, there was comfort to be gleaned from the occasion which was full of warm and positive feelings. Emotional, of course, not least because it was attended by some fifty of Jennifer’s classmates. They were there to celebrate her life, with lively stories and fond memories.

Jenn’s mother talks about the attendees, about herself, about the speeches, about the bench itself, about the atmosphere, about the drinks and refreshments, and about the magnificent spot where the bench is situated. And about the text on the plaque, of course:

‘Worry less. Laugh more.’

In loving memory of

Jennifer Nolan ‘90

The year she graduated. This weekend was the twentieth anniversary. Jenn was there, according to her mother, who was conscious of her presence. In July we’ll be visiting the campus and no doubt that’s a better spot to scatter her ashes. Central Park would have involved a few logistical problems.

I don’t apologize for the tears I shed on the phone.  They were simply tears of joy.

Posted in Family & Friends, Remembering
28 May 2013

‘This is the perfect life’

FRIDAY, May 28 – Eamonn wakes me up. He has a drawing in his hand. For me. There are four people and two animals at the top of a hill and Papa has his arm over Mom’s shoulder. Big brother has his arm over his little brother’s shoulder. On the left the cat, on the right the dog. ‘This is a perfect life,’ Eamonn explains. Tears come to my eyes and I go off to look for a frame for the drawing.

Long after midnight – the guests have departed and the house is empty. The dishwasher is doing its work. At this ungodly hour, Elsa went to the end of the street, did her duty and trotted back. Long enough, said her sleepy-eyed look. I couldn’t agree more. It was a good party: friends, singing, music. Eamonn was exuberant and refilled all the glasses. As usual, Sander was in charge and delighted everyone by playing the piano. What’s left to be said? Maybe that the house is still empty and will always be empty. Very empty.

Posted in Kid's grieving, Remembering | Leave a comment

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