Diary of a Widower

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

Archive for the category “Remembering”

25 Mar 2013

So much love disappeared

THURSDAY, March 25 – When I wake up, I light three candles next to Jenn’s portrait. The bond between us seems stronger than ever, which is a comforting thought, but at the same time I’m aware of how much love has disappeared from this house. Do I still cherish the same love for her or is it the absence of the ‘love that was’ which is so overwhelming? They say love always endures, and I believe that, but while she was alive she radiated so much love that sometimes – like now – her absence is unbearable.

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22 Mar 2013

Beware of unstoppable widower

MONDAY, March 22 – And then I decided I’d had enough… and I really got going. The morning began with a quick trip to school to drop Eamonn off, followed by a short but intense session at the gym. I showered and then there was no stopping me.

Made an appointment with the accountant, called to order an extra kitchen cabinet, phoned the crematorium Westgaarde.  Next Tuesday at ten o’clock I’m going to pick up the urn with Jennifer’s ashes. After that a phone call to Route Mobiel and within a half-hour the yellow Mini Cooper was on the road and I could see myself in the rear-view mirror heading for Hilversum.

That glance hit me in the pit of my stomach. Before driving off, I’d had to adjust the mirrors and move the seat back. Another piece of Jennifer deleted from our life. The car – her car – adapted itself to my body and was now mine and not hers.

I pretended, somewhat naively, that she was there with me as I drove to work, taking back-roads through fields and woods. Especially, when I spotted lambs frolicking in the fields, I could hear her cooing with pleasure, the way she always did when she caught sight of them. She couldn’t help calling out to the animals and she was never happier than at this time of the year, the season of fresh, young, innocent animals.

But that didn’t alter the fact that at the end of the day I had a moment of panic. The Mini refused to start. Something with the battery. There were more than enough colleagues available to help jumpstart the car. Soon I was heading home, where Sander and Eamonn were sitting there together, waiting. It was a kind of test – which they passed with flying colors. Wonderful to see them accept responsibility.

It was a great day and they can’t take that away from me.

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21 Mar 2013

No choice. It hurts so much

SUNDAY, March 21 – It’s lying in wait around the corner. I’m sure of it. Any minute I going to find myself face to face with the all-encompassing truth that Jennifer Mary Nolan from Brooklyn is, indeed, dead. What will happen when this reality finally gets through to us?

I shudder at the thought.

Luckily, the weekend is almost over. One more dinner and then I can relax and wind down until it’s time for bed. It seems as if I haven’t done a damn thing. A couple of chores maybe, so it wasn’t entirely for nothing. All in all it feels like a wasted weekend, heralding the realization that Jennifer will always be absent.

The three of us are confronted with our own uncertainties – the first signs of depression – which are becoming stronger and stronger. I toy with words, trying to capture this weekend.

Search

He sat on the couch, dejected

Having played happily all day

Glum, a lip that trembled

A hand that searched nervously for mine

And found it.

Hand in hand on the couch

He is unhappy with himself

Since others

Apparently refer to him

As ‘odd’.

Going overboard, I stress that

He is cool and friendly

Good at sports and bright.

But he does not believe

In himself.

Arising from the couch

He walks away. His self-esteem gone.

Because he

Doesn’t listen to what I say.

Would rather hear it from her.

But she can’t be found

Nor can he.

And yet we find each other

In a comforting embrace

Not far from the empty couch.

After dinner we go out for ice cream, the first this year – because it’s spring. We each order our customary two scoops, double lemon for Eamonn and then his smile fades. I lean towards him and say, ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

He looks at me. ‘Mom would have licked it clean for me.’  He hates sticky fingers and Jenn always licked his cone, so he wouldn’t get the melting ice cream on his fingers. So I say, ‘From now on, I’ll do it.’ I keep my promise, but I also tell him that it will get easier as time goes on.

When we get home, Eamonn requests a group hug on the couch.  It feels great! When Sander leaves the room, Eamonn confides in me: ‘The whole weekend I’ve been thinking about Mom. I hope you don’t take this the wrong way and I hope you won’t be angry with me, but I think that Mom’s death is worse for me than for you or Sander.’

He’s probably right.

And Sander is right, too, when he walks in at nine-thirty, sits down next to me, and voices the fervent hope that ‘some day things will get better. That’s all I wish for.’ I promise him – as I have done so often in the past – that one day it really will be better. Really and truly. He is not convinced.

‘That’s what you said five months ago.’ And he’s right.

He wishes it was six years later. ‘By then it should be much better.’

I agree, but first we have to get through this difficult period.

‘And that means it hurts. We have no choice.’

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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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06 Mar 2013
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Why not read the whole Diary?

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The complete Diary of a Widower, with all entries covering the first year, is now for sale on both iTunes and Amazon.com

Want to read it on your iPhone, iPad or iPod Touch, click here

You have a Kindle, click here

The book costs $ 3.99 plus tax. All proceeds will go to my sons’ college fund.

Today is the monthly Widowed Blog Hop. Please click here for more information or to participate.

Posted in Remembering, Three Guys
05 Mar 2013
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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
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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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?

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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.

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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.’

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