Diary of a Widower

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

Archive for the category “Remembering”

03 Jan 2013
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Early signs of acceptance

SUNDAY, January 3 – Eamonn brings up the subject in the car. ‘Where do you think Mom is right now?’  It’s a tough question. Fortunately,  he tries to come up with an answer himself since it is something he and his mother had discussed.

‘Mom believed in reincarnation, didn’t she?’

A difficult word, which he pronounces without a hitch.  He also says he understands what it means, my little smart aleck.

‘Yes, Eamonn.  And if that’s true, which no one knows for certain, then Mom lives on as a better person, because she was kind, and loving, and  because she was a good human being.  Don’t you think so?’

Silence.

‘But she could come back as anything, couldn’t she? Read more…

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving, Remembering, Three Guys
02 Jan 2013
2 Comments

Another death. Her car’s battery

miniSATURDAY, January 2 – After five minutes behind the wheel of the Mini Cooper, I concluded that the battery was well and truly dead. Her pride and joy, the kick-ass little car we brought with us from England.

Until the arrival of the yellow Mini, Jennifer had shown no interest in cars.  However, she did  have to confess that while careening along the winding, wind-blown roads of the English countryside, she had finally discovered just how much fun driving could be. We disposed of our British Volvo without so much as a backward glance while it was a foregone conclusion that when we moved to the Netherlands in 2008, the Mini would go with us.

I must admit that she looked quite enticing, almost sexy, when she was behind the wheel. For the past month and a half now, the car has been parked two streets over. Coincidentally, and thankfully, it’s not been in front of the house. That would have been too painful.

Just what I expected, indeed happened:  the car wouldn’t start. The battery was totally dead. I’d brought along a garbage bag, so I could empty out the car, but in the end I just left everything as it was. I’m going to have to make a decision. Keep it or sell it? She was so proud of that car and especially the fact that it was registered in her name.  It belonged to her.

A few weeks ago I received a letter, as is standard procedure these days, simply addressed to ‘The Estate of J.M. Nolan’.  It stated that an automobile may ‘not remain registered in the name of a deceased person for longer than five weeks’.

Fuck the bureaucrats, I thought to myself. They’ll damn well have to wait until the time is ripe.  In any case, it’s her car, and right now nothing can change that.

Posted in Paper work, Remembering
29 Dec 2012

She would be okay. They said

TUESDAY, December 29 – We’re home. Sander is lounging on the couch. Eamonn is in his room, busy with his toys. Bodhi the cat has been fed and is looking for a warm spot. We’ll pick up our dog Elsa tomorrow. The central heating is on. I’ve had my coffee. The suitcases are unpacked, and the washer is going. The pile of mail, which is largely Christmas cards, I go through quickly and then discard.

I pay considerably more attention to the statement from my insurance company, addressed to The Heirs of J. M. Nolan. Transport by ambulance on October 22, 2009:  cost € 755.30.  The amount has been paid in full. I remember the ambulance driver, a woman with long blonde hair, who treated her on the spot and then took her to the hospital. She made a point of coming by at the Emergency Room waiting area where I was pacing nervously back and forth. Things were looking pretty good, she said. According to her, everything was going to be all right.

Looking at the bill, that moment came back to me, in all its intensity. The overwhelming relief – since everything was going to be fine.

Posted in Paper work, Remembering | Leave a comment
27 Dec 2012
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Pilgrimage in her foot steps

SUNDAY, December 27 – Spent the day in New York, the three of us. Alone, and yet together with Jennifer, I told myself. At Rockefeller Center we saw a droopy Christmas tree. Every year she used to make her own pilgrimage to the Christmas tree in midtown Manhattan. Together we walked through Central Park. Here the snow has already melted. It could be a lovely spot to scatter her ashes.

Posted in Remembering, Three Guys
25 Dec 2012

‘This is my gift to you’

xmascardFRIDAY, December 25 – They were all there. Grandpa and Grandma, Uncle Jim and Aunt Missy, their Conor and Ceara, Uncle Chris and his daughter Marina, Uncle Paul and Aunt Barbara, their Tommie and Grace, Uncle Pete and Margaret, Sander and Eamonn and me.

Of course, it was difficult. What did I expect? They were all there because you weren’t there. Everyone except you. Where are you? The day went by in a daze. So glad that Christmas is over. Thank God there will be no Second Christmas Day in America as there is in Holland. Around nine-thirty I sneak out. I’ve had enough.

I cry on Eamonn’s hand-written Christmas card.  ‘Happy Holidays’ it says on the front and inside:

‘Dear Papa, For all the shit we have gone through, this is my gift. The best presents don’t come in boxes. The best presents come from your heart. I hope you’ll treasure this one forever. From Eamonn.’

Posted in Family & Friends, Remembering | Leave a comment
23 Dec 2012

‘Dear Boi. I love you because’

WEDNESDAY, December 23 – It only gets worse. Her presence is palpable in every nook and cranny, or rather, her visible and tangible absence.

In my toilet case I find a folded piece of paper:  it is yellowed and the ink has run.  It dates from the fall of 2005 and it was written on the stationary of the Hilton in Brighton, England, where, on a whim, we spent a weekend, the four of us.

Jenn had left it next to my toothbrush and accessories, and since then this precious note had accompanied me on all my many trips. ‘Dear Boi. I love you because you know when it is time to take a break. xxx  Jenn.’

Oh, Jenn.

Posted in Grieving, Remembering | Leave a comment
22 Dec 2012

Dropping the ball. Literally

christmastreeTUESDAY, December 22 – Part of it is jet lag, of course, but I find myself depressed by the triviality of New Jersey.  The Marketfair Mall, for example, where for eighteen years I regularly watched Jennifer walk into and out of each and every store.

It’s around the corner from the movie theater and Victoria’s Secret where I used to buy beautiful lingerie for her. There was Baby Gap, where she’d buy outfits for nieces and nephews and the children of friends. And next door, the grown-up Gap where we bought our jeans. At the far end of the mall there was a Barnes & Noble, where we’d wander around for hours, often taking home three, four, five or six books. And sometimes we just settled for coffee and chocolate chip cookies.

There was a theater where we used to sit in the car for hours after the movie, or outside on the curb looking up at the stars and chatting. Or in silence, listening to the crickets. This is the movie theater where nothing ever changed:  there was always the same man who tore our tickets in two and waved us in – and that’s only the mall.

Further up on Route 1 we paid our traditional visit to Target. I saw Jennifer in each and every aisle, strolling in her flip-flops, hunting for bargains in the Girls’ Department. I bought the second season of the Mad Men series, one of our favorites. We’d gotten about half-way, and I couldn’t really see myself finishing the series all alone. I bought the DVD pack, without quite knowing why.

21:00 – They’re decorating the tree. One more damned tradition:  Grandma always waited until her daughter and the grandchildren arrived to decorate the tree. This time Eamonn and Sander were helping her. Then, on top of everything, Jenn’s favorite ornament got smashed to pieces. A silver-orange-and-blue New York Mets ball. I deposit the remains in the trash can. Still, there’s an empty spot in the tree, only visible to us.

Posted in Family & Friends, Remembering | Leave a comment
21 Dec 2012

Lost after our home-coming

MONDAY, December 21 – What do I write? What is there to observe or to register in this quiet house in suburbia, where I’m lying on the same creaky double bed the two of us shared for years. Though it was on the narrow side, it was still a perfect match, our bodies meeting in various places.

What to say about the place Sander refers to as our home away from home, since we’ve spent so many summers and winters here. Less than three hours by car from Washington D.C. and only an hour from New York, it was a welcoming destination whether we were coming from London or Amsterdam.

A familiar headquarters, a home base from which to visit the shore and family and friends, or explore other cities – all activities that we cannot summon the energy for right now. What to say about our host and hostess, Grandma and Grandpa, visibly suffering the pain of their absent daughter.  Every day they’re a year older as they busy themselves trying to entertain us, all the while asking themselves, just as I do, ‘Oh, Jennifer… where are you?’

What can I say about the photos scattered on walls and tabletops around the house: in the living room her formal high school portrait, and the sweet photo of her – back then with long hair – in front of a Dutch windmill after she moved to Holland; the one on the fridge, taken on Sander’s eleventh birthday when he celebrated with a cake he’d made himself and in the dining room the various family portraits taken over the years, including our wedding portrait.

What to write except for this:  what was, is. What is, once was. The past is pervasive in the present and we crave the invisible strength that will show us the way to the future.

Posted in Family & Friends, Grieving, Remembering | Leave a comment
18 Dec 2012

Fighting a war of grief

FRIDAY, December 18 – Why not, I thought. If it makes such an impact on friends, why shouldn’t other people who follow me on Twitter?  Right now there are over two thousand who do, so I twittered:

This is a shameful – make that a proud – plug: Sign up as an organ donor. My late wife Jennifer has made it possible for four people to live on.

It reached a great many people, which was the object of the exercise. I hope it results in a slew of registrations. Some people have already announced their intentions on Twitter and tomorrow I’m going to issue a subtle reminder. Short-term activist … always better than long-suffering widower.

23.50 – Just back from a small farewell party for my colleague P, who presented his last broadcast tonight. I stayed for an hour or so, spent most of the time with M., a dear colleague. She compared the impact of my loss to that of her Jewish mother, who lost her entire family during the Second World War – all exterminated by the Nazis. Her mother’s life was shaped by the war.

According to her daughter she would have said,  ‘This is Tim’s war.’

Tim’s war? That’s not the way it feels or the way I see it. Maybe I should sleep on it. Tim’s war?  Tim’s battle? Tim’s amputation? Tim’s betrayal? Tim’s revolt?

But then I knew. Tim’s victory!

Posted in Back to work, Grieving, Remembering | Leave a comment
17 Dec 2012

Four people live. Thanks, Jenn

THURSDAY, December 17 – Snow! Recuperating after a bad night. Have to keep an eye on Sander, who spent most of the night on the toilet. I decide to bite the bullet and tackle some paperwork. If you’re sick anyway, you might as well deal with those damned  documents.

First the matter of succession laws:  I have to sign in a couple of places, scan the documents, and send them back. Then a phone call to the notary about the upcoming transfer of ownership of the new house.  Then two more tax documents:  one Dutch, one British. I email Jenn’s American accountant and talk to our investment advisor in Washington D.C.

Then the rest of the mail. I’m tempted to chuck it all out without even reading it. They’ve all done their best to find the right words, but all they do is confront me with reality. I don’t need this. Like the Christmas card from English friends who haven’t heard. ‘Best wishes to all four – have a great 2010!’ I toss it. They’ll find out somehow.

It’s almost four o’clock when I get the phone call. This is what I post on my Facebook wall:

The news is accompanied by tears of love. One woman (25) received her lungs. Another woman (64) her liver. Two men (55 and 63) each received one of her kidneys. All are doing well. Some had been on the waiting list for a long time. Thank you, Jenn. We love you.

Heartwarming responses. Several people immediately sign up as organ donors. Cautiously I inform the boys. They immediately want to know all the details.  They’re both enthusiastic and, separately from one another, they reach the same conclusion.

‘Thanks to Mom, four people will have a better and a healthier life.’

I am overcome by happiness. Tears of love, tears of joy.

Posted in Paper work, Remembering, Traffic victim | Leave a comment

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