MONDAY, June 28 – It hit Eamonn in class, Sander on his bike, and me when I opened the door of the fridge: everything is back to normal. And we know damned well what’s normal. Eamonn cried, Sander sighed and I swore. Yet, over dinner I explained that all this was normal. The boys agreed. Normality stinks.
SUNDAY, June 27 – On our way from Nice to Amsterdam, one day later than originally planned. Saturday had turned into one long, exhausting ‘smile day’ waking up in the morning, enjoying the afternoon siesta, and gathered around the pool, by the light of a full moon.
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!
FRIDAY, June 25 – Family dinner. Two boys, two girls and two parents. It’s a bit crowded, at the table and in the bedrooms, but it works out all right.
THURSDAY, June 24 – It’s close to midnight and Sander is dead tired, but he insists on coming with me when I take Elsa out. He wants to tell me something and there’s no need for his little brother to hear it.
In fact there’s nothing to tell, but he wants me to know that he had a really good talk with C’s older daughter P. They’re the same age and they’ll be going to the same school back in Amsterdam. They found each other within the exchange of their own personal shit. Big differences, but even bigger similarities: the death or departure of a parent. Loss, that’s what they talked about.
‘And it really helped a lot to finally be able to talk to somebody about it,’ he said suddenly. He doesn’t want me ‘to be offended or anything’, since he knows he can always come to me. But he also wants me to know that there’s something that he’s able to share, something recognizable, with a friend. I give him a hug and say that friendship, true friendship, may well be the most important thing in life.
WEDNESDAY, June 23 – ‘I feel funny,’ Eamonn says, and he is visibly upset. He can’t explain exactly what it is. No, he’s not tired, despite spending the whole day in the pool and walking around Monaco, so that it’s way past his bedtime. No, it’s not about Mom, and not about C, and not about the accident, not about school, not about me or Sander, he just feels strange. Okay, then climb onto my lap. That helps. A little.
TUESDAY, June 22 – Another winding road down a French mountain, this time during the day. I ask Sander if things now seem a bit more logical and less overwhelming. I’m pleasantly surprised when the answer is a wholehearted yes.
‘Well, you mustn’t forget that it was all so sudden and unexpected. But I can understand what you want, and how you feel. So it’s only understandable that some day you’ll want to get married,’ says Sander.
I laugh and tell him that we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves.
But then Eamonn goes one further. ‘And even if you do remarry, then I won’t call her ‘Mom’. I’ll just call her by her first name.’
Whoa!
‘Boys, boys, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. She’s my girlfriend. That’s all for now.’
I hear myself saying the words. My girlfriend. And there’s a grin on my face.
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.
SATURDAY, June 19 – Whoa! We couldn’t help it. C and I saw each other for the first time, after three weeks of detailed emails, intense phone conversations, and affectionate text messages. We were simply no match for this intense lovesickness.
Kissing. Kissing in front of the boys (and her girls). It felt so good, so embarrassing, so natural, so honest. Also, somewhat confronting for Sander and Eamonn. They totally ignored our kissing, but not really, as later became clear.
‘You probably noticed that C and I are very fond of each other,’ I began, as we headed back to the campgrounds after midnight.
Mumbles of assent.
‘So how to you feel about that?’
Sander began: ‘You know what you promised us in the hospital, right?’
‘Yes,’ said Eamonn, ‘you promised us you wouldn’t remarry.’
In a fraction of a second I was back in that moment. I remembered exactly how I responded to Eamonn’s remark, scarcely a minute after I told them that Mom would never wake up again. He was on my lap and Sander was standing next to me, all three of us were crying. And then, in a mad moment of visionary clarity and prospective anxiety, he turned to me and said: ‘And now you’re probably going to get married again. But not really, are you?’ My head was spinning as I replied with the words, ‘Kids, remarrying is probably just about the last thing on my mind.’
Fast forward to this night, in the car, on a jet-black, winding road in the hills outside Nice. It wouldn’t have been helpful to get into a discussion about the precise wording, so I said nothing.
Then Eamonn said, ‘Whatever happens, she’s not my mother.’
At least that was an opening.
‘Eamonn, you only have one mother, and that’s Mom. No one can ever replace her, and you can take my word for that.’
‘And, in any case,’ I said into the darkness, ‘marriage is so totally out of the question at this point.’ Definitely the last thing on my mind. Children apparently think several kisses ahead. I wonder how this is going to affect the security of their world?
‘Sander, what do you think?’
He didn’t feel really at ease, he admitted. And he’d had his suspicions earlier in the day. All that obsessive text messaging back and forth.
I had to laugh. He was not amused.
‘It feels as if you’ve already left Mom behind you. But actually, I don’t really want to talk about it.’
So we let it pass. But it was still racing around in my head. I was searching for a bit of wisdom that would do justice to their feelings – and my own.
And I found it. (I hope.) ‘Boys whatever happens, I will always love Mom. Forget her? Never, never, never. For grown-ups, for me, there’s also such a thing as personal happiness. But do you know what is even more important? My sons. You and you. You’re what counts. And nothing – and no one – will ever change that.’
And I meant every word.
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?
Diary of a Widower 