Diary of a Widower

17 Jun 2013

No revenge, only justice

THURSDAY, June 17 – A brief message on Jennifer’s Facebook wall, addressed to her and her friends: ‘Today criminal proceedings will take place against the motorcycle cop who killed you. We will be there and we will speak on your behalf. We are not interested in revenge. Only justice. We will be compassionate and charitable. That was how you lived. And that is why we love you.’

1:00 p.m. – We shake hands with him. I see fear. Yet, during the trial I address him as follows, in a voice that is firm and strangled at the same time.

“We are here today in order to hear the facts. We are here today to discover the truth. The technical facts of the accident are clear. What you, Mr. R., brought about on the afternoon of Thursday, the 22nd of October 2009 was in my view avoidable and culpable. I believe this to be the truth, and I hope and trust that the court will come to the same conclusion.

What I came here to tell the court and you, Mr. R., is our truth. The facts of our everyday life, which came to a standstill on that Thursday afternoon. Jennifer and the children were on their way to Beatrix Park. With our dog Elsa, who had come to live with us earlier that week. Naturally, every day was full of fun thanks to our new pet.

On that day as well. Then, Sander, our oldest son, noticed that Elsa had dropped a toy she’d been carrying in her mouth. Jennifer told the boys to go on, while she went back to pick up the toy. We know what happened after that. The testimony, the technical investigation, and your declaration are all indisputable. There are people who try to comfort us by claiming that Jennifer was in the wrong place, at the wrong time. I disagree. Jennifer was in the right place, at the right time, and she waited until the light turned green so that she could cross safely. How many times had she scolded us for casually crossing the road, even though the light was red?

But not Jennifer. And that makes it unacceptable. And incomprehensible. We’ve all had moments of confusion when in some way we blamed ourselves. Sander wondered if he shouldn’t have said that Elsa dropped the toy. And our younger son Eamonn felt guilty for wanting to go to the park that day. And I tried to make sense of it all, to find a reason, something that could have prevented what happened.

Today, in court, we are seeing each other for the first time. In late October you wrote me a letter. To which I replied. I said, among other things, that I bear you no malice. That is not easy. I am unable to explain to myself, to my children, and to Jennifer’s family in America why this happened. In the past seven months there were times when I did curse you and even hated you.

And yet I tell myself and the children that hate is uncalled for. That’s what Jennifer would have said. No matter what happens, hate always causes more pain than necessary. That was Jennifer. Humane. What you brought about that Thursday afternoon still cannot be quantified. Time is both a good friend and a treacherous enemy. The shock, the pain, the realization, the grief, the depression, and the bereavement all have their own familiar patterns. No doubt you are going through a similar process yourself.

But where one day you will pick up the thread of your life, together with your family, we are left with a void which can never be filled. And I want you to know what my children have said to me:

‘Papa, do you know that Mom will never see us grow up. Papa, I know that some day we’ll have fun again, but to really enjoy things, the way we did with Mom, we can’t do that anymore. Papa, I want her to come back. Now. Papa, I don’t want to live any more.’

Moments that come by, moments that disappear again. For time heals even wounds like these. I know that from experience. But I want you to know that in America two elderly people, Jennifer’s father and mother, have no idea how to get through each day. Those wounds will not heal in the remaining time that is given them.

I want you to know that at times I don’t know how to get through the day either. That going to bed alone and getting up alone the next morning is pointless. That my career has suffered. And what is perhaps most frustrating is the realization that, while time will no doubt grant us new chances in life, Jennifer will always be denied them.

Mr. R, I am sure that there will come a moment of forgiveness, on the part of my children and me. But that moment will have to wait until the law has taken its course and until you truly realize and acknowledge your responsibility as a participant in traffic, as a motorcycle cop, as someone who acts on behalf of the police, as someone who ought to know what is and what is not permitted in traffic, as someone who has betrayed that trust, and as someone who acted irresponsibly on that Thursday afternoon last October.

It is the task of the court to judge and to punish. Only then will we – you and my children and I – be able to get on with our lives. Without hate. Thank you.

Posted in Grieving, Traffic victim

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

15 Jun 2013

Getting away from it all

TUESDAY, June 15 – We’ve booked a site at a campground in France. We leave this coming Saturday, and will be back in a week. I’ve had enough and really need a break. We bloody deserve it. Away from it all. It’s not far from C, that too. I want to see what I’m getting into. I want to see her and she says she wants to see me.

Posted in New love, Three Guys | 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.

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13 Jun 2013

Beyond longing for sex

SUNDAY, June 13 – My bedsprings creaked as a result of all my tossing and turning, and I woke up to find myself in a state of extreme confusion. Under the shower I rinsed away my nocturnal fatigue, ran a towel over my face, and looked in the mirror. Then it became clear.

It’s so simple, flirting with single colleagues and mothers in the schoolyard, and sampling various other romantic possibilities. It’s satisfying, enjoyable, sexy, and good for your ego. But God almighty, how do you keep it up? How do you combine it with work. With children? And why? What’s the object of the exercise?

In her book You Can Call me Anytime, author and widow Karin Kuiper says that the patience of the people around you usually lasts about six months. They figure that the period of mourning ought to be over, and before long the potential partners descend on you like flies on molasses. And she’s right. I’ve seen it happen. And while it’s fun, in the long term it doesn’t get you anywhere.

This is something I realized during a long telephone conversation with C. I’d been corresponding with her for some time by email. She’s a recent divorcee with two daughters. At the moment they live in France, but they’ll soon be moving to Amsterdam. This morning was the first time we’d spoken to each other. It’s clear that we have a number of things in common, but we have more to offer each other than consolation. We are genuinely interested in each other, and this morning under the shower I was conscious of a kind of turning point in my present life: one step back in superficiality in exchange for one step forward towards potential love

19.30 – Damn it, stomach ache. I mustn’t let on. Stomach ache due to nerves, but I see to it that my face is all smiles. Again and again I emphasize how jealous I am and what a lucky dog he is to be able to go on the trip. He just nods.

The youngest son is going on a class trip.

Not a day trip to an amusement park, but three days in Brussels, for Space Camp to learn what it’s like to be an astronaut. The high point is the micro-gravity experience: the sense of being weightless. That’s what he’s really looking forward to. Just as I’m looking forward to the moment when I can put my arms around him again. Damn it! Why am I so worried? He wants to go, he’s enthusiastic, he’s going to be away three nights and he’s excited that he’ll be sharing a room with two of his best friends. So what’s the problem?

I pace back and forth holding the letter from school, with the list of things he’s supposed to take along and another list with the things he’s not allowed to bring. Sleeping bag, pillowcase, mattress sheet, shoes with white soles, three pairs of underpants plus one extra, socks, three T shirts and an extra pair of pants go into the sports bag. In his backpack he’ll have his Dutch passport, a copy of his insurance card, and twenty euros for the souvenir shop. Cell phones are taboo, but they’ve made an exception for Eamonn.

He’s raring to go. But I’m not. I remember how he came home holding the letter in which the space camp was announced. He was simply wild about the idea. Jenn and I exchanged glances, thinking how big our little guy was getting. We had all sorts of plans for those three days. We would have no problem finding an address for Sander for three days.

In the week after her death Eamonn announced that he would definitely not be going. He didn’t feel like going anymore and he couldn’t bear the thought of being away from home for even one night. Far away from me. I said: we’ll see how you feel when the time comes.

And now that the time has come, I’m grateful and deliriously happy that he’s looking forward to the trip. Which is why I have a stomach ache.

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving, New love, Sex | Leave a comment

12 Jun 2013

Mentioning her death in passing

SATURDAY, June 12 – Yoohoo! Yoohoo! Jauntily she heads in my direction, just as I’m about to put the key in the front door. She’s come to introduce herself: the neighbor from three houses away, and the owner of a small dog that always begins to bark when I take Elsa out in the morning and again at night.

It’s a brief meeting: we exchange names and those of the boys, and because she was born in England, we automatically continue in English. It’s a good opportunity to explain that I live here with my two boys, and that their American mother Jennifer died last October. I also told her about the circumstances of her death.

I then realize that this ‘routine’ announcement has come as a bombshell, and that there are tears in her eyes. The cheerful sidewalk meeting has taken on an emotional charge which our neighbor has trouble dealing with. But to be honest, I regard this as something of a triumph. I’m in control. I can talk about it normally, with a stranger.

Posted in Family & Friends | Leave a comment

11 Jun 2013

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Seeing the face that killed Mom

FRIDAY, June 11 – The face looks back at us quite cheerfully from the passport photo that my lawyer has just put on the table. Isn’t there always something strange about passport photos? Something faulty or unintentionally ugly? Not this one. It’s a pleasant portrait. One that with the worst will in the world, no one could possibly object to.

A picture of the man who killed Mom.

The boys are somewhat taken aback. He looks around nineteen. I thought he’d be much older, Eamonn says. His hair looks a lot different, not the way I remember it, remarks Sander. At first glance he seems to be a nice guy, is the consensus. That is, if you don’t know that the now 33-year old H.R. is being prosecuted for wrongful death. He has Jenn’s death weighing on his conscience.

It is just the tiniest bit reassuring that we now know what he looks like. At least it doesn’t look as if the confrontation this coming Thursday will be as unpleasant as we thought. Did R google us to find out what we look like? Eamonn asks. Undoubtedly. That gives him and us something to go on, for the moment when we look each other in the eye. Small comfort.

Posted in Traffic victim

10 Jun 2013

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A kid’s newspaper on grief

THURSDAY, June 10 – Is it okay if I use that newspaper, Papa? To read? No, to draw on. Faces with moustaches, glasses, a new hairdo, and rotten teeth. Dutch politicians Balkenende, Rutte, Wilders and Cohen are horribly mutilated. Together, we laugh at his caricatures. Did you do that when you were little, Papa? Hell, yes.

With the tip of his tongue between his lips, Eamonn starts on another portrait.

‘You know what, Papa? I’d think it would be fun to make a newspaper.’

Way to go, an editor-in-chief in the family! Not an illustrator, but a writer.

‘What kind of newspaper, son?’

‘A newspaper with stories about children who’ve gone through the same things I have. Stories for each other.’

Our elder son joins in the discussion.

‘Somewhere I saw a book like that, with stories.’

A while back I’d left the book on the coffee table, so they could leaf through it if they felt the urge. There are fellow-sufferers out there and a lot of them are children.

‘Do you feel as if you’ve changed?’ I ask Sander.

‘Yes. I grew up from one day to the next. Suddenly I had to face up to reality,’ he says with remarkable clarity. ‘Sometimes I wish I was ordinary again, just like the kids in my class.’

‘Could be a good story for the newspaper,’ I venture.

But my young editor-in-chief has already started on a wig for Labor Party boss Cohen. Priorities.

Posted in Kid's grieving, Three Guys

09 Jun 2013

3 Comments

A highlight, or so they say

WEDNESDAY, June 9 – Election day in The Netherlands. A celebration of democracy, a point I do my best to impress on Sander and Eamonn whenever there’s an election. You have a right to vote, to actively participate in the political process, and you’d be a fool not to take advantage of the opportunity. I give Eamonn the red pencil and let him color in the circle I’ve selected, and then push the paper ballot through the slit.

It ought to be a journalistic highlight. The build-up, the excitement of the final days of the race, the vacuum on the big day, leading up to the evening broadcasts with the results and the hectic sequel. A journalist’s dream, and even more important for me, as deputy-head of the biggest and best news organization in the country?

The truth is: It doesn’t interest me one bit.

The fact that I’ve acknowledged that lack of interest is probably the worst sign of all. I can’t help it. I’m not on my toes and I can’t get excited about anything. There’s no rush of adrenalin, no energy and I’ve resigned myself to the situation.

Which is strange. These elections were always the sort of thing I truly enjoyed. I could have made a real contribution to all the new projects where journalistic crossmedia are put to the test. I just trail along, and although I feel a few pangs of guilt, the end of the story is that I can’t swing it.

My head is simply overflowing. With pictures of Jennifer’s memorial bench, the medical developments, the up-coming trial, the confrontation with the motorcycle cop, Sander who is overwhelmed by the thought of the trial, and telephone calls about his music lessons, Eamonn who cycled home on his own for the first time, arranging for care for the boys, thinking about accommodation for the summer, the unpaid bills, the tax returns that should already have gone out.

To be truthful, I feel as if I’m losing my way. So what else is new?

Posted in Back to work, Paper work

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