Diary of a Widower

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

07 May 2013

My wife in a moving box

FRIDAY, May 7 – Had a rotten night. Woke up a few times, dreaming of Jennifer. Tossed and turned, wishing the move to our new house was over.  Delays due to a snag:  the oil used on the wooden floors was spoiled, leading to white spots. Now they have to sand, oil, varnish, polish and then varnish again. At least I think that’s the right order.

What do I care? By Sunday evening the floor will be perfect. Here’s hoping. The movers are coming early Monday morning and by the end of the day we’ll take possession of our new abode, two streets away. I’m dreading the whole operation, but trying desperately not to lose my cool.  I’m tired. So tired. Even too tired to worry.

Tonight I’ll pack a small box with personal things. In other words: Jenn in da box. Weird… I walk around with the box in my hand. (Do you want me to put you down here, sweetheart?)  Relax. Fucking urn.  Shoved into a cardboard moving box without a single token of respect. The movers better keep their hands off my sweetheart.

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06 May 2013

Signs of life nor death

THURSDAY, May 6 – Call it a sign of life. After what’s been – for me – an excruciatingly long silence, I finally receive a brief text message: ‘It’s snowing here’.

I reply: ‘Hey, fantastic’.

And we leave it at that. Sander reports on developments in the Swiss Alps and I let him know that we’re thinking of him.  We seldom call. ‘Big guy’ and his old man don’t need to talk every day.  He’ll be back in four days. I miss him, that’s for sure. It’s oddly quiet without him. Eamonn agrees.

I was about to write ‘deathly quiet’, but that’s something else again, as I know only too well. Deathly is the silence that Jenn left behind in October. No more notes, which I sometimes long for. No quick text message to let me know where she is. The scribbled note on the table, with a request. Often an email or just a ‘mental note’:  the realization you’ve been thinking of each other at exactly the same moment.

I think of her so often.  These days my thoughts come with a split-second of terrible anger, because she is not able to think of me. The one-way traffic of a truncated life. Unbearable longing for a sign of life, even a sign of death. Just something I can hear or see or feel. Even that turns out to be asking too much.

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05 May 2013

Leaving her diary untouched

WEDNESDAY, May 5 – Damn it all, Tim, concentrate!  Not on sorting, packing and getting rid of things. Think about unpacking them and hanging them up. Take the past with you, but try to see it as the future. Damn it, I’m being dragged into deep shit and I mustn’t give in. The move is getting to me. Why do I have to do stuff like this on my own?  Why am I too proud to ask for help?  I’m an asshole.

I think back to Queen’s Day last year. It was shortly afterwards that Jennifer and I had had a number of discussions about our marriage. We talked about being together, living together, doing things alone, living one’s own life, growing apart, the risks involved in separate lives lived under the same roof.

Maybe now was the time to find out what was behind that ominous expression on her face, by reading her diaries covering that period. I decide not to. For now, I deposit that part of our past in a large moving box.

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04 May 2013

Getting rid of her clothes

TUESDAY, May 4 – The house was quiet and serene when I woke up. Sander in Switzerland, Eamonn staying overnight with a friend in Arnhem. For the first time, a night alone.  It felt good, really good.  Empty house, empty head.  Now I can focus all my energy on moving to our new place later this week.

I mucked out Sander’s room. Then, I collected Jennifer’s clothes from the attic and took them to a church on the other end of the city.  That had always been the plan. Our downstairs neighbor suggested a used clothed store in the neighborhood, but I didn’t want to risk running into someone wearing one of Jenn’s dresses. No way.

When I threw the bags down the stairs, one of them split open and a couple of sweaters fell out. I smelled them. Nope. No Jennifer, no memories. A clothing smell I didn’t recognize. I put them in a new bag and loaded everything into the car. Mustn’t stop now. Just keep going. Think about today. Not about yesterday when she was wearing the clothes, not about tomorrow when someone else might be wearing them.

A shiver went down my spine. Just keep your head cool, I tell myself. This is my chance to get rid of the clothes, once and for all. Gone. At the drop-off point, no questions were asked and I felt no need to elaborate. The bags were added to the existing pile and, as I wrote on her Facebook wall: ‘Some time soon a number of women will be wearing purple.’

23:00 – By that evening I’d already picked up Eamonn from his stay in Arnhem.  A two-night sleepover was a bridge too far. When we got home, all he wanted to do was cuddle – as close to me as possible, and vice versa. Security is the mantra. After taking a shower he grabbed me and said, ‘I want Mom back.’

If only I could make that happen.

‘If only life was a video game,’ he said. ‘Then we could die and come back to life again.’

Posted in Grieving, Kid's grieving, Remembering | Leave a comment
03 May 2013

Contemplating ‘that way out’

MONDAY, May 3 – Eamonn is bored stiff, to the point where he himself decides that even the computer is monotonous.  Nothing on TV, nothing playing at the movies, it’s pouring, so no baseball on the corner lot and the bowling alley is fully booked. As a last resort, I suggest we go to the indoor driving range. I try to pep him up – getting out of the house is the first step. We take a bucket of golf balls up to the top floor, where it’s quiet.

We don’t get any further than ten balls. He’s angry and it looks like he’s ready to bash something, just to blow off steam. He sits down and then he seems to fold.  I sit down next to him and he moves closer. Let’s not do anything for a while. Just talk, he says. Good idea.

We talk about ‘him’, the one we’re angry with. Eamonn hates him.

We talk about ‘her’, the one we want back. Eamonn misses her.

I allow myself to say the word ‘dead’. He says: that’s a horrible word, I don’t want to say that word, or even think about it. And yet, it keeps going through his head and filling his thoughts. We hit the last ball together. Then he leans over the railing and asks me what would happen if he jumped.  You’d break both your legs, and if it was a bad fall, you’d be dead.

I tell it like it is since I’m starting to suspect something. As we gather up the golf clubs, I ask him if he has recently wished that he was dead.  Yes, of course, he says. Was that really what he had wanted. No, not really. When was this?

‘Three months after the accident. I didn’t want to go on living like that,’ Eamonn said simply. When I asked him why he didn’t tell me, he said it was because I hadn’t been home at the time.

At any rate, the feeling did go away and as I go on asking him questions, as carefully as I can, he says that no, that isn’t what he wants. He’s sure about that. But what if thoughts like that enter your mind… ‘Yes, I know, then I’ll come to you.’

Or your brother, okay? Yes, that’s settled. I promise myself again and again that no matter what, I’ll be there for him. Being there – that’s become the key to our life together.

Posted in Kid's grieving, Three Guys, Traffic victim | Leave a comment
02 May 2013

We need a break from life

SUNDAY, May 2 – At eight o’clock this morning I dropped Sander off at his friend’s house.  He’s going to spend a week in Switzerland with the rest of the family. Yesterday we had a bit of a crisis. ‘I don’t want to go, and I’m not going!’

He was dreading the trip. ‘I’ve seen enough of my friend already. And we’re going to a country where I don’t speak the language. What am I supposed to do there?  Stupid mountains. They don’t even have internet. All I need is a break from life.’

He has a point there. That’s what we all need, but staying at home is not a good idea. And at this late date, he can’t back out. So, I summoned up the patience of a saint – for me, a true accomplishment – and managed to convince him. Or rather, I bribed him by letting him borrow my camera. If things get really difficult later in the week, I promised to jump in the car and drive to Switzerland.

And I meant it. If necessary, I’d drive the nine hours there and nine hours back in one go. Luckily, Sander’s mood soon changed. The sun came out and continued to shine right up to this morning. But then my eyes started to blur and the tears came. It’ll be the first time since October that he’s slept somewhere else. And for a whole week. Big deal for this Daddy.

I’m going to miss him and I hope he’ll miss me, but that guarantee lasts only until the moment your soon-to-be teenager closes the car door just after eight o’clock and disappears behind the horizon. And that’s as it should be.

Posted in Kid's grieving, Three Guys | Leave a comment
01 May 2013

Sex in the park (not me)

SATURDAY, May 1, 2010 – A stroll through Beatrixpark at dusk. Elsa the dog leads the way and  opts for a path we usually pass by.  She’s curious and passes a row of shrubs and then a small open field where a couple are fucking shamelessly and with abandon.

She’s sitting on top of her boyfriend and panting, and as she comes she looks up and gives me a friendly nod.

Being together – whether it’s lying in the park or sitting on a bench… That evening I feel engulfed by sadness as I make up my queen-sized bed. I still sleep on the same side, at most appropriating a bit more of the sheet. The selflessness of a recovering widower. The pillow next to me serves as a backrest, when I want to read for a while. The other half is reserved for what might later come my way.

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30 Apr 2013

Colour of grief today is orange

FRIDAY, April 30 – The flea market in Amsterdam South on Queen’s Day is always worth a visit. Sander learned from his experiences last year and now he has a reserved spot, with his keyboard and loud-speaker. The sign next to his top hat reads PLAYING FOR IPAD.  He comes home with 42 euros.

Eamonn and I walk around, keeping an eye out for possible bargains. He throws two raw eggs, one of which hits the organizer smack in the face. That made his day. But not mine. Wherever I look, I see jaunty earrings, daringly short skirts, unusual shoes, or other crazy objects that remind me of Jennifer’s taste.  We don’t buy anything.

In another respect today reminds me of last year. I was home that afternoon, glued to the TV, listening to the radio and clicking my way through our website. The big news was a failed attack on the royal family – something I wanted to follow, even on my day off.

I remember everything about that day, but what suddenly comes to mind is totally different:  the moment when Jenn stood in the doorway looking at me. She pointed out that now that I had a day off it might be better to do something with the boys.  It wasn’t so much her words as the withering look she gave me that will always remind me of that Queen’s Day. An ominous premonition.

Posted in Remembering, Three Guys | Leave a comment
29 Apr 2013

Everybody has a tragic story

THURSDAY, April 29 – I’m sitting in the public gallery during a symposium in honor of a colleague who’s retiring.  Sitting next to me is a woman who lost her sister during a simple operation. She was in her late forties. Elsewhere in the audience there’s a colleague whose son committed suicide last year. In front of me was another, whose wife is fighting a losing battle against a brain tumor.

Everyone carries some sort of tragedy, some more heartwrenching than others.  Those who have endured great suffering and are still weighed down by the pain do not necessarily show it. Often they don’t want others to know.  But among ourselves, it isn’t necessary.  Exchanging a look of understanding, a meaningful smile or wink, is more than enough. The widower-to-be puts out his hand. I grasp it with both my hands and press it. Among companions in adversity, that is more than enough.

At the reception following the symposium there is time to mingle. How I’m doing six months later is still the only question that non-fellow-sufferers ask. Occasionally, someone makes a painful mistake.  A jovial colleague, for whom the event took place too long ago, comes over to me and calls out:  ‘Hey, Tim. How’re you doing?  Now what did I hear? You’re divorced or some such thing?’

I can’t help but laugh.

Posted in Back to work | Leave a comment
28 Apr 2013
1 Comment

Spam straight through my heart

WEDNESDAY, April 28 – Fuck off, Flora2000-spammail, with your fucking header:  ‘May Day! May Day!  Forgotten it’s Mother’s Day?’ Piss off, Frederique’s Choice, with your fucking Mother’s Day Offer, a gorgeous bunch of flowers for the special price of thirty-two euros and forty-five cents!  Piss off all of you!

Posted in Grieving

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