Will the flow of tears ever stop?
WEDNESDAY, April 7 – If it’s true that human beings, like cats, have nine lives, I’ve already cried away eight of mine and I’m only halfway through my first existence.
Diary of a Widower
Daily entries by a husband, who stayed behind with his two sons
Baseball as grief therapy
TUESDAY, April 6 – The shot heard across the Atlantic. That was the effect of Eamonn’s grand slam during baseball practice tonight. Step by step, ball by ball, we’re preparing for his return to the baseball field, where he had left behind so much love for his mother. Tonight was unforgettable.
At first he froze, as usual. Unable to play. Incapable of pitching, hitting, or enjoying himself. His heart was paralyzed by his head, but this time he didn’t give up. He was going to take one small step. We just tossed the ball back and forth. The two of us, father and son, alongside the field where the other players are taking batting practice and listening attentively to the trainer.
Eamonn couldn’t do it. He stood there stock-still, crying, glove in one hand, ball in the other. Throw, I asked. Throw, I wished. Throw, I commanded. Throw, I pleaded. No response. ‘I can’t.’ I walked up to him, he hugged me and sobbed that ‘that man’ kept him from throwing. That man, who had taken his mother away from him, along with all the pleasure the sport had given him. And nothing could bring that back.
He threw the ball away, as hard as he could. ‘I hate that man! I hate that man!’ His teammates pretended that they couldn’t see or hear him. I retrieved the ball, walked back, put it in his glove and said, ‘Eamonn, we’re not going to tolerate this. We’re not going to allow that man to deprive us of our pleasure. It’s unacceptable. Believe me when I say that we’re playing with Mom in our thoughts and that she’s watching us.’
Eamonn looked at me. ‘I know why you’re saying that. I understand perfectly. But you know that that only makes it worse because she’s NOT HERE.’ Then he threw the ball to me. And I threw it back. We went on throwing, back and forth. High balls, ground balls, fast balls. Just playing catch. Not a word was spoken. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Joining his teammates wasn’t an option. As the game began, Eamonn wanted to go to a different part of the field for a bit of batting practice. Whack that ball, undisturbed, just the two of us. Throw, hit. Throw, hit. Until the ball ended up in the ditch and we went back to the field where the guys were playing their practice game.
‘Hey, Papa, shall I bat, too?’ Whatever you want, son.
He swung. A double. And then, at the last minute, just before it got dark, there was an extra inning. Bases loaded. Grounder between first and second. Clumsily fielded and a lousy throw which enabled Eamonn to make it to home plate. A grand slam. High fives. End of game, end of practice, new beginning.
Back home we called Grandma. Answering machine. Uncle Jim, answering machine. But, Uncle Pete, who did pick up the phone, was brought up to date with all the details. When all of us were already in bed, Jim called back. Proud as peacocks, both father and uncle. Then Grandma called back. I only told her half the story, since she was crying and so was I. Tears of love.
Baseball is a fantastic metaphor for life, at least that’s what they say. You fail more often than you succeed. The season is long, you have to make a lot of difficult decisions. You make mistakes, but you always get a second chance and you’re the only one who can grab that second chance. That’s what Eamonn did tonight, and in style.
Unable to pick… curtains
MONDAY, April 5 – We didn’t argue a lot, Jenn and I. Often the outburst came after a long period of ignoring a problem, bottling up the anger, and voicing reproaches indirectly. Some inconsequential trigger would then lead to a vehement discussion. About curtains, for example. I couldn’t care less about curtains.
When we moved to Amsterdam in mid-2008, Jenn accused me of not being involved in the process of furnishing the apartment. For months there were no curtains in the living room, bedroom, dining room or bedroom, mainly because I was too lazy to give the problem some thought. It wasn’t my cup of tea and the very idea made me nervous.
She said, ‘All right then.’ Jenn took care of it and was angry with me.
To my relief, our downstairs neighbor recently offered to make curtains for our new apartment. She helped to measure the windows and choose the type of curtains. But when she presented me with a large bag of fabric swatches, so we could take our time choosing the color and material, I panicked.
Not Eamonn. He had no trouble deciding on the curtains for his own room. The kid has taste.
Sander said: ‘It doesn’t make any difference to me.’ Same here, but we had to choose. I broke out in a cold sweat. Sander was still absorbed in his laptop, pretending he was doing his homework. Eamonn, who lay contentedly on the couch reading a book, was pleased with his choice of fabric and happy to just get on with things. OK, Overdiek, solve the problem. I called the downstairs neighbor again. Help!
She came upstairs and made various suggestions. But the more options I was presented with, the more difficult it became. Blank, nothing, nada, not a clue. ‘I’m finding this difficult,’ I stammered. In more than one respect. Then I left the room and went up to my bedroom. Beyond hope, I threw myself on the bed. I’m a hopeless bungler. Jenn would have known and at that moment I would have given anything to be able to bicker with her over curtains.
Five minutes later I got hold of myself and went downstairs. The neighbor made a few subtle suggestions. Minutes later the problem had been solved, but what kind of curtains will soon be hanging in our new apartment and what color they are… I still haven’t a clue. But that’s always better than not having an opinion.
Entitled to guilt-free sex?
SUNDAY, April 4 – K was talking about vulnerability, something that’s assumed to be primarily a feminine sensation. A woman wants to surrender, a man wants to conquer, and yet, when it comes to sex, there’s a kind of mental block for her and for me. It’s probably a question of relaxation and creating total trust between us so that we can make love without thinking about it. Another new experience.
For me, thinking about it entails all sorts of problems. During sex an alarm bell suddenly goes off. A small voice says, ‘Hey, Overdiek, what do you think you’re doing?’ It’s not a reproach or a warning, but simply a reminder. I am with someone, inside someone while for almost nineteen years I had shared a bed with the same person.
After all that time sex was, of course, no longer an adventure. It was planned, prearranged, and perfunctory, but nonetheless it was no less intimate or pleasurable for that. All this was going through my head last night.
‘Do you feel guilty?’ K asked, not for the first time. No. One hundred percent no! Why should I? Intimacy, affection, caresses, a good screw: these are things that every human being – every body – is entitled to and needs. At least, I do.
The widower and his pubic hair
SATURDAY, April 3 – So, now we’re talking about the pubic area. Nothing to be ashamed of. Not really. But one of the first things K said to me when we disrobed on her living room couch was: ‘Hey, you’re not shaved.’
Apparently I’m out of fashion or rather I’ve never been in fashion. It’s not a department I pay much attention to. The hairy part that is.
That is until now. Suddenly, I find myself in a situation where, as a newcomer in the marketplace of unattached lovers, I have to worry about my dick. Can’t hurt to google the pros and cons – and the risks, if any. Christ! It’s a whole new world! The research leans in the direction of ‘shave’. So, off I go to the drugstore to check out the possibilities.
Examining the merchandise on display, I resolve not to be stingy. I go for the most expensive razor, plus accessories like shaving gel and after-care products. It’s going to itch. I remember that from the operation in 2003, when the spermatic chord was blocked and the whole area depilated. First I tackle the bunches of pubic hair while standing under the shower. Then it’s time for the razor blade and the gel.
It didn’t sound like fun: delicate procedure, possibly life-threatening. I could already see the blood flowing, but it wasn’t half as bad as I expected. It took a while, but the results were worth it. Reborn and eminently trendy. I’m going to show it to K tonight.
What to wish for on my birthday
FRIDAY, April 2, 2010 – It was around twelve-thirty when Eamonn shuffled into the bedroom. My birthday had begun a half hour before, but that wasn’t why he was there. It was the same nightmare that had brought him to my room the night before. He was being followed by a man in a car who was just about to grab him. Come on, big guy, climb in! It’ll all be okay.
The next morning everything was not okay. Eamonn said he felt awful, because he hadn’t bought me a real present. All he had was a handmade birthday card. But son, that’s the only thing I wanted. A hand-written card or a drawing. Nothing else. But he was still ashamed. I’d already bought the big present from the boys: a karaoke box. It still had to be gift-wrapped. ‘How about if you go off and take care of that, Eamonn, and then everything will be fine.’
So the day began right. With coffee, apple juice, cheese and crackers, the morning paper, and the presents. The karaoke box was beautifully wrapped in a plastic supermarket bag. Two cards: Eamonn’s finished days ago, Sander’s late last night. Both equally touching.
Eamonn: Happy B-Day! Thank you for reaching your 45th year and 9 years of a good father. Sincerely, Eamonn J Nolan. Complete with paw prints from Bodhi and Elsa and a drawing of an exploding birthday card.
Sander drew an imaginary iPad with the enthusiastic text: Introducing iPapa. The best dad you could ever imagine. Available forever.
What more could a father wish for? Well, maybe a real present … and that was the karaoke box. It should be fun: singing together plus a bit of verbal horsing around in the living room. But even that’s not important compared with the anticipation of the day that lies before us. What will it be like? Lying there in bed, an uncomfortable feeling came over me: the fact is that this is the first birthday without Jenn in nineteen years.
Sander took Elsa out. Eamonn made his own breakfast. I went off to the gym, did the shopping and ran four loads of laundry. I always change the beds on Friday. So, today, as well. No sweat. Why had it always been such a chore and why hadn’t I realized how simple it could be to play a more equal role in the housekeeping? Just a question of being a bit more observant.
Picked up the yellow Mini Cooper. All set to go. It needed a new battery, that was all. We drove to the Amsterdam Woods, careening down the road with all the windows open. Spent a couple of hours climbing trees at Fun Forest: three modern Tarzans following the zip lines high over streams and tall brushwood. Just the right activity for three guys like us and all the time Jenn was there in our thoughts. She had a fear of heights, but last summer she’d given it a try.
Transferring from climbing tree track 5 to track 6, we were so high up that a couple of times even I had to swallow hard. We asked ourselves whether Mom would have been up to it. What she would have done. In any case, she was with us today, sailing along high in the trees. I was in the lead and when I turned around, I saw how at the other end of the cable Eamonn was getting some pointers from Sander, how the two of them were a team, as they stood there exchanging tips. Was I seeing how Jenn was watching over them or was it my imagination? Was I calling up thoughts that were simply not possible.
The wish is father to the thought.
I barely answered the phone today and only responded to a couple of emails and text messages. It was kind of friends to think of me, especially today. But I wanted us to be together, just the three of us. That idea was immediately appropriated by Eamonn who announced that on his birthday he wasn’t going to invite his friends over, because he would rather do something together, just the three of us. We’ll see how things work out; but there’s no denying that today was intimate and close and I want to hang onto that feeling as long as possible. Without the outside world.
During dinner (at our favorite neighborhood restaurant), Sander found it necessary to correct me. I proposed a toast, to a terrific birthday, with terrific sons, and terrific activities, and all that in spite of the huge sense of emptiness because Mom wasn’t there. According to Sander, I shouldn’t have said that. It was unnecessary. Let’s just live in the moment was his message. I took the hint and apologized. Still, it was great the way he got his message across.
‘And yes, Eamonn,’ I said before he asked. ‘You can sleep in my bed tonight.’ He beamed. But instead of the usual back-scratch, which generally took place in silence, he had a special request. ‘I want something different this time.’ Alongside a back-scratch he wanted to hear stories ‘about you and Mom’. He snuggled down to listen. I began.
How we saw each other for the first time at the airport in Brussels. How Mom appeared in the arrivals hall, after her name had been called: her wallet had been found on the floor of the plane. How I brought along a red rose and how she gave me three Dutch kisses on the cheek. I described how we went first to Bruges and then to Antwerp. We had dinner at a steakhouse where she ordered a salad and told me she was a vegetarian. How later that evening we kissed passionately. I didn’t elaborate on how passionately.
How Mom threw out every single thing in my fridge, how she taught me authentic American recipes like cheese bread with paprika and popcorn in a pan with olive oil, and my introduction to broccoli.
Eamonn had another request number. Tell me about the Kitchen-Aid again. It’s a good story. It’s all about how that first year in New York I’d bought a huge mixer for Jenn who had just graduated from culinary school. How I’d lugged that huge cardboard box all through SoHo, onto the PATH-train towards Hoboken and then had to walk the last five blocks. The result was magnificent: Jenn was so overwhelmed by my present that she burst into tears.
Eamonn gazed at the wall, following the images that my words called up.
Later that evening Sander went to pieces. As usual, the symptoms were anger and frustration. We’ve seen it before, but this time things had been churning through his head for too long. While that morning he hadn’t wanted to talk about Mom, now she’s the only subject on his mind – zooming endlessly around in his head. One thing led to another and he ended up distraught and mired down in despair.
Here again, a back massage did wonders. Later that evening a glass of whisky was my sole companion. On the rocks. An excellent Friday, this Good Friday. Fucking forty-five.
A kid and his ambition
THURSDAY, April 1, 2010 – Eamonn is busy writing a script for a video game aimed at children aged twelve and older. It’s called Reborn. The idea occurred to him last night, during the dance performance Blaze at the Carré Theater. While the music throbbed and the audience was blinded by the light show, Eamonn gazed at the ceiling in a kind of trance.
Everything okay? I asked him, allowing for the possibility that at this precise moment he’s missing his mother more than ever – as happened to me several times during the show. But no, as he whispered in my ear. ‘I’m thinking up a video game. It’s called Reborn.’
I replied, ‘Wonderful,’ not entirely reassured.
It was close to ten o’clock when we got home and I gave him fifteen minutes to get some of his ideas down on paper. Mustn’t stifle inspiration, no matter how late the hour. He made a start, got tired, and went to bed. The next morning he returned to the project with fresh enthusiasm. ‘This is going to take years.’ He wondered aloud if he wasn’t too young for a project like this.
This was my cue to really make a parental point. A moment he’ll remember thirty years from now. ‘You’re never too young to do something creative like that’, I proclaimed. ‘If you have a good idea, work it out. Always do what you really want to do, just as long as you don’t waste your talent. Follow your passion. If you want to be a comedian, no problem. A video game developer? Great. Go for it. Believe in yourself.’
He went back to work, the tip of his tongue protruding slightly in concentration.
Fun! Picking up her ashes
TUESDAY, March 30 – Do you suppose these people practice? Probably. In front of a mirror, no doubt. Or sitting opposite each other. One plays the widower and the other does her best to exude understanding and to imagine herself in a period ‘which is still so difficult, since it is not that long ago.’ In the end she gets down to business, since a funeral parlor is also – indeed, above all – a business.
I give her a C minus. Barely a passing grade. A professional. The corners of her mouth turn down, making it difficult to conjure up a friendly, natural smile. Her posture is stately, but without a trace of warmth; especially, when this woman, who represents the funeral directors, opens her mouth.
‘And, Mr. Overdiek, how are things now? Still difficult, I assume. It’s not that long ago.’
Emotionally, of course, we already had a 3-0 lead. Two kids, young widower. You can’t lose. As we walked in, Eamonn had already whispered that he ‘would never want to work here’.
We graciously accepted the offer of a glass of water. And then… how does one act in these circumstances? I had to think about this. In view of her sepulchral voice, I couldn’t very well make light of things, but I didn’t feel like echoing her ‘it is indeed not that long ago, so you’ll understand…’
Sander beat me to it. ‘Things are better. A lot better.’
Confusion on her face. I did my best not to laugh out loud. ‘Especially compared with October.’ Only a short time ago, true, but nevertheless.
The kickoff’s been taken.
Now for the paperwork. Receipt. Declaration that the urn does indeed contain the ashes of Jennifer Mary Overdiek-Nolan. The boys’ reaction was electric. That’s not Mom’s name and they were right. Jenn was proud of her own name, which she retained after we were married, and for us it was only natural that the boys would bear her name.
Why are offspring always given the father’s name, anyway? In the States my name invariably came out terribly garbled. Moreover, Sander was the first grandchild on Jennifer’s side of the family. In short, no big deal. Although it did lead to some consternation in the weeks immediately after the cremation. People saw Sander and Eamonn Nolan, with my name above theirs. Were the boys from a previous marriage? No, Jenn was simply making her point, posthumously.
Did we have any further questions, inquired the tight-faced woman? Well, yes, a few. We’re planning to take the urn to the United States where the ashes will be scattered and we’d like to take a look inside. We’re also thinking of an ornamental container of some kind for the children with some of her ashes inside. The woman’s face had obviously not yet reached its maximum degree of rigidity. (Eamonn later described her as creepy).
She clearly regarded our questions as too much of a good thing. Surely we realized that the urn was sealed and could not be opened, since that would invalidate the declaration for export to another country. As far as the jewelry was concerned, we should have mentioned that beforehand. There are rules for things of this nature. My head began to spin. How are we supposed to solve this problem?
Sander did it for me. ‘If I understand this right, the urn is our property. So we have a right to decide what we do with it. We’re entitled to open it if we want to.’
The lady was stunned into silence. And so was I.
She excused herself and returned with a senior colleague, who was not only familiar with the rules, but also knew that there were ways of getting around them. The metal urn had to be exchanged for a synthetic one, so that we wouldn’t have a problem going through customs. We could make our choice of jewelry and some of the ash would be reserved for later. As far as she was concerned, the problem was solved as it was for us, as well.
The booklet with jewelry samples didn’t amount to much as they were tacky and cheap-looking. But, then Sander caught sight of the miniature urns. That might just be an idea. Eamonn agreed, and they each selected one. Then Eamonn said I ought to pick one out, too. I wasn’t too keen on the idea, but for him it was perfectly logical. ‘Because there are three of us, Papa.’ His reasoning was watertight. So I chose one for myself.
The lady disappeared and a half-hour later she was back. One large urn, three small ones. Sander immediately unscrewed his. He’s always been inquisitive, like both his parents. To be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to the sight of grit, dust and minuscule bits of bone, as someone once described ‘the ashes’. But I had no choice after Sander opened his urn and showed it to me. Hmm.
Eamonn’s was differently wrapped, and he didn’t like that. He insisted that his and Sander’s ought to be the same, and mine different. So we traded and everything was fine. Eamonn hadn’t looked inside the urn because he didn’t feel the need. The lady stood there watching, and drew her own conclusions. She was smiling, though, which was something. Progress.
We were smiling, too. on the way home. ‘Well, that wasn’t as bad as we expected,’ said Sander cheerfully.
‘Hey, did you buy me a present, too?’ called the mailman, spotting us as we were walking from the car to the house. The two red cardboard boxes we were carrying could have contained large wine bottles.
‘No, they’re special presents just for us,’ I replied. Sander couldn’t help laughing. Eamonn followed with a knowing smile on his face.
At home, it didn’t us take long to decide. The three small urns were placed in front of the photo of Jenn. The large urn disappeared into the closet. The scattering of the ashes will wait until later.
The end (which Eamonn called the perfect ending).
‘Give your wife a kiss from me’
MONDAY, March 29 – Dear friend R, what wonderful news! I laugh and cry at the same time at your hilarious story about the birth of your second child. I’m so very happy for you. Now the four of you are a complete family. I know that, since I remember how we felt when Jennifer gave birth to our second son. I laugh and I cry when I think of what was once, for us, a complete family; but, above all, I’m happy for you, my best friend. And give your wife a kiss from me. Your happiness is worth so much to me. I’m going to hang up now, and have a good cry on my own, this time for the loss of what was once our family of four.
Feeling a bit better, thanks
SUNDAY, March 28 – Are you feeling better, Mr. Overdiek? Have I calmed down a bit and seen the error of my ways? What exactly happened last night? It was as if you totally flipped. But why? I wonder if your fit of rage was caused by physical neglect. That thought was in the forefront of my mind when I woke up this morning, tossing and turning.
I haven’t been taking very good care of myself the last week or so. One evening a lot of alcohol, and the next day unhealthy food and not enough sleep. I haven’t been to the gym in a while and I spend hours at the laptop, frittering my time away. I conclude that all of this is getting me nowhere. The body becomes the victim of negligence and ultimately the mind as well.
So what’s wrong with that – asks the wicked little voice inside my head – in view of the outpouring of misery that is our daily lot ? No, no, that’s not permitted. No way. Maybe it’s not good for you, having to battle the living nightmare going on in your head in which you play a leading role. Yet there’s no sense in cultivating those haunting memories.
We’re on daylight saving time now and this Sunday morning I resolve to devote more time to sport, keep away from nibbles, eat more fruit. That’ll teach the tormented mind a lesson.
Diary of a Widower 