Amazing how strong we are
SATURDAY, February 20 – Off to the beach, with Sander and Eamonn. And the dog. A fabulous day. Amazing how strong the three of us are.
Diary of a Widower
Daily entries by a husband, who stayed behind with his two sons
Return of the blue scarf
FRIDAY, February 19 – Another miracle. I took Eamonn to school by bike and said somewhat warily that I’d like to head straight for the gym. ‘Oh, fine,’ he said. Then he gave me a kiss and disappeared into the crowd in the schoolyard.
On this last day before February break, everything seemed to be okay. That is, it did when it came to dropping them off at school. When I went to pick them up at three-thirty, it was clear that something had gone well and truly wrong. Eamonn didn’t want to talk about it. He just held me tight on the way home. Not until he had sat down on the couch did he feel safe.
‘This afternoon there was a play in the auditorium. Sort of dull, but okay. It was about Frog, played by Miss N. It was a few minutes before I realized that she was wearing a blue scarf. The exact same color blue as the scarf that Mom always wore and that she was wearing on the day of the accident. That really upset me. I started to cry in school with all the other kids around me and I couldn’t get the thought out of my head.’
He lay in my lap and cried. I held him tight and tried to explain that things like that are bound to happen in the future, as well. He said: ‘This week it felt sort of as if I was recovering, and then this happened.’
As sad as the remark sounded, it cheered me up. He was beginning to realize that things were improving. What had happened was no more than a bump in the road. Recovery. A wonderful word for this day. And the scarf. Sander had asked me about it the other day. I had to stop and think, but at the same instant we both realized that the blue scarf, which she had looked so good in, had gone into the casket with her.
Him, gone, without me
THURSDAY, February 18 – I was flabbergasted. This morning Eamonn put on his shoes and his jacket, grabbed his schoolbag and gave me a kiss. He went down the stairs, followed by E, and they were gone. Off to school. I was left behind, wondering what had just happened. Last night she told him she was taking him to school. Which she did. It still strikes me as something of a miracle. Him, gone, without me.
Getting away the easy way
TUESDAY, February 17 – Got drunk with my colleague G. Always good fun from time to time. Except for the damned alarm clock the next morning.
A strangely pleasant dinner date
MONDAY, February 15 – Went to dinner with lady K. It felt strange, and yet comfortable. She’s kind and sympathetic, and she knows what I’m going through. And vice-versa, at least I hope so. We said our friendly goodbyes. It was enjoyable and that remains the object of the exercise. Just the two of us, man and woman. Enjoyable but strange. She biked home and with a smile I removed the parking fine from the windshield. I had forgotten about feeding the parking meter in time.
No roses, no cards, no kisses
SUNDAY, February 14 – Valentine’s Day. We didn’t celebrate: no roses, no cards, no kisses. Why should we? I did tell the boys how much I love them and how much I loved Jennifer, and still do. The afternoon dragged on.
I’m sitting and staring at the empty page in my diary as I’d had in mind elaborating on how I was planning to buy lingerie for her. How I still walk past store windows and visualize how good she’d look in this dress or in that skirt.
I could have gone on and on about her breasts, about the first day I was allowed to kiss them and fondle them, how they clung to my body. How her breasts became boobs during her pregnancies, how she showed them off , and had me photograph them. (That photo must still be around somewhere.) How on her deathbed I caressed her breasts, which were smaller then, this one last time. And kissed them.
I simply didn’t have the urge or the energy to explain it all in detail here on paper today. The memory was enough, but also too painful. I read what Sander had written on his mother’s Facebook wall: ‘Are you dead? Well, that’s what it feels like. Papa tried to mash cauliflower tonight. It wasn’t a great success. Why can’t we ask you how you do it? Love you.’
Crying and sobbing by ourselves
SATURDAY, February 13 – Irritations pile up. Between the au-pair and the children, between her and me, between the children and me. There is something more than time needed in order to accept a woman into this house. I call a meeting and we compare notes on the first few weeks. Her physical and mental presence is overwhelming and she also wants to know what we think. Communication is the key.
Am I going to tell her what we think, how we feel? Not always. At most I give her a few vital details about the kind of fucking life we’ve been leading. She’s right here in the middle of everything, but can’t seem to grasp it all. She can’t see, let alone experience the pain that once again swept so mercilessly into our living room this afternoon. It started with a clash between Sander and me. The trigger was the homework which he refused to do and which I in turn ordered him to do.
Of course, that wasn’t what it was really about, but the two of us need to thrash it out. A knock-down, drag-out fight over nothing; but fury at the reality of Jennifer’s death. The powerlessness of the situation. The frustration and the hatred, genuine hatred towards him, that bastard who has all this on his conscience. Frightful arguments, really, with Eamonn as unwilling victim along the sidelines. We ended up on the floor, all three of us, crying, sobbing, and cuddling.
Totally defeated, I was the first to get myself up again. I took a chair, placed it in the middle of the dining room, tied a pillow to it and told the boys it represented the motorcycle cop. I took the lead and started swearing at this empty chair, save for a pillow. I ignored the idiocy of the situation. No blows, just words. Shouts. Then the boys took turns. One at a time, we faced the imaginary motorcycle cop and gave him hell.
It didn’t solve anything; but, we felt better and after that we went go-karting. When we got home later that night, we were in high spirits and E looked at us a bit puzzled. She’d been downtown all day. Still, peace reigned once again and we didn’t say a word about our temporary breakdown that afternoon. That was between just the three of us.
Music and memories. Bad ones
THURSDAY, February 11 – Sander and I have gone to Pat Metheny’s performance tonight in the Concertgebouw. Due to the lousy weather in England, the American guitarist is late. Sander is kept fascinated during the long wait by looking at Metheny’s huge arsenal of instruments up on the podium until, finally, the melodious racket begins.
After the first song, I sit rooted to my chair. The music evokes an entire palette of images in my head, which follow one another in quick succession, alternating, repeating, reinforcing. Again and again. Jennifer’s cremation, her body in the casket, in the hospital bed hooked up to the machines, on the stretcher in the mortuary.
It’s a horrible sensation, especially since I can’t seem to fight it – it just takes over my thoughts. The procession becomes more intense, more colorful and more intrusive when I close my eyes and try to think them away. This lasts until the fourth song. Then I fall asleep. Don’t know for how long. When I wake up, it’s all gone. I enjoy the music, which lasts until midnight. On the way home Sander and I talk and talk and talk.
And what does Google say?
WEDNESDAY, February 10 – Everyone is vain, including me. So, on occasion, I google myself. Like just now. I noticed that other people apparently google me, too, since Google gives previous search terms as a suggestion. It appears that I am now a media widower, given the following terms:
Tim Overdiek with the search term Twitter: 2350 results
With the term wife 1350
Wife deceased 471
Jennifer 1100
Facebook 2120
NOS 4440
Death of wife 497
Haiti and Hitler
TUESDAY, February 9 – Sitting on the couch, Eamonn leaning against me. He’s reading Garfield and I’m following the news. Haiti. The official death toll has reached 230,000. A man has been hauled alive from under the rubble some twenty days after the earthquake. He’s being interviewed and I don’t give a shit. My world revolves around Eamonn, Sander and myself.
Eamonn looks at me.
‘Papa, what do you think Hitler was like when he was little?’
I laugh. Really loud.
‘No, I’m serious. I always wonder what bad people and big-time criminals were like when they were children.’
It’s the sort of question that only Eamonn would ask. I sincerely hope that when he grows up he will look back on his childhood and accept that despite its bad moments, it still turned him into a good person. I’m convinced that he’s already a good person and will be one for the rest of his life.
Diary of a Widower 