Diary of a Widower

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

08 Feb 2013

When nothing means just that

MONDAY, February 8 – The pain was still there, but now it was surfacing differently. It had started with my son incessantly pacing back and forth across the living room.

‘Eamonn, is anything wrong? I asked.

‘No, I’m okay,’ he said.

I knew there was something wrong, so I asked him again what was bothering him.

‘It’s nothing,’ he again assured me. I followed him as he continued slowly walking around the room, after each round returning to the coffee table where he took tiny sips from his glass of water and I could see an expression of horror in his eyes.

‘Come on upstairs with me,’ I said. Once up in my bedroom he refused to sit down next to me on the bed. He just stood there, stock-still, next to the mirror.

‘There’s nothing wrong,’ he repeated.

Then it started to dawn on me: ‘This nothing. Is that what you have been talking about? Is that what you feel? I asked.

Indeed, this is what he was now feeling.

‘I’m nothing. My body is worthless. It’s nothing but me, and I don’t care about it.’

My brain was going full tilt and I spoke to him straight from the shoulder.

‘Do you want to live?’

‘Yes.’

Relief. We were in touch. He began to explain.

‘I drink sips of water to push everything back into my head,’ he said.

‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’

‘I feel like if I don’t do that, I’ll fall apart.’

Eamonn took another sip of water, this time from the glass on the bedside table.  Eventually, he agreed to come and sit next to me on the edge of the bed. He wouldn’t let me touch him.

Trying to comfort him, I said the first thing that came into my head: ‘It’s all right to have feelings like that, when you think that you’ve lost control over yourself. But just remember that if you explode, or if you fall, that I’ll always be there to catch you. I know that you’re feeling totally empty, that there’s nothing that seems to make your life worthwhile and that it feels imposible to find pleasure in anything at all. But listen carefully, and remember this: I promise you, here and now, that one day you’ll wake up and discover that you can still enjoy life. You’ll be able to have fun again and this ‘nothing’ will make way for ‘something’, and gradually that ‘something’ will become ‘everything’. When that happens, you’ll feel Mom close to you, inside you, and know that somehow she’s watching over you.’

I took a deep breath. That waterfall of positive thinking which had seemed to flow so automatically from my mouth was becoming a bit too much, probably. Just so long as he believed that ‘nothing’ wasn’t that bad at this moment in his young life.

He looked at me. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

I held his hand and told him to breathe slowly, in and out. For fifteen minutes we sat there together, I was lying on my bed and he was sitting on the edge. That was all I could do. It proved to be enough. Just enough.

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07 Feb 2013

An unbearable thought

SUNDAY, February 7 – What bothers me the most is the fact that we are gradually learning to go on living without you, Jennifer. The thought is unbearable.

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05 Feb 2013
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A breakthrough in grieving

FRIDAY, February 5 – Tears of love ran down my face. Although it would seem I’m not ashamed to cry anywhere these days, I’m glad that Eamonn didn’t see me cry this afternoon. Burying his head in my lap, he had been more open than ever before with the psychologist.

I felt a surge of pride, relief and sadness alongside the love for my son who had talked about the accident for the first time. The dam had burst the evening before when he confessed that he was still tormented by the images of the accident and his memories of the fatal moment.

I couldn’t help him, no matter how much I wanted to. So it was a good thing that a visit to our psychologist was scheduled for today. Eamonn wanted me to bring up the subject and after that he would start to talk.

He described how the mother of his friend, who had both come to the park with them, suddenly called out to him telling him to turn around and go back to the road.  He described how he   immediately realized that there had been an accident and knew that his Mom had been in the crosswalk and he had run back. And then his voice faltered.

He put his head in my lap and through my tears I told him how brave he was and that I was proud of him. I reassured him that the exact words of his story would never go beyond the walls of this room and that gradually all this pain would begin to lessen. Then it was quiet for a while and that was okay.

Tears of pain, but above all, tears of love.

Posted in Kid's grieving, Traffic victim
04 Feb 2013
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Deleting her out of our lives

THURSDAY, February 4 – I texted E. I’d given her Jennifer’s cell phone. There was no reason not to have done so. Her contract was ongoing and no one else had ever used the phone. Why buy a new phone? Well, for the simple reason that E’s name would have to be added to my contacts. To do that I would first have to remove Jennifer’s name. Goddamnit all to hell, if only I’d realized that before.

It’s another one of those moments when I seem to be erasing Jennifer from our lives for good.  While of course that’s not the case, it’s just one of those strange tricks that your brain plays on you when your heart is demanding precedence.

When E sent a text message in reply, I saw on my iPhone the whole series of messages that Jennifer and I had exchanged during the previous months, right up to October 22nd.  I read through them with a precious sense of nostalgia. If discovering Eamonn’s drawing last week quite unexpectedly had been a punch in the stomach, then these unexpected messages from the past produced a broad smile to my face that I wanted to hold onto as long as possible.

Posted in Grieving, Paper work
03 Feb 2013

Well, what can I say?

WEDNESDAY, February 3 – Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fucking hell!

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02 Feb 2013

So near and yet, so far

TUESDAY, February 2 – So near and yet so far. Solitude, loss, the gaping hole. I wander the streets of Amsterdam in the rain without a clue where I’m heading, looking for her, getting drenched in the process. Where are you?

I have to run the whole show on my own: organize everything, deal with the snags, make the decisions.  E’s arrival was meant to be an extra pair of hands but today I feel as if I’ve gained a daughter. She doesn’t have a clue. I have to explain everything, step by step, with the patience of a saint which I sometimes find difficult to muster.

Now the moment has come to entrust the children to her care. She will be taking over part of my role, which means she’ll be responsible for their well-being while I’m at work and that will be more often and for longer periods than at present. She’ll pick them up from school and I won’t be there. For three months I was their sole guardian, and now there is also our au pair.

It feels unnatural – as if I’m the only person the kids can (or should)  trust or fall back on. It seems there’s no alternative. That’s the way it is. It only serves to increase, retroactively, the immense admiration I had and still have for Jennifer as a mother. She was a fantastic Mom and the tears come when I think about the cruel termination of that role.

So tired. So far away and yet so near.

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01 Feb 2013

Four, and still only three

MONDAY, February 1, 2010 – It wasn’t really necessary, but I did it anyway. I wrote my eldest a little note and left it at his bedside. ‘Dear Sander, No matter how helpful it is that E has come to live with us, never forget that it’s still the three of us.’ He understood, and had already figured that out. But it was good to hear it coming from me.

E’s first day was heartwarming, comical, and endearing. Still, it also felt strange: suddenly there were four of us. She quickly settled in, going around barefoot, putting on her own favorite CDs, occasionally dancing to the music. Oddly enough, her voice has the same intonation as the boys.

We talked about her background, her interests, her idiosyncrasies, her preferences. She doesn’t drink, but occasionally uses marijuana and loves to party. Welcome to Amsterdam. I made it clear that that’s okay, as long as she does it all in her own time and isn’t stoned when she’s supposed to be taking care of the boys. Otherwise she can do whatever she wants to do. No need for me to hold her hand.

In any case, it’s still just the three of us.

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31 Jan 2013

Our new back-up: An au pair

SUNDAY, January 31 – Soon we’ll be off to Schiphol airport in order to pick up E, our au pair, who’s flying in from the United States. The tentative plan is for a year. We need some back-up. Especially me, but the boys as well. She’ll provide stability for them when they come home from school and hopefully more flexibility for me after I return to work.

I want to work full time and it’s a step I feel I have to take. It’s not that I’m trying to take refuge in my work, but, rather, I know that my work gives me new energy and this renewed strength will help me being a father to my boys. Finding a balance between work and family can only help us to face the future with more confidence.

It was during our time in Washington that we got to know E. She lived on the same street and sometimes looked after Sander and Eamonn. We were crazy about her. Last Summer she’d emailed Jennifer to ask if we knew of anyone who was looking for an au pair. We didn’t, but I remember Jennifer telling me about her email. So, in late November I sent her a cautious email.

She replied immediately and enthusiastically, as she had already considered this possibility herself. After a few phone calls and emails back and forth, we decided to take the plunge and at this moment her plane is just about to land. There was a slight delay due to the winter weather, which may be quite shocking for someone who has spent years in Florida.

It’s going to involve considerable give and take. Not only because the three of us are so close, but also because there will again be a woman in the house. Naturally, she is not going to replace Jennifer.  She’s not going to be a surrogate mother or a stand-in wife. Nothing like that. What we need is help for the family and I’m very grateful. I also admire her courage and her willingness to come and take up this job.

According to the boys, there is only one disadvantage: ‘Now we can’t go running around naked anymore.’

E. emailed back that that was not a problem, which was reassuring.

Posted in Back to work, Three Guys | Leave a comment
30 Jan 2013

Determined to risk it all

SATURDAY, January 30 – This morning I am determined. I, of course, know that determination can be treacherous, but I’m willing to risk it. I let my Facebook friends know that ‘This morning nothing, I repeat, absolutely nothing can ruin the excellent mood I’m in. As far as I’m concerned, it can only get better.’

With unflagging cheerfulness, I thank the neighbor who ran into the three of us on the street and who nearly burst into tears. She offered to come and cook for us, but that wouldn’t be necessary, I said. We’re doing just fine. No, we’re not miserable or pathetic. We’re managing quite well, especially today, since it’s such a beautiful day, with both sun and snow.

Then I talked to my brother on the phone.  For once in recent months  I didn’t send him straight to my voicemail.  He wanted to know how was I doing, so I switched to automatic pilot, informing him of my daily trials and tribulations.  A ten-minute chat sufficed.  At one point, you hear yourself blabbing on and the mental energy quickly fades. That’s the signal to stop.

I open a new book and finish it at one go:  You May Call Me Anytime by a Dutch woman, who recorded her experiences after her husband’s death, are gripping and should actually knock me for a loop. Instead, I simply smile and nod at the recognizable situations. At the end of the evening, I put the book back in the bookcase, grinning at the familiar situations and the sheer lunacy of death.

I wasn’t even dispirited by Eamonn, who came downstairs crying after having a bad dream. By Sander who also came out of bed and began demanding that his mother come back. I was in a really great mood from then until I closed my eyes that night. The next morning a smile reappeared on my lips and refused to be banished.  I had no idea why and, for once, I wasn’t even going to ask myself.

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29 Jan 2013

Memorials. Friends need them

FRIDAY, January 29 – Two emails from abroad: one of them came in yesterday, but I had deliberately ignored it. No energy. Today I received a similar message, thus,  forcing me to ponder them. Permission for a memorial service:  one in Italy, the other in America. I go all cold at the very thought, even though the requests are full of warmth and love.

J explains that he wants to organize a concert in Italy. He and Jennifer met a few years back in a castle where she regularly spent the weekend. It was a dilapidated country house near Bologna, full of books, with a vineyard and interesting guests:  the ideal getaway from her life in London, with husband, children and the hustle & bustle of everyday life.

J is a professional violinist who lives in London with his partner A. He and Jenn had become the best of friends and last summer they had even gone to visit his parents in Portugal. As it happened, just last weekend the boys and I had watched the jerky images of Jenn taken there with my flip camera. These are the  last moving images of her, lasting only a few seconds, still  her voice sounds so close-by.  J’s idea is  to organize a concert, plant a tree on the estate, and entice as many of their mutual friends as possible to come to Italy for the occasion. He wants to know whether I’ll be there with the boys.

The other request, which came in this morning, is also an invitation, from Swarthmore College. Will the boys and I be attending the unveiling of a bench on  campus in memory of Jennifer?  The email was from Jenn’s college friend B. Their class reunion, which takes place every five years, will be held this coming June, twenty years after their graduation. Jenn had  already been making tentative plans to attend. A stab of pain shot through my body at the thought that she would indeed be there, although not physically. Instead, in the shape of a bench in the park with her name on it, and a favorite motto or saying.

Yes, of course, I reply and I’d be pleased to be involved.  I can’t say yet whether we will be physically present, but I’ll do my best. I didn’t tell J and B that their requests set off an enormous crying fit or  that I was pained by the definitive nature of their initiatives, nor  that I could only see them as another burial.  They seem the fulfillment of a memory of something that no longer exists, but that once was. History.

At the same time, I do realize how precious these initiatives are and how very sincere. In the long run, they are more valuable than the stab I feel in my heart right now. We can’t yet say whether we will actually be coming . The boys have school, of course, but it’s good to know that friends from Jennifer’s past want to show us how greatly they were influenced by her. History doesn’t focus only on the mistakes that have been made, but also or perhaps primarily on what was beautiful. And what will always be beautiful.

Posted in Family & Friends, Remembering | Leave a comment

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