Tag Archives: loss

Thoughts – Sunday 14, 2017

Today  is Mother’s Day.

Half an hour ago, eleven in the morning, ago Big A. picked up Little A. at my place. They are spending time with their mother and grandma in Brussels.

Princess also left earlier than usual this morning. Her kids wanted to surprise her. In the afternoon Princess is visiting her parents.

I am happy for my daughters, for my Princess, that they can still honor those whom have given them the most valuable gift of all. Life.

My Mother passed away on May 12, 2005.
Is it because I’m growing older? Is it for another reason I cannot grasp yet? The memories surfaced more vividly this time.

I cannot remember when it happened but somewhere in 2004 I got a call informing me my mother had fallen not far from where I live.
I was at home that day so I grabbed a coat and ran.

My mother was lying on the street. A small flock of rubbernecks trying to be important had gathered around her. She had tripped over a small irregularity in the height of the street pavements. My mother was in her eighties but most people thought she was in her sixties.

I knew better that to try and move her.

So I sat next to my mother, holding her hand, comforting her while she cried. There was nothing else I could do. I could tell she was in a lot of pain and it looked like her leg was broken.
Then the ambulance finally arrived. The put an inflatable tourniquet around her leg while she screamed.

It never healed really. It was a bad fracture just below the knee and my mom could not not produce enough calcium and all.
She was in an out the hospital. I used to visit her almost every day because the hospital was between my work and home.
My Ex, whom could not spent a day without calling her parents or hearing them, accused me of having an affair. It wasn’t the first time she accused me of fucking around.

Finally the doctors decided to implant a special prosthetic. It was something that was developed in Germany.
The evening before the surgery I picked up my mother. She did not want me to come in. In the hospital my mother and I made jokes about that German marvel. She hated the Germans because of her experiences during World War 2. ‘Once a German always a German’ was one of her favorite quotes.
My mother and I laughed when I told her I was pretty sure a swastika was engraved in the metal prosthesis.

Surgery was scheduled for the next day, May 12, 2005.

My sister and I kissed her, said encouraging words, goodbye. See you soon.
That sort of stuff.

Then we waited, nervous and worried, my sister and I.

Somewhere during the operation my mother’s heart stopped. I knew she had already severe problems with artery system in her legs. The surgery was too much for her already tired body.

I don’t think the doctors made much of an effort to resuscitate my mother. I even believe they did not try.
They made the right decision I’m sure. I knew my mother was fed up, tired, lost.

So I held my sister in my arms while she cried. We laughed with the memories we could come up with. I tried to be strong. Someone had to organize everything, think clear.

That evening my sister and I returned to the hospital in order to greet my mother. My sis did. I choose not to. My ex accompanied me but she was no comfort. She had never liked my mother, saw her as a concurrent while I was not a mother’s child at all. My mother hadn’t seen her grandchild’s much either. My kids did not like her by either my mother or me were to blame for that.

My sister and I  then drove back to my mother’s place.
There where notes everywhere. On items telling us whom she wanted to give it to. Garbage was neatly packed in a sack with a note when they passed collecting it. And so on.
She had left her apartment clearly knowing she wasn’t coming back.

It was only then that I found release and I cried like I had never cried before.


May 12, 2006.
It had been a beautiful day. Sun is setting but it is still warm. The promise of a hot summer lingers in the sky.

My Sister, N. her girlfriend and I are sitting at the border of a small river. It is a place where my mother enjoyed a great childhood.
We pass the bottle of Sandeman Port, we drink, laugh and share memories. Port was what my mom loved drinking in those last, painful months.  Maybe too much but fuck, whom are we to judge. Whatever brings relief, release, pleasure when the end is clearly nearby is okay with me.
The deep blue colored metal urn we are sitting around catches rays of sunlight. Sparkles.
The sun is descending, the day ending.

With my Swiss army knife I force open the seal. We are going to break several laws but I don’t give a damn. Strict laws are not a complete answer for everything.

I open the urn and I see light grey dust.

My sister and I descend the slippery slope. The water is brownish because of the iron embedded in the soil. I can’t imagine my parent’s let me swim in this river when I was a kid.
I close my eyes and for a moment I can see my mom, a little girl, enjoying herself with her brother in an era so far away. Jumping in the water. Yelling for the attention of her parents.

Perpetual motion. That is what life really is I think. We are born, grow up, fuck, make kids, die and then our kid grow up and fuck and make kids. Some of us will change the world a little, for the worst or the better. But for the most of us it is about being born, fucking, giving birth and dying.

With a swift motion I slowly empty half of the urn. The ashes are engulfed by the brownish water and ported to an unknown destination.

The I hand over the urn to my sister. She empties it. We say goodbye to my mother for ever. No grave to visit. We have granted my mother’s last wish.


Most of the afternoon I’ve been thinking about posting this or not. I don’t want to sound envious or drowning in self-pity.

I took care of my mother and I loved her albeit I guess liked her would be a more appropriate description.

To be honest I did not have that bound my sister had with her mother. Sure, I miss her, sure I do think of her once in a blue moon. But that’s it. There is no one to blame really.

When I drove back home after having dropped Little A. at her boarding school earlier this evening there was this spot along the road. I remember having parked my car briefly after having received a call from the hospital all wasn’t well.
Then I knew I had to post this.

Princess and I is my personal diary and so this post, about emotions, fragments of my past, is a relevant part of my life, my story.

Never ever forget to show your love. Never forget to say sorry or to make things good again. Live and enjoy your life at its fullest.
With a mere fillip it is all gone.

My Mother – Planckendael Animal Park, March 27, 2003










REBLOG – The Breakup Protocol

I feel this subject is often overlooked. Here is an excellent article on how a submissive  experiences a breakup. I found this on The Ochre Muse, a blog I highly recommend visiting.

As submissives, we arrive in relationships as blank slates, ready to be drawn all over in whichever shades and shapes our dominants choose. We grow (or cut) our hair for them. We change the way we dress. We change where we dress and how we go out. We have (or don’t have) X number of orgasms when they’re not around. We wear (or don’t wear) the red French knickers and ben wah balls on Mondays between two and four. Our vanilla time without our dominants is often filled with protocols. Our entire lives become all about them.

Essentially, subs do what vanillas are advised against: never change for your lover. Never let them change the way you live your life or what you wear because when they’re gone it will feel as though the earth has been pulled out from under you. Try getting that right as a sub. It just ain’t happening.

Continue reading HERE

The Aroma of Coffee

When I wake up I know it is going to be a bad day. Are there other ones I ask myself in disgust.
I feel dizzy, my head ready to explode and my chest hurts from smoking too much yesterday.
My bed is big and empty. I cannot remember when was the last time a woman slept next to me.
The fog in my head is getting thicker.
It is raining outside, drizzly, disconsolate. I feel so depressed.
I suppress a rising feeling of nausea and grab the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. Empty.
My mood descends way below zero.

The dizziness is getting stronger. I slip out of bed and stumble to the bathroom where disorder awaits me.
Just in time I bend over the toilet hole. The stench of stale urine rising out of that dark yellow pit hits me hard in the face. I haven’t flushed in days.
I throw up last evening’s spaghetti and it leaves an acid taste in my mouth. I dab my face with cold water and rinse my mouth.

It is cold and dirty in the kitchen too.
I make some coffee and scuffle to the living room.

Soon the aroma of coffee fills the room but it can’t reduce my bad temper. It is so cold here and I feel abandoned. Coffee is not meant to drink alone.
Why for heaven’s sake did I even take the trouble?

The scent reminds me of her and I don’t need that now.
My mind drifts away to those simple breakfasts with her when the bed was not yet to big or empty and cold.
The hot cups of black coffee were our Sunday morning tradition after the lovemaking and to greet the new day.

While she was dozing after the intense sex I jumped out of bed, plunged down the stairs into the kitchen and brewed a can of delicious and strong coffee.
In the meanwhile she had pushed up the pillows and welcomed me back by lifting up the duvet.
She took it with her when she left me and I never replaced it.

No wonder I have cold legs and feet at night, I think. For a split second I am longing more for the duvet than for her.

A specific memory springs to my mind although just the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. Fucking melancholy does that to people.

On a Sunday morning, so beautiful time should have halted at that precise moment, she asked for sugar. I was a little surprised. She always takes her coffee black.
I remember smiling.
“Sweetie,” I answered, “if you play sugar I will personally add some cream…”
“You are a man with wicked thoughts,” she chuckled and grabbed my cock.

These memories seem like fragments of a past life I never lived. I suddenly get a depressing feeling I’ve aged centuries. That I have wandered through deserts of absolute emptiness. Lost my bearings and myself at the same time.
I realize I have been chasing unreachable shadows while tapping myself on the shoulders. Encouraging myself in a no good life. Sinking in a pool of murky self-pity. Hoping for something that would never happen.
She won’t come back.

I loathe myself and my prominent lethargy and lack of resilience. In my mind, I draw a thick line under this chapter. I decide, starting tomorrow, to be a blank slate again. Alert and open for what comes. I need to look at the sky instead to the ground. Longing for what lies beyond the horizon.

This day, this Sunday, I should use to dispel of the filth in my house and in my life.

I rummage through some audiotapes and decide a piano sonata by Chopin is the only music that can endure this morning.
Chopin is a miracle I think with his twinkling fresh sadness.
I now know that I do not want to cherish my pain. In stead I want to search for blue skies and banish the grey from my life.

Chopin will accompany me.