I never expected to be a widow at all really, being married to an apparently healthy man whose father and uncles lived long into their 80's and 90's. When, at frequent intervals over the years, I would say 'we must sit down and go through all this one day, Philip, because if anything happens to you ....', his reply was either 'Yeah, we must' or a jocular 'Don't be silly Gabrielle, I'll outlast you by decades.'
So when he died suddenly in his sleep - a heart attack with no warning signs or preliminary illness - I was shocked into a state of total disbelief, unable to comprehend that he had gone.
We'd never got around to having kids, like the greeting card says - 'Oops, I forgot to have kids!' We were so content with each other, with our jobs, our friends, travel, music, writing, that we just got on with life and loved every minute of it. So I am very alone.
When Philip died he was as happy as I'd ever seen him, loving life, loving retirement, our friends, his music, planning a road trip with the dogs along the south coast, Robe, Port Macdonnell, maybe up to Coonawarra, perhaps Italy again next year. But no. Not Now.
The day after he died I sat alone at the breakfast table looking out onto the garden where the two lorikeets arrive every day demanding apples. It was so quiet, the space around me so vastly empty. My enduring thought - 'this is what it's going to be like for the rest of my life'.
But then the required action kicks in. There's a funeral to be organised, people to notify, and so many things to be dealt with that nearly three weeks on I've hardly made a dent in the list.
When I finally got around to opening his laptop there were 758 emails to deal with. There are subscriptions to hundreds of groups to do with sport, music, wine and entertainment and oh how hard they make it to unsubscribe.The bank immediately froze our joint credit card because I was 'only No. 2' so the dozens of automatic direct debits found themselves suddenly declined. There, at Which Bank, I dealt with the coldest, nastiest man I've encountered in a long time. At my credit union the scene was very different and in the cool serenity of their building in East Hawthorn I was treated with all the care and kindness I could ever have hoped for and a hundred problems made to disappear.
The online automated times we live in make it impossible, in many cases, to deal with bureaucracy. In all the options from which to select there's never one that says 'He's dead.'
And as yet, no time to grieve. A dozen times a day I still think 'I can't wait to tell Philip'.
Like the day, on my way home from the funeral home, when I was stopped by the police for driving an unregistered car (2 days out of rego.) It was too much and I howled like a baby, tears and snot pouring down my face while I yelled at them that old cliché 'Haven't you got anything better to do than this?' (I paid it - through the tears -when I got home; they rang later and apologised.)
A dear artist friend spent days painting one of those wonderful LifeArt coffins only for us to find out the day before the funeral that Philip, at 6 ft 3 inches, wouldn't fit in it.
But the funeral was magnificent and one of my dear friends from my PWE course commented 'I think you nailed Event Management, Gab.'
His friends and colleagues turned up in droves and expressed their love and admiration. Some sang, Philip's own version of Mr. Bojangles was played, others spoke, one conducted the whole service with humour, insight and love. They are supporting me still, every inch of the way.
There are precious guitars to give away, and I love the fact that they will go to true friends he's kept since school days. His copious wine cellar will go to the young couple who, ages ago, promised to take our dogs if anything ever happened to us. Then it was a joke. None of us ever thought it would be realised.
Tonight I sat alone watching yet another re-run of Maid in Manhattan. At one stage they played Eva Cassidy's version of Kathy's Song, a Simon and Garfunkel oldie that Philip himself played often and beautifully. I came undone then and sobbed helplessly until spaniel Archie intervened to lick my face in the hope that I'd stop.
I know plenty of other women have been through this, maybe not so early, but they survive and go on with life, as will I. As yet I can't imagine writing creatively ever again. Who is there to tell, to be proud?
But I try to remember that for over 40 years I had the unconditional love of this beautiful man. He wrote me the first love song in 1973 and the latest one at the end of last year. I shouldn't ask for more than that.
~*~
