I have never been captured by the value of visiting a grave-site or memorial garden. Very old ones can be charming or have historical interest, but I have never felt the presence of a loved one in such a place. In any case, today is not the day to visit a grave yard.
Even so, I did lose almost the whole of myself on this day 23 years ago with the sudden passing of my husband, Michael. It had been a summer and a day much like this, with not a cloud in the sky. Laura was visiting her cousin in Brisbane, and Amy and I had been shopping for new bed linen and refurbishing Laura’s bedroom ahead of her return. Michael had been back at work that day, and was planning a dawn round of golf with his office team the next morning. But there was no next morning. The three of us ate dinner together, settled down to watch television, and then it was all over. Not everyone has a warning heart attack. Sometimes they just die.
What followed was horror and numbness, hardwork and loneliness. For the girls, I can barely say. They continued on with school and friends but their lives were changed in ways that I can only guess at now. To be honest, we seldom talk about it. They prefer other less subjective confidantes, and I understand that.
It has occurred to me many times over the years that I never really paid tribute to Michael. The funeral and the period leading up to it was my worst nightmare. I did not want to reflect and socialise. I wanted to get it over and be left alone with the children. I did not speak at the funeral because I feared I could not. I arrived at the moment the service was due to start and left immediately afterwards without talking to anyone. Only back at home, where most mourners followed me, could I breath enough to make conversation. But by then the time for speeches was past.
And in the days and weeks that followed, while I sat surrounded by flowers (in vases, buckets, pots, jam jars, whatever) and sifted through a mountain of cards and letters, I could not find the power to respond. All I could bring myself to focus on was what I had to do next – find a job, sell the house, buy a home closer to town (12 acres at Whitford was no longer manageable), get the house and garden up to scratch for marketing, suspend mortgage repayments, find a job, find a job, find a job.
I was doing Michael, and the many others who also lost him, a disservice.
Not only did his loss leave me shaken and numb and joyless – it also impacted the lives of many other people. His daughters, it goes without saying. His widowed mother and his family, who relied on him for support in a variety of ways. His peers and professional friends who lost a colleague. His work team that he had lead into unprecedented new territories, and especially those he had cajoled and pushed to take on new challenges in education and management roles. My father, who cried for perhaps the first time in his adult life when Michael died. My wider family, who lost a brother-in-law and uncle that took up a big space at the heart of our family.
We all lost the generous, expansive, straight-shooting, relentless achiever who never said an unkind word about anyone, and whose mantra was, “Let’s do it.”
He is gone, long gone, but never forgotten.
It is impossible to forget the man who hid behind a pillar to leap out and invite you to the school ball, and who could finish every sentence for you as you could for him. Michael always got what he wanted because he simply went out and got it. Once upon a time he must have wanted me. I am so glad, and now I am so sad just remembering.
I went on to work in a top six law firm, become a partner in another firm, and I am still practising law. I hope he would have been proud. His daughters have grown up beautiful and clever and as determined as him. I know he would have been proud. He has the most wonderful grandson ever. He would have been over the moon!
We survived, moved on, and eventually thrived. I know he would be happy for us because he loved us.
RIP Michael – we love you still.