This is, without doubt, the hardest blog post I’ve ever had to write, one it never occurred to me I’d have to.
On 5 February 2025, Hazel Flynn, my de facto wife and life partner of almost 40 years, died of a sudden, completely unexpected, and instantly fatal heart attack.
Hazel was sitting at her desk at home, when our daughter, Augusta, went into Hazel’s office to talk to her, and found her sitting upright in her chair, not breathing, ashen faced, and lips beginning to turn blue.
Panicked, she called me in, and as her partner Julian and I moved Hazel from her chair, she called 000. The operator said to move her to the floor and told us how to begin CPR.
It must have only been 10 minutes until the first ambulance came and the paramedics took over. A second ambulance came soon after and the four paramedics did everything they could for 20 minutes or more.
None of their ministrations did any good, and they had to tell us there was no hope of reviving Hazel.
Hazel’s death was sudden and instantaneous. One of the paramedics later told me it wouldn’t have mattered if they’d been standing right next to her, the heart failure was that sudden and complete.
The only blessing is that she would have felt nothing. In fact, when I came into her office, it looked for a moment like she had just fallen asleep.
Even now, two months and two weeks after her passing, I still can’t process it completely. It seems unreal that someone could be taken so suddenly and completely from our lives.
Because Hazel died at home, uniformed police had to come and interview us, followed by plain clothes detectives, followed by a forensic photographer, before people from the coroner’s office came to take her away.
The past 10 weeks have been a trial of administrative detail involving the executor of Hazel’s will, the solicitor engaged to deal with her estate, the coroner, the funeral director, the crematorium, and a never-ending stream of updating and changing details with banks, utilities, the mortgage, the electoral roll, Hazel’s car, and every one of the many service providers we used.
There’s a lot to untangle in 39 years of joint accounts.
The only leavening moment was when, a month after her death, we held a memorial service (for want of a better word) in place of a funeral. A hundred people came to the Corrimal Surf Club hall, some flying from interstate – family and friends from people who knew Hazel from high school through to her colleagues at Austrade, and every job she held in between.
Everyone was devastated, but we were determined to celebrate her life, to give her a fitting send-off. Six or seven people spoke lovingly, we had photos and videos, and a display of the books Hazel had worked on when she was in publishing.
The Austrade people gave us a condolence book in which they’d compiled over 120 notes from people all over the world.
I read out a 20 question quiz on Hazel’s life, which brought laughter and tears. There were a lot of tears, and hugs, and reminiscences. Everyone agreed Hazel would have loved it.
And now, with Mae in Canberra and Augusta spending more time with Julian, I have this big old house in Corrimal to myself, except for Baxter the cat, who’s terribly confused by Hazel’s absence and sits by her chair, or her desk, or her bed, and howls.
I’m determined to stay here, where I have Hazel around me in every room, at the same time as being confronted by her not being here.
Life seems full of contradictions right now, from having to deal with all the administrivia at the very time no-one should have to deal with it, through to wishing Hazel was here to help me deal with Hazel not being here.
I have the extra weird resonance of Hazel’s death with my mother’s 45 years ago. My mother was 61 when she died suddenly of a heart attack, my father was 64, and I was 20. Hazel was 62 when she died suddenly of a heart attack, I’m 65, and my daughters are 21 and 23. If history doesn’t repeat, it certainly rhymes.
I know almost everyone has to go through this in one way or another at some time in their lives, and I know I’m fortunate in many ways to have a lot of security and support, including from my employers, who have been fantastic.
It took me a while to decide to continue my participation in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. On the one hand, I’d feel bad about leaving my fellow cast members in the lurch, and on the other it feels therapeutic to put my energies into being someone else for a while.
The producers asked if they could put a dedication to Hazel in the program, and my daughters agreed.
And so, in a broken, bent, and incomprehensible way, life goes on. Just not Hazel’s.
I will miss her terribly.
