In the wake of Hazel’s death some 18 months ago, I’ve been reading a lot about how people deal with the death of loved ones (my reading list is at the end).
It’s not that I’m trying to make sense of or find reasons for Hazel’s death – there is no sense to make and there are no reasons beyond a sudden, unexpected, and unpredictable medical episode.
Nor am I trying to find a way to deal with guilt or identify something I could have done to prevent her death.
What I’m interested in, searching for, is to make sense of my reactions, which seem to be quite different to many people’s.
I’m talking here about articulate and personal accounts by intelligent, literate people who have experienced the loss of their partner, as well as books by mental and social health specialists based on their experience counselling and supporting widows and widowers.
For context, I need to go back over some of my own history. You may have read some of this previous posts.
* * *
On the 5th of August 1981, my mother had a heart attack that killed her instantly. She was 61 years old, three and a half months short of her 62nd birthday.
If I remember my father’s account correctly, Mamme was sitting at the kitchen table in the morning in their home at Geeveston in rural southern Tasmania having a cup of tea and reading a newspaper. My father had just got up, they exchanged morning greetings and Pappe went back to their bedroom to do his exercises. At 65, he had had some heart-related episodes of his own and exercising was part of preventing their recurrence.
It suddenly occurred to Pappe that this was the day before their 32nd wedding anniversary and he came back to the kitchen to discuss what they might do to celebrate. He found Mamme dead where she sat. While she looked like she had just fallen asleep, he knew straight away that she had died.
I don’t know exactly what happened next but by the afternoon, I received a phone call from my brother Harry at the office of TUK, the theatre-in-education company several friends and I had formed and which had that very afternoon decided we would wind up after a year of touring schools with our mime, puppetry and singing show.
Harry broke the news to me that Mamme had died. Our mentor, Michael Freeland, immediately offered to drive me to Claremont, the home in the suburbs north of Hobart where I had grown up and the family was gathering.
Everyone was in shock and tears, but what struck me was my father’s state. He was sitting in a chair in the living room being comforted by my sister Yulia, and he was almost catatonic, just staring straight ahead with no expression on his face, tears falling down his face.
He briefly acknowledged my arrival and went back to his passive mourning. In the following hours, he revived somewhat but seemed too stunned by what had happened to talk much or do anything.
My oldest brother Eddie had long moved back to the Netherlands, so my next oldest brothers Harry and Andrys took charge, making phone calls and taking on all the organisational tasks that need to be taken care of when someone dies.
If I remember correctly, it was they who went to the morgue to identify Mamme, two young men bearing this and other burdensome responsibilities my father just couldn’t cope with at that time.
* * *
On the 5th of February 2025, Hazel had a heart attack that killed her instantly. She was 62 years old, four and a half months short of her 63rd birthday.
I, 65 years old, was in my office at one end of the house when my daughter Augusta came rushing in, extremely distraught, crying “Dad! Dad! There’s something really wrong with Mum!”
I ran to Hazel’s office at the other end of the house and saw Hazel sitting in her chair at her desk, looking as if she had fallen asleep – except that her lips were tinged blue.
I felt for a pulse at her throat and as her head moved, I knew for certain that she was dead.
With help from Augusta’s partner Julian, we manoeuvred Hazel out of her chair and onto the spare bed next to her desk, while Augusta rang 000.
When the emergency operator came on, Augusta gave me the phone and I listened intently as the operator told us to move Hazel from the bed to the floor, loosen her clothing and begin CPR until an ambulance with paramedics could get there.
For perhaps 10 minutes, Julian and I alternated applying CPR according to the operator’s instructions. One ambulance and then another arrived and the four paramedics, three men and a woman, took over.
For 20 minutes, Julian comforted Augusta as we stood by and watched two of the paramedics continue the CPR, while the others hooked Hazel up to medical equipment to monitor her heart activity. There was none. They administered an injection of something and looked for activity on a different machine. There was none.
By this time, all manner of thoughts were flying through my head, not least my awareness that 15 minutes without blood to the brain would almost certainly bring about a vegetative state, at best. I found myself hoping they didn’t revive Hazel.
They couldn’t. They didn’t. The paramedics solemnly stood up and expressed their condolences. Augusta, who had stood by so determined to will Hazel to be alright, crumpled into Julain’s arms. He led her away to sit down as the paramedics explained they would transport Hazel’s body to the morgue.
While two went to get a trolley from the ambulance, the other two unhooked their equipment, packed it up and asked us if we wanted a moment to say goodbye.
I knelt beside Hazel, kissed her lips, her face, her head and whispered some words of farewell and that I loved her.
As Augusta and Julian took my place, I went to the front porch where the paramedics waited with the trolley. As two of them wrestled the trolley through the narrow hallway and into the office, one of the men put his arm around my shoulder and said, “You know, it wouldn’t have made any difference if we’d been standing right beside her when this happened. It was instant. And she wouldn’t have felt a thing, no pain.”
As I considered the relative solace of this, I remember wondering why then they had worked so hard to revive her. I didn’t say it out loud, as I guessed that they had to follow a procedure even if they knew it was hopeless.
I have to say those four paramedics were outstanding. They were extremely efficient but also very compassionate. They didn’t let the hopelessness of their task show, and their sadness at not being able to save Hazel was evident.
They talked me through what would happen next: where they would take Hazel, what would happen there, that a forensic photographer would come and police to interview us.
The latter is because when a person dies suddenly at home, the police must try to establish that there was no foul play. As I wondered about the impact this would have, particularly on Augusta, I made a conscious decision that I would take on as many of the post-death tasks as I could.
It would be bad enough for Augie and Julian to have to talk to the police without having to deal with all the other things.
As I noticed several neighbours looking on with worried faces and holding each other close, Hazel was wheeled out on the trolley covered by a sheet and loaded into one of the ambulances. I started a mental check list that included visiting them personally to confirm what they all would already know had happened.
The two ambulances departed after more expressions of consolation from the paramedics, and I went back inside to wait for the police, closing the front door behind me.
I decided that I would not fall into helplessness as my father had, that I would not ask my children to take care of things.
* * *
The police phoned first to advise they would be there shortly and to please not move anything in the room where Hazel died. I closed the office door, pausing a moment to look at the empty space on the floor where Hazel had lain, and went to explain what would happen to my daughter and her partner.
We discussed what we needed to do, led by calling my other daughter Mae in Canberra and Hazel’s sister Aileen in Brisbane, now the only remaining member of Hazel’s family in Australia. They both said they would come to Corrimal immediately.
Two uniformed police officers arrived, a female constable and a male senior constable, both in their mid-twenties by my guess. As the female went to the living room to talk to Augusta and Julian, the man and I sat down at our dining room table.
He was also very kind and compassionate, expressing his condolences as he took out a pen and opened his notepad. He interviewed me for 15 or 20 minutes, taking copious notes.
I realised many of the details he was jotting down were contextual, not directly related to what had happened, but more a profile of our family life and personal relationships.
He didn’t explain, and I didn’t ask him to, but it was clear he was trying to determine whether there was any need for a deeper police investigation.
When the paramedic had told me the police interview was standard when someone died “at home”, I at first thought they meant as opposed to on the street or while out shopping or something. I realised later that the distinction “at home” was as opposed to in a hospital or hospice, under medical supervision.
As the policeman closed his pad and was explaining that I would be contacted by the coroner’s office, which would contact Hazel’s GP and determine whether an autopsy was required, the policewoman showed two plain clothes detectives into the dining room.
They went into the kitchen with the uniformed officers so they could brief the detectives on their interviews with us, then stood in the dining room to ask me some very direct questions about my relationship with Hazel and the events that had taken place.
They did not try to be compassionate and remained very neutral and straight faced, as they explained they would be looking into our financial affairs, medical reports, and other facts that would help them determine whether there had been foul play or not. They did express the opinion that at this stage they had no reason to think a crime had been committed, but I would receive confirmation of that by phone in due course.
They asked if I knew whether Hazel had a will and I said she did and had named an executor for her estate. They suggested I contact the executor and let them know what had happened.
As they were leaving, the forensic photographer arrived. A gum-chewing young woman with spiky blond hair, she had a large camera which she used to take a series of photos of Hazel’s office, our bedroom, the living room, kitchen, dining room, rumpus room, and my office. She even snapped the contents of the bathroom cabinet and the downstairs laundry.
Relaxed and chatty, she explained that these photos would provide context for the coroner and the police. She made the observation that the bedroom looked like Hazel was the only one using it for sleeping. I conceded that I had taken to mostly sleeping on the rumpus room couch for practical reasons: my restless sleeping, Hazel’s snoring, and my getting up early and going into my office next to the rumpus room – that it wasn’t a sign of a troubled relationship.
She said in itself that was of no great concern, in fact in her experience many older people in long term relationships chose to sleep apart. “Better than breaking up, right?”
She said the coroner’s office would be in contact by phone and by mail and in time would issue a death certificate which I would need to take care of various administrative details. She packed up her gear, and I showed her out the front door.
If I remember correctly, Julian and Augusta decided to go his parents’ house to tell them what happened and (probably) to get away from the scene of Hazel’s demise.
I was left to ponder everything that had just happened, and what would happen next.
* * *
The list of things that need to be done is long and daunting, to say the least. I was determined that I would accept the burden and not place it on our daughters.
Many tasks had to wait until I had Hazel’s death certificate and that took a while, as the coroner had to determine the cause of death and other details before they could issue it. That gave me time to build a checklist of official things that needed to be done.
There were also three things I had to take care of that were not on any checklist.
Hazel was the curator for the 2025 program of screenings by the Illawarra Film Society. She had organised for the first film, Oscar & Lucinda (1997), to be followed by a Q&A live on stage with the director Gillian Armstrong. It was an extraordinary achievement to have a now world-famous director participate in this event at a small suburban cinema outside of Wollongong, and it’s a profound testament to Hazel’s powers of persuasion that Armstrong agreed.
Hazel herself was astonished when Armstrong’s people said she was in. It encouraged her to approach the film’s Australian star, Cate Blanchett, whose feature film debut this was opposite established star Ralph Fiennes. Blanchett’s people said she was overseas, but they’d ask. In no time, Blanchett, now one of the most famous and multiple award-winning actresses in the world, responded, saying she would film a video tribute to Armstrong to be screened on the night.
Hazel was over the moon, and very excited to be the one conducting the Q&A with Armstrong. We talked about whether she could swing similar deals for other films in the program. I pointed out that Richard Tognetti, who recorded the violin performance given by Russell Crowe in Master & Commander (2003), was a Wollongong boy and we knew his mother Irene.
I was tasked with contacting Irene, who said she’d ask Richard. He tentatively agreed if it could fit with his performing schedule with the Australian Chamber Orchestra. He also floated the idea that the director Peter Weir and Crowe might be interested.
It was extraordinary that all these leading lights of the movie world were prepared to come to Warrawong. Only Hazel could have dared to not only consider it but make it happen.
And then just four days before the opening night of the 2025 season, Hazel died.
So now I had to tell the Film Society what had happened and help them make alternative arrangements. Fortunately, Hazel’s close friend Caroline Baum, one of the most skilled and well-known arts journalists in the country, and a near neighbour, agreed to step to do the Q&A.
I couldn’t bear to attend but Armstrong, after being surprised by the Blanchett video in which the actor credited the director with giving her a career, paid tribute to Hazel and wished she could have met her.
Another thing I had to do was let the organisers and attendees of a planned reunion of staff from Who magazine, where from 1992-98 Hazel had been a researcher, writer, and editor, know that Hazel would not be attending. These were not only colleagues but close friends who had remained in contact all these years later.
The reunion was planned as a tribute to the foundation editor of the magazine, Tom Moore, who died in late 2024. Now, it would also be a remembrance of Hazel.
The third extra task was that, after discussion with my daughters, we decided not to have a funeral but a celebration of Hazel’s life. We decided on 8 March as the date, 5 weeks after Hazel’s death. We wanted to not wait too long but this gave us only a short time to organise a venue, catering, seating, displays, and most importantly, guests.
Augusta and Mae helped with arrangements here, sorting photos to display, a video slide show, music, and discussing options for food and drinks.
I approached Corrimal Surf Club about hiring their upstairs room for the event, right on Corrimal Beach with good parking, a bar, plenty of room, and a grassed area outside. The club, acknowledging how Hazel and I had volunteered for them on committees, websites, and sausage sizzles when our kids were Nippers there, agreed and refused payment.
Local caterers, furniture hirers, florists, even the bottle shop all went to great lengths to help and some gave us significant discounts.
I went through Hazel’s and my lists of contacts and started phoning, texting, and emailing about 120 people. In the end, more than 100 people turned up. They flew in at short notice from every state, people who knew and loved Hazel from primary school to university, every place she’d ever worked from ABC Radio in Newcastle to AusTrade (several colleagues brought a condolences book with messages from 120 people around the world), friends from her days in Newcastle, Sydney, and Wollongong, neighbours, parents from our children’s schools, her book club, the local theatre company – it was an amazing group.
We hung photos from all parts of Hazel’s life, built a display of the 36 books Hazel had written, ghost written, edited, or published, played music from a playlist we created, and showed a slide display on a big screen. Several people gave moving speeches on how they met Hazel and the role she’d played in their lives.
I acted as master of ceremonies and gave my own speech on how we met when she was a journalist for 2NC in Newcastle and had interviewed the cast of a play I was in, only much later realising she had contrived it as a way to set up a date with me.
Since Hazel had been creating the quizzes for the Qantas in-flight magazine for over 10 years, and everyone knew we both were quiz and trivia fanatics, I also constructed a Hazel Quiz: 20 questions about her life and times that no-one but I and our daughters could possibly know all the answers to but everyone was sure to know at least one. It went down a treat, with people yelling out answers and laughing through their tears.
The whole thing went even better than we could have dreamed, much better than a dreary, solemn funeral. Hazel would have loved it.
We did engage the services of a funeral director to help us organise Hazel’s cremation and the collection of her ashes, all of which was done efficiently and compassionately.
* * *
Back in the days following Hazel’s death, there much more serious administrative tasks to care of, not least untangling 39 years of joint bank accounts, credit cards, home ownership, health and home insurance, utilities accounts, internet and phone, council rates, media and print subscriptions, taxation arrangements, and more.
Then there were all the things that were specific to Hazel, like social media accounts, memberships, charitable donations, individual subscriptions, shares, superannuation, medical and dental services, and still more.
And then there were the notifications required with the Registry of Births and Deaths, local, state and federal government, Motor Registry, and yet more.
We had to decide what we do with Hazel’s possessions: we decided to not even think about her clothes for the time being (and still haven’t 18 months later) but to sell Hazel’s electric car.
Which brought us to Hazel’s will. I contacted the executor of her estate, who was a local, a close friend, and a member of the Book Club. We sat down with her to go through the will, which was as efficiently drawn up and specifically detailed as pretty much everything Hazel did.
The executor agreed to engage a solicitor to handle things on all our behalf, and there was much signing, photocopying, notarising, and endorsing of documents.
Eighteen months on, the estate is still not finally settled but there’s only items left to take care of, and I’m assured this is not only not unusual but relatively brief compared to many people’s experiences.
* * *
Mae was already living in Canberra, and Augusta and Julian decided to rent a flat together, so I’m living in this big old house at Corrimal with just Baxter the cat for company.
I considered the common option of a widower my age selling the house and downsizing to a flat and went as far as getting a real estate agent to give the house an appraisal, if not a formal valuation. We know from council documents that the land alone was valued at $800,000 a few years ago, and the agent felt a selling price range of $1.4-$1.6 million was realistic, even with the fair number of things that could or would need to be fixed by a buyer.
That’s not bad improvement from the $450,000 we paid for it in 2006.
I even talked to a family down the street who had letterboxed the area explaining that they had three young children living in a small apartment and were hoping to buy a house like ours. They came over for coffee and loved the look of the house. They were putting their flat on the market for $1 million and felt they could afford $1.5 million on the right house – like this one. We discussed swapping houses but on visiting I found their place to be too small for me, especially the low ceilings.
Since then, I’ve thought deeply about it, and realised I really don’t want to leave this house. It is, of course, packed with things that remind me every day of Hazel, from our nearly 4,000 books, almost 100 artworks and photos on the walls, more than 30 pot plants, and countless knick-knacks, ornaments, memorabilia, and decorative items scattered throughout the house.
I know many people choose not to remain in the house they shared with a deceased partner, especially when that partner died in their house, but I feel the opposite. I’d much prefer to keep living in the house we shared for 20 years, where we raised our children, where we planted seedlings that are full grown trees now, and where I’m reminded of Hazel all the time. I find it comforting that Hazel is around me every day.
I continue to grieve the loss of Hazel. Her death was shocking, unexpected, and completely unfair. At 62, she was at a peak in her working life, secure in a job she both loved and thrived in, the loving mother of two young women, and relatively content with her lot. Our relationship had lost a lot of its passion, and we were, to some extent, disappointed with each other but we’d also worked out that it was better to stay together than apart.
Friends tell me I’m handling things well, but that isn’t always true. I cry very easily at pretty much anything slightly moving or emotional, and sometimes I can hardly breathe for sobbing for no reason at all. I miss Hazel terribly, especially at times like now when I’m considering my work future, something I’d had almost 40 years of discussing with no-one but her.
I do think two things have prevented me from descending into unfathomable and irrecoverable overt grief.
First, by the time Hazel died, I had experienced grief many times. My mother died when I was 20, my father when I was 33, my oldest brother 14 years later, and my next oldest brother just four years ago. I’ve locked eyes on our beloved Border Collie as she was euthanised and I’ve wept in the back garden over the bodies of our two pet rabbits.
I know grief, I don’t fear it, and I can live with it.
Secondly, I think taking on the whirlwind of postmortem activity that Hazel’s death brought both kept me too busy to let myself get maudlin and simultaneously made the fact of her dying something I couldn’t ignore and had to acknowledge, process, and stay focused on.
I take some consolation from the manner of Hazel’s death – not in its effect on those of us around her – but that it was instantaneous and painless. I don’t fear a death like that but a slow descent into dementia and aged care. I’d much prefer to go Hazel’s way.
My Reading List
(these are not recommendations, just what I’ve been reading)
Personal Experience
An Ocean and a Day, Hannah Richell, 2026
Ghost Stories: A Memoir, Siri Hustvedt, 2026
Memorial Days, Geraldine Brooks, 2025
Levels of Life, Julian Barnes, 2013
The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion, 2012
A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis, 2001
Sometimes Hearts Have to Break, Petrea King, 1997
Analysis and Opinion
We’re All Going to Die, Leah Kaminsky, 2016
On Death and Dying, Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, 2011
Bereavement: Studies of Grief in Adult Life, Colin Murray Parkes, 2010
Nothing to be Frightened Of, Julian Barnes, 2008
Bodies in Motion and at Rest, Thomas Lynch, 2001
Funerals, Obituaries, and Mourning
Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, Caitlin Doughty, 2015
The Dead Beat, Marilyn Johnson, 2006
The Undertaking, Thomas Lynch, 1998
In the Midst of Life, Graeme Maxwell Griffin, 1982
The American Way of Death, Jessica Mitford, 1981
Fiction
Departure(s), Julian Barnes, 2026
When I Am Sixty-Four, Debra Adelaide, 2026
Circle of Wonders, Kathryn Heyman, 2026
Shark Heart, Emily Habeck, 2023
Grief Is the Thing with Feathers, Max Porter, 2015
The Fault in Our Stars, John Green, 2012