One year on

One year ago on the 25th of April my love and life companion died. I am a little grateful that is was quick, even though it was such a shock. Everything I knew about how to live day to day had gone out the window. 

I cried for my loss, and for what he was missing out on in life. His absence hung over family gatherings.

My sister and my Hair Dresser Friend Al were so helpful to me in the two weeks after, whereby we had to organise his cremation. In a state of shock, I just got on with everything.

Family crowded around me initially but not many asked me later how I was doing. I don't blame them. I give the appearance that I am fine and getting on with things. Apart from a few crack ups, I was mostly ok. Kosov with the victim of the last one, when I changed from winter shirts to summer shirts, the summer shirts all beautifully ironed by Ray in the autumn before he died. That must have been when Philip had returned to Chennai. Poor Kosov, as he held me while I sobbed away. 

I miss Ray everyday. I miss his company. I miss his voluble speech. I come across as reserved. Ray was much more out there and talkative, even if he was talking rubbish, full of inaccuracies such as dates, people and places. 

I learnt not to correct him unless it was important, but he knew I was always listening to what he was saying with a critical ear. I would say nothing, but he knew I was listening.

Ray died intestate, so that made the wrap up of his life less complicated and I did not need solicitor help. But gosh there was a lot to do, and it is still not over yet. The hardest was his superannuation company. It wanted so much information, and then asked for the same information again. As I was named as a direct beneficiary, it was not part of his estate. It was less money than I thought, but very helpful. Around the same time my inheritance from my mother who died the year before at 89, came through.

I have stayed away from home, once for two nights in Geelong, five days at Sister's to look after her cats, and two nights with my friend in eastern Victoria. I keep thinking of local holidays and things I could do but I feel so impotent about making travel plans on my own. 

I am not sure if guilt is the right word, and let me explain about my relationship with Ray. He said I would always get my way. That is not true. I would put forward my thoughts and opinions and it was an agreed decision. Yet, take the kitchen tap. It was wrong. I should have researched more. It is ugly. Always looking at price, we chose the wrong one. That was my fault, even though it was a joint decision.  

Now I live without anyone standing over my shoulder, looking at how my hands might be ready to spill something, waiting for me to make a mistake without constant supervision as if I was disabled client, his field of work. 

Ray was a cupboard door slammer, to the point where a drawer once fell apart. It drove me crazy, yet WWIII would have broken out if I said anything. He would have said, "Fine. I'll stay out of the kitchen then. Cook your own food". Phyllis was doing the same, but I felt free to say, 'Phyllis, can you stop slamming cupboard doors', and he obediently did stop.

I've come to realise that I repressed myself to not have arguments, yet still we did have arguments. In spite of what I've said, we loved each other deeply, with a most amazing history of life together. 

I've said before, but not so precisely. It was like almost Ray had a premonition. On Anzac Day, a war commemorative day here, we sat at Port Melbourne bakery having brunch. Ray opined that he didn't think he was doing badly for his age, still driving, cooking meals, cleaning our home and keeping connected socially and with family. Of course I agreed, and he was doing well for his age. Yet by around 11pm that day, he was dead.

We both made the mistake of not really speaking about how much we meant to each other, or loved each other. It was understood but unsaid, I really wish I had said it much more. Partners are rarely perfect, but don't you make the same mistake. Don't be precious. Don't point score. Love and forgive the forgivable.

There is a link about what happened that night on my blog, but to remind you, https://fromthehighrise.blogspot.com/2024/04/anzac-night-life-changing.html 

Your comments on the post and all posts of the time when I felt so lost were so helpful to me, and I thank you all so much.

But cry not for me. As happens, the grief reduces over time and I've made somewhat of a new life. As some of you pointed out, the poignant photo of Ray's shadow tells me he still walks beside me.  

In brief

I had a wonderful late Sunday afternoon having drinks with a friend at a pub. But my social capital is fully drained. I am very busy tomorrow, and then I am away for day or so. See you all later in the week. 

Sunday Selections

Along with Elephant's Child, River and others I am joining for another week of Sunday Selections. 

I photographed this memorial at the Malvern Tram Depot, which must have been shortly after it was placed there, and there was a terrible spelling error on the stone. It is very hard to pick the error as it is an Aboriginal place name but it glared at me. The misspelt word is Prahran, spelt on the stone as Prahan. Now, wouldn't you think with a word like that, you would triple check the spelling before you began carving away? 

In my opinion the whole stone should have been replaced at the carvers expense, unless they were given a wrong spelling. Even if they were, the should still check again themselves, three seconds to check on your phone. 

If you look closely, you can see the mistake was 'fixed' by placing another piece of granite over the top of the first line. The photo is by Sandra Brown.  

Just gross incompetence. 

Rather like this sign that had to be corrected to Albert Road at the bottom, Park Street at the top, which similarly was fixed by covering over original mistake. Again, a three second task using your phone. I hope you and I did our jobs better than these two examples. 

Oh my, that is a big pink one.

When I mentioned HH and I took the recent backstage tour of the Arts Centre, HH asked if I remembered seeing her and her husband at the venue a long time ago. She had to stop talking then as the guide restarted speaking. I had the vaguest of vague memories of seeing them, but that was all. I stopped trying to remember and concentrated on the guide. 

We lunched together nearby after, and I said I couldn't really remember. Was it to see the Australian Pops Orchestra? No, she replied. It was something to do with Dusty Springfield.

Snap, I remembered. Ray's sister and her husband to be visited us in 2006. The four of us flew to Sydney for them to be married in the beautiful Botanic Gardens but before we went, we took them to see Dusty, a musical based on her life with lots of her music of course. It even covered the business about her performing in South Africa. I remember it being a terrific show and that's where we must have run into HH and her husband. My memory is usually better than that. Once home, I wondered. Yes, tightly packed into a bag was the theatre programme for the show. 

As prices for theatre programmes increased to a ridiculous amount, I refused to buy them. Especially when the internet was well established and you could check out the cast etc online. (And if there were some hot men in the cast, see what photos you could find of them on the net)

Maybe in 2016 I took some really good photos of plane flyovers during the Australian Grand Prix. I've never bettered them in spite of now using a superior camera. This was only half decent one.