Australia’s statistics for widows under 55 points out a sad trend

Three years after I lost Dan, I met Nick, a wonderful man who made space for the love I still have for my first husband. In the years that followed, we had our sons (now seven and five), but this isn’t about a finish line or about equating happiness with finding love. It’s about how you learn to live with the grief. For me, that means keeping Dan’s photos around the house (the boys refer to him as ‘Uncle Dan’) and keeping his memory central to the work that I do. It wasn’t the life I planned, but it’s a beautiful one.”

‘We didn’t have the tough conversations’: Melissa Reader, 50

“Mauro was this gentle giant with beautiful corkscrew curls, but he was also full of personality without a hint of arrogance. We met in a dingy Darlinghurst [Sydney] bar in ’97 and moved through all the major milestones quickly over the next few years. We started a business, got married, bought property and had three beautiful babies. With three kids under seven, life was busy, but it was wonderful.

It was only after our youngest was born that I realised Mauro wasn’t quite his usual self. He’d been complaining of constantly feeling unwell, but by the time he finally got around to getting things checked out, an ultrasound revealed a significant tumour in his kidney – advanced renal cancer. While Mauro went into treatment, I dived headfirst into logistics, juggling being the sole income earner with taking care of our children, but also remaining Mauro’s wife and caregiver. I spent that first year of his 15-month battle lying awake at night, gripped with fear. It seems so obvious now that he was dying, but your brain plays tricks on you to allow you to cope.

Mauro died in intensive care during one of his many admissions over the final months. I don’t remember much from that period – I was barely coping – but I remember thinking how sad it was that his death was so clinical, and how we never found the strength to have those difficult conversations like, ‘How are you going to raise the children without me?’, and, ‘How will you organise the finances after I’m gone?’

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It was a couple of years after Mauro’s death that I saw an opportunity to create Violet, a tech-enabled initiative that helps families talk about, plan for and manage the last chapters of life. At the same time, I met a wonderful man, Mark, who swooped in to love and care for a young family dealing with grief and trauma. I’m a much braver person as a result of what I went through with Mauro – I take bigger risks, and I’m far more decisive – but to be able to work on a legacy piece for Mauro? What a gift, and if I can help others navigate this space a little easier, well, that’s even better.”

‘It was like someone took our world’: Mitch Gibson, 61

“I met Mark online and what was supposed to be a quick drink turned into seven dates in seven days. Mark was instantly likeable and we both knew straight away that this could be the start of something. We ended up having 17 years together, with Mark pouring his creative energy into producing theatre, a comedy festival and countless events in the arts and corporate sectors, while I ran my own yoga studio.

Mark was only 52 when he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 2018. Although he’d experienced some niggly back pain for some time, nothing could have prepared us for the phone call that basically said, ‘It’s stage four; unfortunately you’re not a candidate for surgery, good luck with everything.’ It was like someone took our world, turned it upside down and shook it violently. I was already bearing the load of taking care of my elderly parents, and as Mark grew sicker, I had to sell my yoga studio. I just couldn’t be everywhere at once.

The grief that hit me when Mark died in 2021 was staggering. Throughout his illness, I’d been receiving psych support at Chris O’Brien Lifehouse [in Sydney]; after his death it took me a year to find the right grief support. That year, alone in lockdown with this fresh grief, was brutal. I longed to speak with someone who’d been through grief and really understood the isolation and disorientation.

My friends did what they could to be there for me emotionally, though I still felt isolated within my grief. It’s impossible to comprehend what you go through without lived experience. Curiously, while loved ones try to lift you out of your grief and this pain, a huge part of you wants to stay immersed in it; it’s our connection to our lost person.

My decision to become a counsellor specialising in grief and bereavement and caregiving felt purposeful after Mark’s death. I know what it’s like to be a carer at capacity and exhausted, and I know what it’s like when you’ve lost your person – and you’d trade anything to revert to being at capacity and exhausted. Whenever I meet a new client, I can talk with them about what’s happening with their person, discuss their main concerns and priorities, and get them moving forward rather than just spinning. Having been through it myself, I now understand you can never underestimate the importance of an experienced, empathetic ear and a guiding hand.”

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