Rest in Peace, Gaby Charing

On the loss of a friend

My dear friend Gaby Charing has died. You will remember her from the letter she sent me in mid-March, “Abnormal times.”

I already have my death booked. After living for seven years with bowel cancer, I’m no longer having treatment. An end-of-life care package is a phone call away. I’m just stopped at the lights.

Death doesn’t frighten me. I’m past all that. Truly.

You, by contrast, weren’t expecting this. Yes, anyone can be cut down in their prime, but that isn’t what’s happening here. You’re all, understandably, scared out of your wits, afraid that, in spite of being, maybe, in rude health, you will catch the virus and die. This is not normal. It isn’t normal for an entire nation to feel that way.

Even though I knew she was dying, and had known for years the disease would kill her, I can’t escape my astonishment that it really happened. She had beaten the thing back so many times. I suppose part of me thought, irrationally, that she would keep defying all the odds and just keep staying alive.

She was a lion. Her mind remained razor-sharp until the end. She never succumbed, at least in front of me, to self-pity. She faced death with an extraordinary dignity. She wished, I know, to be remembered for that, and I will never forget it. She left me with an ideal I would like, when it is my time, to emulate. I don’t know if I can: None of us know until we find out.

She was not strong in the manner of someone in denial, or someone putting up a brittle façade. She was truly strong. Just plain courageous.

In our last conversation, she told me that dying was more pleasant than she expected it to be. She was, in a sense, lucky. She died of cancer, not Covid-19, and she did not die alone. Her pain was well-managed, she reassured me, and the window of her hospice overlooked a glorious heath in spring bloom. Her beloved wife Liz was with her until the end. Theirs was a great and romantic love story. She said she felt surrounded by the love of her friends, and she was.

Liz, too, faced their shared ordeal with a courage and dignity that I will always seek to emulate in my own life—although nothing so far suggests I’m capable of it.

In October, Gaby sent me this email.

Liz’s cousin Mike died today. Diagnosed six weeks after me with the same cancer … Fuck cancer. Jack Nathan, lovely guy, was diagnosed five weeks ago—yes, weeks—with pancreatic cancer, died on Friday. He loved winding people up and was the initiator of the disastrous discussion about the Armenians at a party last summer which led to Helen’s Turkish sister-in-law storming off. I’m sure she had no idea I was family. I hope we don’t meet again. Fuck cancer.

I suspected this was a terrible—and demoralizing—blow for them both, and replied, “I am so sorry. What a lot of terrible news. How are you and Liz holding up? You must both just be floored by this.”

“Nothing. Floors. Us. But yes, Liz is upset.”

“I hope that’s the inscription going on your tombstone,” I wrote.

She was quite pleased. “It’s perfect,” she replied.

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I can’t go to the funeral, of course. I am not sure whether she’ll be able to have a proper funeral. In one of our last conversations, she told me they had made plans for a funeral online, if need be. Her description of the rehearsal was hilarious, but I can’t remember why. (It involved having a friend play the role of “Gaby’s corpse.”) I will miss her so.

I feel such sadness for Liz. Socially distant is no way to endure a loss like this.

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I’ll take a day to compose myself, and then the newsletter will return as normal. I wanted just to say these few words in her memory, and let my readers know why I’ve been quiet these past few days. That is why.

I can’t offer you any advice. I can’t focus on any of this. I can feel myself gradually withdrawing from the world, cognitively and emotionally. I am desperately concerned and frightened for my beloved partner, Liz, and other people I love and care about. I’m just as frightened as you are. But I can’t engage with the wider issues, such as people’s absurd and irresponsible behaviour, or government policy on the virus. You deal with it. I’ve done my bit of living. I’m off.

I have no religious faith and I don’t believe in an Afterlife. I believe when I’m gone, I’m gone.

If it turns out I’m wrong, I’ll make sure that when you arrive, I’ve got the kettle on.

I hope she’s putting on the kettle right now.