Introduction:
Dwina Gibb Reflects on Love, Loss, and the Legacy of Her Beloved Robin
In her first interview since the passing of her husband, Robin Gibb, last May, Dwina Gibb opens her heart to David Wigg, speaking tenderly of their extraordinary love and the deep grief that followed his loss.
Inside the intensive care unit at the London Clinic, Robin lay unconscious, locked in a final battle with cancer. Dwina remained constantly by his side, determined to speak only words of hope, never revealing how precarious his condition had become.
Their son, Robin-John—affectionately known as R-J—kept vigil alongside her. They were later joined by Robin’s older brother and fellow Bee Gee, Barry, who had flown in from Miami. Having already lost his brothers Andy and Maurice, Barry was devastated to face the reality of losing Robin too.
Then, something extraordinary happened.
Dwina recalls how Barry began singing softly to his unconscious brother. To everyone’s amazement, Robin started mouthing the lyrics, despite being in a coma. When they played “I Started a Joke,” his lips moved in perfect time with the words, and tears rolled down his cheeks. It was a moment of emotional clarity—one that offered a glimmer of hope.
Later, when they played “Distress” from The Titanic Requiem, an orchestral piece Robin had co-written with R-J, the monitors began to fluctuate dramatically. “Wow,” a nurse whispered in awe. Moments later, Robin opened his eyes, as if summoned back by the very music that defined him.
They were gifted a few precious weeks together after that. But ultimately, pneumonia claimed his life.
Dwina met Robin in 1967 at a popular restaurant on King’s Road. He had just begun his rise to fame with his brothers Barry and Maurice. She remembered vividly how Robin spoke of their shared passions—for art, creativity, and each other.
Throughout his two-and-a-half-year battle with liver and colon cancer, Dwina never left his side. They remained hopeful to the end, refusing to accept the possibility of goodbye. When the end did come, Dwina felt as if a part of herself had been torn away.
“There’s a terrible finality when the soul leaves,” she said quietly. “During his illness, I found such strength. But now, I feel utterly drained.”
She describes grief as entering a wilderness: “It feels like starting life all over again.”
Sitting in the historic 12th-century Oxfordshire estate they called home—a former monastery once visited by Henry VIII—Dwina shares stories from their life together. In one corner of the music room, workmen recently uncovered a hidden patch of unusual blue brickwork, suggesting a secret tunnel. Robin would have been fascinated, she says.
In his final weeks, Robin longed to return home. He asked Dwina, “What am I doing here?” She recalls one last visit to the garden, tea in hand, dogs by his side—a peaceful memory.
“I still catch myself thinking I should bring Robin his tea,” she says, eyes misting.
Robin never acknowledged the possibility of death. They watched films together—Gulliver’s Travels, Jane Eyre, the Marx Brothers. He remained brave and hopeful.
“We had 32 years filled with everything—drama, music, laughter, love,” Dwina says. “Robin had a brilliant sense of humor. All the Bee Gee brothers did.”
They met in 1980 and quickly discovered they shared the same birthday. Robin was drawn to her creativity and commissioned drawings from her—ones she never finished, out of a superstition that completing them might end their bond.
Five years later, they married in a quiet ceremony, having forgotten to buy rings. They exchanged personal ones instead, including an Anglo-Saxon king’s ring and a star-shaped diamond ring.
Robin’s health issues began in 2010, when emergency surgery revealed an intestinal blockage. Cancer was later discovered, but Robin refused to let it alter his plans. He flew to Australia for a tour and to see his sister Lesley. Dwina, meanwhile, had to care for her mother in Ireland.
Eventually, they reunited and persuaded Robin to undergo further treatment. Dwina embraced holistic therapies and dedicated herself to his care. For a time, it seemed to help—but the cancer had already advanced.
“Robin showed more courage than anyone I’ve ever known,” Dwina says. “He kept creating, as if he knew time was short.”
Just months before his death, Robin told David Wigg during an interview in that very room that he believed he had beaten the illness. He was full of hope.
He poured himself into The Titanic Requiem, composed with R-J to mark the 100th anniversary of the ship’s sinking. One of the most heartbreaking moments for Dwina was attending the premiere alone, knowing Robin had longed to be there.
“Robin inspired creativity in everyone,” she says. “He lived for music. It was his soul.”
His voice, pure and haunting, would echo through the house, even at night. He kept a keyboard by the bed—ready for inspiration to strike.
Before the funeral, Robin’s body was brought home, dressed in his favorite suit and blue glasses. His loyal dog, Ollie, lay beside the coffin. Dwina chose a white coffin and a glass carriage drawn by black horses for the procession. Their son, R-J, delivered a touching tribute, calling Robin “my best friend, my daddy.”
Dwina read a poem she had written for him, My Songbird Has Flown. His other children, Melissa and Spencer, were also present. Each mourner placed a single red rose over the coffin.
Dwina still finds comfort in meditation and the belief in reincarnation. She sleeps with a teddy bear Robin cherished, bearing his initials.
Their home remains filled with memories—photos, books, and treasures from their travels.
“I had a wonderful life, a wonderful love,” she says. “There’s something divine about those who can touch millions with their gift. I was blessed to share in that.”
Now, she hopes to return to her own creative passions—to paint, to write, and to live on, carrying his legacy with her.
“I am eternally proud of Robin and everything he accomplished. And I am deeply honored to have shared my life with him.”