Chalkboard

Name: Carol Kummet

Age: 55

Tell me about the person who died: 

I was a new master of social work in 1992 when I first met Dr. Stu Farber, who was the medical director of a hospice program. Stu and I worked together for three years, after which I went to another hospice, while he moved to the Family Medicine Department at the University of Washington Medical Center and founded the Palliative Care Service there. In 2010 Stu called me to say that they were hiring a palliative care social worker, and I came back to join him. I was so lucky to be able to work on Stu's palliative care team. For four years, as a hospice and palliative care social worker and bereavement counselor, I cared for many patients and families, but I also ended up caring for Stu himself—my mentor, advocate, and friend—through his illness and death from leukemia. I'm not uncomfortable around grief and loss. Stu’s death, especially so shortly after the death of my mother, was unlike any sorrow I had ever felt.

Stu lived a life of service, teaching, and mentorship. His best teaching tool was his all out joy in the ability to be present for patients, families, and staff members who faced serious illness and uncertainty. Stu saw patients as people with stories, hopes, concerns, and strengths, and he trained generations of MDs to do the same. He taught us to apply our knowledge of the patient's story—what he called a patient’s “narrative thread”—to the medical care that person received. For example, he would challenge us to understand what, for each patient, was more important: fighting for more time in the hospital, or going home to be with family, even if it might mean less time alive. He loved to facilitate ways that families could support patients’ care, to allow them to die in their own homes, their own beds, with all they loved around them.

While Stu was dying, he wrote an essay about his experience in The Journal of Pain and Symptom Management. In it, he writes, “Personally, I always knew that I was going to die. I just didn’t believe it. Now I get it to my core. I am mortal. Knowing I am mortal is a sacred knowledge that makes each moment an awesome gift filled with opportunity for love, joy, and peace. It has transformed how I live my life. If I know I am mortal, then what is important? Sharing love and joy within my relationships: with myself, my wife, my family, my grandchildren, my friends, my colleagues, and the community in this very moment we are living.”

Stu died from leukemia on Feb. 27, 2014. 

What has your experience of grief been like since your loss? How did it change over time? 

From the first I found that all I had been counseling the bereaved about was true, all so true. I could not concentrate, I became irritable, I gained weight, I experienced changes in my sleep patterns, and I felt an exhaustion that I worried would never lift. Please remember that Stu died just after my mother—these two people were such supports and advocates for me. I felt so vulnerable after their deaths.

Stu’s counsel about grief has helped me through the process of grieving him. In his essay, he writes, “Grief is neither a problem to be solved nor a disease to be cured. It is a process to be experienced and supported that has added richness and meaning to my life I did not know possible. Once again, grief has been one of the many paradoxes that has leavened my life.”

Now I have more energy and my other grief symptoms have subsided. I am now working on creating lasting legacies for both Stu and Mom as I continue in relationship with them.

If you had to describe your grief as a literal landscape, what would it look like and feel like at different points since your loss? 

Barren. Exhausted. The weight of the world on my shoulders. Vulnerable.

Tell me about an object that reminds you of the person who died, and why? 

Stu and I were teaching a group of medical students the topic of grief and loss. He had such a great way of drawing out the students to make it safe for them to share their emotions. He asked the students for words to describe when they felt most alive, and wrote some of their comments on the super-old-school chalkboard: euphoria, freedom, peace, chronos, connected, authentic, colorful, laughter. I loved the look of it so I took a photo.

He also used "words that work" to elicit a patient's story. Those words are our outline in helping patients and their families tell their stories in light of their medical situation.

How did the people in your life support you in your grief? What was helpful? What was frustrating?

What was helpful was when people listened and allowed me to tell stories. What was frustrating was people assuming I'd be “over it” more quickly than humanly possible.

How did people who were grieving the same person respond to the death compared to you? What similarities and differences did you notice?:

I had the amazing fortune to care for Stu with the help of Dr. Katie Schlenker. Katie and I were all too aware that we were the palliative care team for the palliative care team's director and mentor. Katie supported me in my grief.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief? 

How all-consuming it was.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

I needed to continue to offer grief support to others because of my job as a grief counselor, so I often cried in private. I learned a lot from my bereaved clients as they expressed their grief.

Was there anything about your cultural or religious background that affected the grieving process for you?

I'm from Minnesota and we are a people that talk about death and dying. That helped.

How did your loss and your experience of grief change you?

My range of emotions is broader—I’m more sad about the small losses and more joyful about the small comforts.

I’ve been thinking about the way that Stu closes his essay on the process of his own dying. “As I gaze into mortality,” he writes, “love sits in the center of my consciousness. Love is the inspiration that creates my courage to move forward as a caregiver to my wife, a patient receiving care, a father accepting support from my children, and a human simultaneously living and inevitably dying in the miracle of this world. As I sit with my medical caregivers, I see fear of failure at the center of their consciousness, with death being the ultimate defeat. These professionals actively, albeit unconsciously, convey that living longer is always preferable to dying, but they fail to appreciate that the most important act is to support living in harmony with a narrative thread. It is another of the many paradoxes that I live within.”

Carol Kummet is a Minnesotan living in Seattle where she is a hospice and palliative care social worker.  Although a dog person, Carol currently lives with a cat named Lila in honor of her lovely aunt who died in 1996; she plans to adopt a dog once she retires. She loves her work, her family, reading, and quilting. 

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This is the last post from Grief Landscapes, an art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants shared an experience with bereavement, and I photographed an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. - Mindy Stricke

Iris

Name: Brandee Eubank

Age: 43

Tell me about the person who died:

My daughter, Erica, was the kindest, most generous, most sensitive person I had ever met. That sounds like something that a mother might say, but it’s true. Those are wonderful qualities but I remember wondering: how are you going to survive here, in this world? Everything affected her, deeply. I worried about her.

She was also a lot of fun. She loved to dance, goof around, camp, and explore; she loved animals, and color. She was drawn to beautiful things. After she died, seven years ago, one of the tattoos that I got in her memory was a bright blue bird. She was so beautiful, so full of energy, but so achingly fragile. 

And her skin. It sounds strange but I think about her skin a lot. She had the most beautiful porcelain skin. When I was around five or six, I imagined my future child. I remember wishing that she would have skin like Snow White, who I was obsessed with at the time. And she did—amazingly, because I don’t. She had smooth, white skin, and her cheeks flushed the loveliest pink. I remember how her skin looked, and what it smelled like through the years, and how it felt to press her to me. It’s unusual to see that exact complexion but when I do, my breath always catches.

I adored her. I had her very young, at seventeen. When I grew into adulthood it wasn't as my own person, it was as Erica's mum. I still haven't been able to quite figure out who I am beyond Erica's mum. It's like I lost my daughter and my identity at the same time.

I don’t always mention how Erica died and I suppose that comes from a place of protectiveness. Erica killed herself. I’ve heard the things people say about suicide and they are so often lacking in compassion or any real reflection. I am not sure I am prepared for people to think those things about my child, let alone say them out loud. Very often the act of suicide itself seems to overtake the entire narrative of a person’s life, reducing it to that one moment. She was a wonderful and complex being, and there was so much more to her story. I’ve only recently started to be more open about the choice she made but it still makes me fearful. I wish people were less reflexive in their responses because we do, societally, need to have these conversations.

What has your experience of grief been like since your loss? How did it change over time?

I cried every day for over a year after she died. My husband would leave for work, I would wait until I knew he hadn’t forgotten anything at home and the coast was clear, and I would start crying. Sometimes I watched TV shows that we had watched together–Gilmore Girls, America’s Next Top Model–and even comment out loud, as though she was there. I wandered the property and wailed like a wounded animal. Sometimes I would forget that the sound was emanating from me and I would startle and look around to see what kind of animal that was. I would pretty much cry on and off all day until about an hour before he was due to arrive home and then I would wash my face and rub ice under my eyes to get the swelling down. As if he wouldn’t notice. 

I don’t cry often anymore. My eyes well up but I hold back the tears and keep moving. I still play the what-if game (if I had done this, not done that, if she had been here and not there, if, if, if...) in my head all the time but I hide a lot of what I’m going through. I don’t know if it’ll ever end. The other day it occurred to me, “Hey–you know that you’re going to die, too.” And it was a relief to remember that.

I’m a wreck. But I present well.

If you had to describe your grief as a literal landscape, what would it look like and feel like at different points since your loss?

Oftentimes it feels like a vast desert. Windy, bare, desolate, beige. Other times it looks normal, except that I’m separated from everyone by this bubble that has closed around me. For all intents and purposes, there’s nothing out of the ordinary, except for the fact that I cannot fully connect with anything. There is something intensely isolating about being able to see everyone and everything happening around me but knowing that I am removed, separate, inside of this bubble that I don't remember creating.

Tell me about something that reminds you of the person who died, and why?

Erica drew me a picture of an iris at school one day and I still have it. It’s a bright purple flower and next to it she wrote, “Mom, you’re like a perennial. Beautiful and every year you’re still a blossom.” It made me laugh. I loved it. I kept it up until I realized it was losing its color and then I put it away. I keep it with her ashes now. But I have several purple irises tattooed on my forearm because it’s a memory that makes me smile.

How did the people in your life support you in your grief? What was helpful? What was frustrating?

My husband has been my biggest, and sometimes sole, support. He’s been tremendous, mostly in having no expectations of me. He’s never pressured me to be anything other than exactly what I am in the moment. He doesn’t ask me to talk but he’s there to listen if I choose to speak. I can cry, not cry, demand to be alone, need him near me. He rolls with my moods, I don’t have to explain myself to him. That acceptance and freedom has saved me.

I was surprised by some of the reactions of friends and acquaintances. I think people are afraid of death, and the death of a child is the scariest. Some people reacted like I might be contagious. Others wanted, almost immediately, to know how I was moving forward. What positivity I had been able to find in the situation. One female family member told me, about a month after Erica’s death, that if it was her she’d use the experience to try to help other people through similar situations instead of thinking about herself. She didn’t have children at the time.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning? 

I haven't mourned publicly, outside of those instances early on when I broke down before I could escape a situation. I'm a little bit like an injured animal in that way. I prefer to slink off and deal with my wounds in private. Even seven years later, when I allow the myself to really experience the pain it leaves me howling and gasping. People may say that they want me to share, but no one wants to really see that kind of thing. And I don't say that in a self-pitying kind of way. I don't want to share that with anyone either. I don't think I could even force myself to be that vulnerable in front of anyone.

Was there anything about your cultural or religious background that affected the grieving process for you?

I sometimes wish that I believed in an afterlife. That I would see her again. But in some ways it's better that I don't. I briefly entertained the possibility after she died and I panicked, wondering if I should die immediately too, so that I could be there for her. What if she needed me? She must need me. And maybe there was some time limit, for catching up to a person after death. That was a crazy period. 

What helped me was looking outside of my own Western culture. The self-help books, grief counseling, “finding positivity in negative events”, talk therapy–none of it is stuff I can relate to. It made me feel even worse for a while, that I couldn't move forward in the expected ways. But then I remembered a documentary I had seen, I don't know about what, and the documentarian is walking through this village and an old woman is sitting on her porch, crying. She looks miserable. And one of the villagers says, matter-of-factly, "Oh, that's (so and so). Her son died many years ago. Sometimes she cries." Sometimes she cries. And no one is freaking out or dragging her to therapy or suggesting a book she should read. 

People all over the world lose children every day and they're not expected to "do something" about it. It doesn't make me special to have lost a child, it's just sad. And I don't have to develop a mission statement around that sadness.

How did your loss and your experience of grief change you?

I’m kinder now. It’s part of trying to carry her forward but it’s also because after she died I wondered with whom she had come into contact that day, or the day before, and whether they had shown her any kindness. Was someone nice to my child? Or did she not interact with anyone in a gentle way before she died? Since she had recently moved to another province, I don't know these things. So I am hyperaware that everyone is someone’s child, and I want them to know kindness and love. 

The downside of that is that I am even more sensitive to the harm we do each other and I don’t know if that’s something I needed heightened. Every time I hear a bigoted statement, or a cruel comment, or a selfish position, I am just gutted. Someone's child is hearing those words. 

At the same time, the little things (and most things are little things) don't bother me anymore.

Brandee Eubank lives with her husband, Shane, and their beloved golden retriever, Ben, in a small house on the Alberta prairies. Together they run a small business and in her free time she writes.

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants shared an experience with bereavement, and I photographed an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. 

Wedding Ring

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Wedding Ring, 2016

Name: KS

Tell me about the person who died: 

My husband was on a mountain climbing trip when an earthquake hit. Large pieces of the mountain fell and crushed several climbers, and he died. 

He was my best friend. We had known each other for 15 years before we got married, and had similar values and temperaments. 

He was also a supportive partner. I am Asian and many of us are still pretty traditional. Even among my generation, there are certain traditional expectations that remain in many of our psyches, such as the onus of housekeeping being on the woman, whether she works or not. Given this, I really appreciated his non-traditional view that both partners play an equal role in housekeeping and child-rearing. Because I had his full support, I was able to pursue a demanding career and yet feel secure as a wife and mother.

Part of my regret is that my children will never see what a good man their father was. Though I know they can also see good values embodied in other people like myself or their aunts and uncles, I wish they could experience what it is like growing up with a father who truly believed in gender equality and the need for female empowerment in our society.

What has your experience of grief been like since your loss? How did it change over time?

I felt completely lost for a while, regarding my identity, purpose, priorities, what needs to be done, and how to do things that were usually his job, like the bills. Now I am in the middle of forging a new sense of self, and learning how to do things I never knew how to do before. It feels overwhelming at times, but I just tell myself, “Who would have thought I'd know how to do this?” and press on. 

For a long while I couldn't feel much of anything apart from grief. Often I would smile at or play with my children, while being conscious of feeling numb inside. Though this sensation remains, I have also begun to able to feel grateful about the little blessings.

Most of all, I feel that my grieving is... stunted? I felt as though I never was able to mourn for him properly as I was pregnant and then busy with caring for my children while working and settling all the necessary and numerous post-death matters. I look forward to the future when my children are grown up and I can go off somewhere just to mourn for him for as long as I want.

If you had to describe your grief as a literal landscape, what would it look like and feel like at different points since your loss?

I associate my grief with darkness. It is nights that I miss him the most; when we would come home and be with the children, when we would put them to bed, when we would have our quiet time together. It is nights now when I finally have some quiet time to mourn for him, to grieve and think of him, to pray for him.

When I look forward to having the time and opportunity in the future where I can go off somewhere to finally mourn for him as long as I want, I imagine it inexplicably as an airport hotel overlooking the runway, or a chalet by the beach. Maybe it is because they remind me of places we often found ourselves, or maybe I unconsciously find something soothing about planes in flight and the sea.

Tell me about an object that reminds you of the person who died, and why?

Due to the nature of his death, I couldn't see his body. Also, he died in another country, and when his body arrived, he had to be buried almost immediately. I literally had only minutes with him during the funeral. 

But before the funeral began, someone passed me his wedding ring. It was a simple and broad titanium band. It was badly chipped. When I saw it, I broke down. Part of it was grief, but part of it was gratitude to that person who had thought it important to return it to me. 

How have the people in your life supported you in your grief? What was helpful? What was frustrating?

I found people who gave me space most helpful. I found people who imposed themselves on me frustrating. And I found people who belittled my feelings hurtful.

How did people who were grieving the same person respond to the death compared to you? What similarities and differences did you notice?

Some people talked about him or their grief about his death openly. That was how they coped. For me it was different. I could not and did not like to talk about it. A year on, and I still dislike talking about it, though I am better able to now.

How has your private grieving related to your public mourning?

They are unrelated. Generally I do not show my grief publicly and go about my life as usual. But that makes living exhausting.

Was there anything about your cultural or religious background that affected the grieving process for you?

I am a Muslim. We believe that while God gives us free will, a few things are predetermined like our time of death. That helped stop me from dwelling on thoughts like, "If only he hadn’t gone on that trip.” I also took comfort that he died on a day and in a way that was described in the Quran as a “good” day and way to die. So that helped me to be less self-absorbed in my grief as I reminded myself that there are signs his death might have brought him eternal bliss. I cannot know for sure, of course, but since he was destined to die that moment, it could have been worse... God took him in ways that seem blessed, and for that hope I am thankful.

Were there any personal or public rituals or structures that helped you in your grief?

Scheduling, time management: this helped me to manage my life and my children better and gave me some sense of control and accomplishment, reinforcing the belief that I can do this on my own.

Having my own time at night, after the children are asleep or between night feedings. To cry, to mourn, to talk to him or to God.

Putting my phone away when I feel particularly weak. Communicating “normally” with people or surfing the web somehow sap my energy. So staying away from my phone helps me to conserve energy and I get back to it when I feel stronger.

How has your loss and your experience of grief changed you?

It shifted my priorities—how I live and why I live. I used to want it all: family, career, friends, everything. Now I just live for my children, and have very little desire for anything else. 

It has made me weaker, and stronger. Before, I could never have imagined the dark depths my mind has gone into, and yet my ability to come out of it each time has made me better realize my strengths.

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants share an experience with bereavement, and I photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. 

Rocks

Name: Pam Hoffman

Age: 34

Tell me about the person who died:

The expression "two’s company, three’s a crowd" has never really applied to my sisters and me. More like “two’s company, three’s a party.” Fast-paced words, comical hand gestures and facial expressions—our own unique brand of communication when together. We didn’t start out as three; for six years Katie and I were just two. (Katie was 22 months older.) Then came our “bonus baby”—Wendy. The dynamic of our trio is such that we have always rotated roles. No one person was ever consistently in charge or consistently left out.

The three of us were raised in a way that celebrated our individuality. We were privileged to grow up in an environment that not only permitted but encouraged us to find our own paths. While Katie would be in the “art room” working on her latest creative project or curled up on the couch lost in a book, I would be tearing around the garden on my bike or practicing my netball shots for hours in the backyard, while Wendy would be rehearsing her latest dance routine or Disney movie scores for a performance in our hall later that evening. Katie always used her talents to help Wendy and me as children—she would happily make an animal sculpture out of Wendy’s mashed potatoes (only then would Wendy eat it) and do my music theory homework for me (which took me hours and her mere minutes).

We weren’t perfect. We have had many challenging moments with one another. Fortunately, the older we got, the closer we became. We grew to celebrate our differences and have always found joy in our similarities. For Katie and me, absence really did make the heart grow fonder. The distance between us once she moved to the UK from South Africa became a bridge, and after tumultuous teenage years we developed a truly exceptional long distance relationship. The close and genuine relationship we as sisters have all had with one another as adults is a great comfort to Wendy and me since Katie's death.

Katie died from suicide on June 5th, 2014. Depression is a terrifying illness which steals the best and brightest from us. I know I did the best I could for my sister. I choose not to define her by the way she died, but by the way she lived. I choose to remember her for all her light and not her darkness. I choose to look for the beauty in my grief. I choose to honour her life as a custodian of her legacy.

What has your experience of grief been like since your loss?

Mourning the loss of my sister is an ongoing process. Some days the sadness feels overwhelmingly heavy; other days it's a gift to wake up feeling light and to appreciate the feeling of normality. Losing my sister felt like being in a time warp: things moved so slowly and yet incredibly fast. Thinking back, there are events and spans of time I can hardly recall at all. Running on adrenaline for months with a fierce desire to control the bureaucracy around her death, organize the events related to it, and look after the rest of my family, especially my younger sister, led to weight loss, anxiety and withdrawal from my usual social routine. This has improved with time (and a lot of therapy!) but what I can only describe as “loss panic” is still a far too easily accessible emotion. Grief doesn't leave me, it just becomes less suffocating. To seek “closure” for my sister’s death feels traitorous. It's not something I want to “get over,” it's something I want to hold and respect. 

The timeline of grief is very difficult to describe, as are the accompanying experiences. In the beginning there's a huge wave of compassion and support, but a month later I felt like everyone had moved on and forgotten. Key dates such as her birthday and the day she died are now moments I crave ritual around, but can't yet find a satisfyingly concrete action for. Grief is always shifting, moving, changing. Ironically, grief comes out of death but feels fiercely alive.

If you had to describe your grief as a literal landscape, what would it look like and feel like?

Katie lived in the Highlands of Scotland for many years. I have visited the area many times and find great comfort in the barren, windswept, cold and rugged landscape. The beauty in apparent desolation is what really hooks me. It's knowing that there's beauty where others can't necessarily see it. Beauty in pain, beauty in death, beauty in grief. The paradox is very powerful to me and a really important touchstone; it helps save me from going down a rabbit hole of despair.

Tell me about an object that reminds you of the person who died, and why?

Rocks and boulders. Ideally large ones at the seaside (Cape Town is littered with them and we spent hours playing and picnicking on and around them as children and as adults). No two are alike and they look so different from every angle. They're always more than meets the eye, either from a distance or when examining their surfaces from up close. The boulders here literally shine when you look at them closely because of the quartz in them.

How have the people in your life supported you in your grief? What was helpful? What was frustrating?

An unexpected by-product of Katie's death was, for the first time, being able to say no to people. My world shrank to the bare essentials overnight and I didn't have my usual capacity for people. Some were very supportive and understanding of my needing space and time, others less so. This allowed me to do a long overdue sorting of people I really wanted in my life from those who were superfluous. Death by suicide also comes with a lot of stigma, with many people making incredibly judgemental and insensitive comments. I don't think these were meant to be cruel, I just think some people don't think before they blurt. I've become acutely aware of how difficult people find it to talk about death, and to let me talk about my sister. The best moments are from those who do remember to ask. It is the most thoughtful, compassionate and comforting act for someone to ask me to tell them about Katie. Not her death, but her life. For them to actually ask how I am, for them to listen, truly listen and just be there, without trying to make things better or fix what can't be fixed.

How did people who were grieving the same person respond to the death compared to you? What similarities and differences did you notice?

I tend to think of the groups of grievers for Katie as concentric circles. The inner circle housed my parents, myself, and my younger sister Wendy. My parents are divorced, but both are remarried, so they had their spouses for support. Wendy has a long-term partner and I have my husband, so we were all very fortunate. I experienced all of our partners as a forcefield around our inner family circle. 

We did implode in our own unique ways at different stages. My mother was stoic, but completely broken. My father, who hadn't known how severe Katie's depression had become, was shocked and traumatized, spilling over emotionally in what I considered inappropriate ways. My younger sister Wendy and I seemed mostly on the same page; however, to this day she hasn't wanted to know the details of how Katie died. This isn't a secret, but just a place she doesn't want to go. Wendy and I felt responsible for managing our parents, and I felt responsible for looking after Wendy. 

Our cousins, aunts and uncles were the next ring of the circle. I think they just maintained a holding pattern in typical WASP fashion because they had no idea what to do. Katie's friends were wonderful. To this day I feel that through Katie's death I gained more sisters. Even though they were grieving themselves they never asked anything of us, they just helped and supported and did whatever was needed. They were the “me” I felt like I couldn't be to anyone other than Wendy at that point, and for that I am forever grateful to them. 

Then the outer ring were people whom I didn't even know. Friends and colleagues of Katie's who sent messages of support, cards, flowers, and memories of what she had meant to them. I often feel people can't really appreciate how comforting these small acts of kindness are. 

Overall, we all initially felt shock and despair, but then moved in very different ways of processing what had happened to us as a family, us as sisters, us as individuals. These have been fragile paths. I'm always aware of not wanting to upset anyone in my family; I don't want to say the wrong thing or start an emotional snowball. At the same time I feel this has left us all in quite isolated spaces of grief. I'm now in a place where I really want to talk about her, to share memories and focus more on her life than on her death. This is still delicate territory though.

Has anything surprised you about your experience with grief?

I'm surprised by how strongly my survival instinct kicked in at first. While everyone else fell apart I was the most organized, efficient, proactive member of the family. I've found it fascinating to be able to look back and reflect on my own behaviour, how all of my usual personality traits intensified, both the good and the bad. I probably ran on adrenaline for the first year or so after Katie's death and had to work hard at coming down from that, feeling okay about feeling okay—that this wasn't a betrayal—and managing the shockwaves of grief that sometimes still come out of the most unexpected places. When I do have the chance to share with others who have experienced loss I have found it a privilege to be able to talk, listen, cry, or just be present. Grief can be a gift if you choose to embrace it rather than bracing against it.

How has your private grieving related to your public mourning?

Public mourning has been a challenge for me. My vocation involves looking after others, so I find it very hard to allow others to look after me. I feel I need to be reliable and consistent, and tell myself that there is no space to fall apart at work. In a way my work has always been a safe place of competence. A place where I enjoy being seen as someone who does a good job, helps others, and doesn't even have a bad day. It's a mask, as everyone has bad days, but I wouldn't let anyone see this in public. Privately I let loose a bit more, and I've had to work very hard on not feeling compelled or obliged to be there for everyone else in my family. I do worry about being a burden to my husband: at what point will he run out of patience with having a wife who spontaneously combusts into a flood of tears for no apparent reason? I sometimes wish I could have a meter on my forehead, ranging from good to very fragile, so I wouldn't always feel the need to explain myself. Someone could just look at the meter and know where I'm at and give me a hug.

Was there anything about your cultural or religious background that affected the grieving process for you?

In the wake of Katie's death I have wished, many times, that I was a religious person. Religion gives you ritual, and ritual around grief is something I feel I'm still grasping at straws for. However, when it comes to belief in the afterlife, this doesn't bother me at all. Katie is free; she no longer has to feel a pain which had become unbearable to her. I know she's fine wherever she is. It's being left behind that's the hard part. If I keep perspective, if I breathe, if I don't dwell in the past and if I fight the urge to try to control the future, the present is manageable in most moments, and for that I'm grateful. The present is all any of us have.

Were there any personal or public rituals or structures that helped you in your grief?

I love photography and developed a personal ritual after Katie's death. Taking pictures is a creative outlet I find satisfying and rewarding. Whenever I feel an overwhelming sadness I look around and try to find something beautiful to photograph, to remind me that there's still beauty, even in grief. “Beauty in grief” has become a mantra of sorts for me, a silver lining, a reminder of Katie, of a beautiful life and of so much still to live for.

How has your loss and your experience of grief changed you? 

I think I'm more empathic toward other people's grief now than I would have been in the past, and I feel far more equipped to be helpful. To not shy away from the pain or the tears, to be there in the long term, not just during the initial shock, to not offer advice or try to make things better, but just to listen and support. I also feel I'm more selfish with my emotional resources. While I'll pour love into relationships that are reciprocal, I find it challenging to be in places and spaces which I don't feel are engaging or nurturing. Less is more, and my life is a lot simpler than it used to be.

Pam Hoffman is a Clinical Social Worker living with her husband and house rabbit in Cape Town, South Africa. She enjoys buying more books than she has time to read, loves caring for her indoor jungle which is taking over the apartment, has a penchant for things being organized neatly and is partial to tea and cookies on a daily basis. 

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants share an experience with bereavement, and I photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. 

Roasted Marshmallow

Name: Ali Miller

Age: 39

Tell me about the person who died:

My mother died on the morning of March 3, 2013, in bed at her home in White Plains, New York. She was 66 years old. She’d been diagnosed with metastatic melanoma about two years earlier, and nine weeks prior to her passing she’d had a brain hemorrhage while flying home from India, where she was vacationing with my father. She’d been doing fine, mostly symptom-free, until she started vomiting violently on the plane. We assumed it was food poisoning at first, but soon discovered through a scan in a London Emergency Room that it was much worse: the cancer had spread to her brain. This was the diagnosis we’d all been dreading since learning about the typical course melanoma takes. She was medevaced over the Atlantic Ocean, from London to Greenwich Hospital in Connecticut. Thankfully she arrived alive and conscious, but she was, in many ways, a completely different person, unable to walk and hardly able to talk. Permanently altered, but still here.

I flew from San Francisco to meet her, my dad, and my sister at the hospital, spent that night alone in the ICU with her, and then, along with my father and sister and the hospice team, took care of her in our family home. Her prognosis was three weeks to three months. Putting my life and work in California on hold, I took up residence in the house where I had spent my high school years, devoting myself to spending this precious time with my mom and to doing everything I could to make her comfortable. I bore witness to her dying process and, after she’d been bed-ridden, brain-damaged, and in and out of lucidity for nine weeks, watched her take her final breath. Watching my mother gradually die before my eyes was both the most meaningful and most traumatic experience of my life. I’ve yet to experience anything as challenging or profound. I consider it the greatest blessing of my life that I got to have that time with her and to be with her so intimately in her final months, weeks, days, hours, and, most importantly to me at the time, her final moment.

What has your experience of grief been like since your loss? How did it change over time?

In a word: complicated. Since my mom died I’ve also been through two very intense breakups, so it’s hard to separate out which feelings are tied to which events. What stands out the most to me is how, on a very core level, I feel much more alone than I think I ever have.

When I came back to Berkeley a couple of weeks after her funeral, I moved in with my boyfriend at the time. He took care of me as I gradually adjusted to being back in California, back at work, back “in the world,” after having spent nine weeks hardly leaving my parents' house. The primary way he took care of me was by feeding me: planning meals, cooking them, and literally handing the bowl or plate to me as I sat curled up on the couch or on the patio in the sun. When we broke up five months later and I moved into my own apartment, feeding myself became a huge struggle. I often felt like an infant longing for her mother’s breast, longing to be effortlessly nurtured, held, and cared for. The emotional pain of not having a mother anymore, but also of not having the support I’d been getting from my boyfriend, was excruciating at times. I spent many moments feeling extremely hungry but not being able to get out of my bed to feed myself, full of resentment that my body needed to be fed and that it was my responsibility to feed it. I ached for someone to take care of me. I still struggle with feeding myself sometimes, but not nearly as much, because I got professional help from an Ayurvedic Health Coach who has helped me take better care of myself. It’s not easy.

Every night before I turn my light out to go to sleep, I look at a photograph of my mother, and every night I shake my head in disbelief. Over three years have passed, and I still am dumbfounded every time I look at that picture and contemplate the reality of her being gone. Since I live in California and she lived in New York, I’d been used to not seeing her regularly, so it’s still really hard to believe that I’ll never see her again (at least not unless I get to see her when I die, which is what I wish more than anything).

In the first six months or so after my mom died, I often dreamt about her. In the dreams she would be alive again, but it would be clear that she was going to die again, so I’d always feel this mixture of joy that she was back, and dread that I’d have to go through losing her again. About a year ago I had my first dream of her where she wasn’t dying, and I was so happy, but then I realized that I was dreaming, and I woke up sobbing.

For the first six months or more, it was hard for me to be with other people and not have my focus be on the fact that my mother had just died. Wednesday was my favorite day because that’s the day my grief group met. I liked being with other people who “got it” and where the intention of our gathering was to talk about what was in the foreground for all of us. It was such a relief to not have to put it aside. Nothing was interesting to me for awhile, other than death and grief. Everything else seemed insignificant. Now it’s more in the background. In fact, a few months ago, at my 20th high school reunion, an old friend greeted me and said, “I’m so sorry,” and it took me a few moments to even know what he was referring to.

About two-and-a-half years after my mom died I got a dog, and she has been the best thing for my grief. After dealing with so much loss, it has been such a joy to gain a new love in my life, someone to take care of, to keep me company. The “Who rescued who?” bumper sticker says it well. She follows me around, always has her eyes on me, and clings to me in a way that gives me a deep sense of mattering. She’s my family. She’s about one-and-a-half years old, and sometimes I find myself believing that she’s my mom reincarnated. I find comfort in that thought, that my mom wanted to come back as a creature with whom I could share such an intimate, uncomplicated, loving bond. My mom and I, like most mothers and daughters, certainly had our fair share of complicated dynamics. But underneath any conflicts we had, there was always a bone-deep sense of closeness, mutual admiration, and unconditional love. I especially miss her hugs and the physical affection we shared. 

If you had to describe your grief as a literal landscape, what would it look like and feel like at different points since your loss?

Cold. Lonely. I feel helpless. I’m a baby calling out for her mama and her mama’s not there. A desert. Thirsty, hungry. 

Tell me about an object that I can photograph that reminds you of the person who died, and why?

A roasted marshmallow. When my mom was in hospice, she was on a steroid to keep the swelling in her brain down, which gave her a massive appetite (plus, after a lifetime of worrying about her weight, I think she was like, “Fuck it! I’m eating whatever I want now!”). She would “place orders” with me, my father, and my sister, and we’d serve her whatever she wanted. I remember one time she asked me softly but anxiously (her memory functioning was severely disabled), “Did I order my food already?” I couldn’t tell if she was confused and thought she was actually in a restaurant, or if she was being playful. In any case, one of her favorite foods to “order” was a roasted marshmallow. My dad had mastered the art of making the perfect roasted marshmallow by putting the marshmallow on a chopstick and holding the marshmallow over the electric burner on the kitchen stove, just the right distance from the burner so that the heat could create a flame on the marshmallow. He taught the method to all of us, and you’d often see us going back and forth from her bedroom to the kitchen for “one more” marshmallow. She kept asking for “one more,” not with words, because she could hardly speak and did so very sparingly, but by holding up her pointer finger and conveying desire through her eyes as soon as she finished the one she was eating.

This marshmallow image is joyful for me because I loved watching her enjoy herself, and the roasted marshmallows seemed to give her so much pleasure. The juxtaposition of all the suffering with the joy of a dying woman delighting in eating a roasted marshmallow, made by her devoted family members, in a hospital bed in her home… kinda says it all.

How did the people in your life support you in your grief? What was helpful? What was frustrating?

My boyfriend at the time was very helpful. He was in California while I was taking care of my mom, so I would call him most nights and fill him in on what was going on. He was a touchstone to my Berkeley life, and helped me remember life beyond the walls of my parents’ house-turned-hospice. He and some of my friends generously moved all of my stuff into his apartment so that when I returned I could live with him, rather than in the house I’d been living in with housemates with whom I was in conflict. 

Two of my closest friends, both of whom knew my mom, have also been hugely supportive to me in my grief. Their loving presence in my life over many years, their interest in the details of my inner world, along with their love for my mom, has made a huge difference in my grief process. I feel less alone because of them and the love of other friends and family members as well. 

Another big source of support has been connecting with my mom’s friends, some of whom I’d never met until they came to visit her. These were people who knew sides of her that I didn’t have access to, and who loved and cared about her very much. After she died, staying in touch with them has helped all of us keep her alive, in a way.

How did people who were grieving the same person respond to the death compared to you? What similarities and differences did you notice?

My parents met when they were 12 years old and became childhood sweethearts. They celebrated their 44th wedding anniversary on January 18th while my mom was at home in hospice care. I was worried about my dad losing his lifelong partner, and I was both shocked and relieved by how he handled it. He started going on dates with various women shortly after my mom died, and became much more social. Before I knew it, he had a girlfriend. He was really happy and full of energy.

While I wanted to go to grief counseling, write about the experience, and really focus on my feelings, he wanted to move on and focus on creating a new life. While I was clinging to my mom’s clothes and anything I could find that would remind me of her, he was donating and consigning her wardrobe. While I was trying to hold on to her in every way I could (reading her notes in the margins of her books, trying to figure out which passage in a book was meaningful to her on a dog-eared page, memorizing the lyrics to her favorite song, reaching out to her friends, taking dance classes, writing classes, and singing lessons to feel more connected to her since she was a writer, dancer, and music lover), it seemed like he was trying to let her go. 

While I’ll only ever have one mom, he’ll have other partners. At times this has been hard for me, especially when I start to think his moving on means he doesn’t miss, love, or respect my mom, but then he’ll say things like, “She was the love of my life,” or I’ll visit and see that he still has pictures of the two of them together, and I feel relieved. It’s strange but also sweetly connecting when he tells me about his love life, his dating adventures. I’m getting to know a side of him he’d never shared with me before.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

Being public about my grief has been very helpful for me. Right after I returned to Berkeley, I joined a writing class that my boyfriend was teaching, so that I could begin to write about my experience, hoping to share it somehow. When the class ended, I joined a writing group. I had visions of doing a one-woman show to tell the story, but that hasn’t come to fruition yet. About a year after my mom died, I spoke at a Service of Remembrance put on by the hospice where I received grief counseling. I had written a few pages about my “grief journey,” and I found it very gratifying, though nerve-wracking, to share it with other grievers.

Was there anything about your cultural or religious background that affected the grieving process for you?

My family is Jewish, and my mom considered herself agnostic. I would say I’m agnostic, too. So I often find myself wondering where she went after she died. A lot of people have convictions or even certainty about what happens after death, but I just have a deep curiosity. The questions “Where did she go?” and “Where is she now?” have been with me continuously since I watched her stop breathing that Sunday morning. The other question that comes up a lot is, “Will I ever see her again?” I hope I will. It seems curiosity and hope are all I’ve got—no beliefs or faith.

Were there any personal or public rituals or structures that helped you in your grief?

One of the things that has been most helpful is connecting to my mom through physical objects. I wear her wedding ring and diamond studs nearly every day, and on most days I’m wearing at least one article of her clothing and/or shoes. I like to feel her close, and this is one way that works for me.

As the three-year anniversary of her death approached this year, my goal was to memorize all of the words to Waters of March, which was one of her favorite songs. Two of her musician friends sang it at the funeral, and it has since become one of my favorite songs as well. The version by Susannah McCorkle is my favorite, and the beautiful lyrics capture for me the bittersweetness of life, which includes the mundane, the profound, the joy, the sorrow, and everything in between: from “a sliver of glass” to the “joy in your heart.” On her anniversary, I sang the song and made a little video that I shared with my best friend. I think it was the start of a yearly ritual.

How did your loss and your grief change you?

I think it’s made me more compassionate towards other grievers, and also towards myself for the many losses I’ve experienced in my life. For a while after my mom died, I was way more accepting of others, way less judgmental. I remember thinking often, “Judging others doesn’t even make any sense anymore. Our time here together is so short, why waste it being critical of others?” Unfortunately, that sense of acceptance didn’t totally stick!

Ali Miller lives and works in Berkeley, CA. When she’s not out frolicking with her little dog, Bella, she’s most commonly holding space for people in her therapy office as they grapple courageously with their own unique versions of this challenging human condition. She wants everyone to have the inner and outer resources to unabashedly enjoy the roasted marshmallows of life, and is doing her small part to contribute to that being a reality.  BefriendingOurselves.com

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants share an experience with bereavement, and I photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. 

Deer Antler

Name: Roberta O.

Age: 56

Tell me about the person who died:

My beloved husband John was a man’s man type of guy, very John Wayne-esque. He lived life by three F’s: faith, family, and football. He treasured the USA and told his children often that they were living in the greatest country, and should be thankful. I always described him as a “workhorse”—he put 100 percent into everything he did, whether it was fathering, coaching, running, golfing, or being a good husband and friend. We loved him very, very much. 

Our children, Jacqueline, Ben and Margaret, threw us a 25th wedding anniversary surprise party Labor Day weekend in 2011. John was scheduled for a thyroid scan that following Tuesday, and after discovering a tumor they sent him to the ER. He was admitted to the hospital and the next day they told him he had a rare fatal thyroid cancer. Without surgery he would live three weeks and with surgery maybe three months. There was no protocol, and the prognosis is always death. So in his John Wayne fashion, we pulled up our bootstraps and requested he be released from the hospital to spend the weekend with family. We pulled in the garage and he took off his work boots by the door and never wore them again. My hardworking husband was taking on the biggest job of his life—trying to live. He died 159 days later. 

We often think back to the anniversary party, how our children put it together, and the friends and family that celebrated. It was a “meant to be” event. No person attending that party ever thought that less than a week later that we would be gathered in a room for surgery and that John, a larger-than-life teddy bear, would be fighting for his well-being. 

That weekend we spent at home included the last meal John would ever eat again, since his surgery resulted in a tracheotomy and feeding tube. I quickly became a bad-ass caregiver, health care manager, and advocate. John took his declining quality of life graciously. He only once questioned, "Why me and not some jerk?” (we knew there was no answer). One time in a painful moment of reflection we sat at the kitchen table with our heads touching and pondered, “Why? What will happen to us, to our children, to the life that is now ceasing to exist?” John looked at me, got up from the chair, and said, "We won't be bitter, we will be better people because of this,” grabbed a napkin, wiped a tear, and walked away. That is the gift he gave us—he died and we were lost, scared, and sad, but never bitter. 

February 1, 2012, he woke up after a painful night and said, "Call the kids, I am ready to go to hospice.” He looked out our living room window and told me he wanted to be cremated and the ashes spread in the backyard. He asked me if I had been satisfied all these years and I cried and said, "How could I not have been?” As we were leaving the house, I asked him, “John, is there anything you want to see or look at before we leave?” and he said “No, I will be back.”

I drove him to hospice and he walked to the bed in room 75 and died 15 days later.

What has your experience of grief been like since your loss? How did it change over time? 

The first week after John died all I did was sleep. The second week after he died all I did was look out the windows and sigh. Where was he? His washcloth and toothbrush were still here, but where was he? I was paralyzed with grief and often could not physically move. The despair resonated so deep within my being that I cannot even name where inside my body felt the darkest. I leaned into every emotion of pain and fear–it was like I was existing in another realm. I couldn't hear people talk but only saw faces. Noises were blurred. I don't even think my eyes were visually processing. I took many deep breaths during the day and I could hear myself breathe out so loudly. I prayed over and over that God would help me get through this.

I knew deep down in my soul that I would "graduate" from this thing, grief, and my plan was to lean into everything and work like a bitch to be better. So my first step was "faking it to make it.” I went to events but cried and screamed on the way home. I couldn't believe all the losses involved in one big package–my husband, my friend, my driver, my repair guy, the one person who loved our children like I did, the one person who knew exactly what I was thinking.

After John died I reached out to a friend with whom I hadn't spoken in ten years, a young widow. She said, “Berta, you have an adaptable personality and you will adapt to this,” and that was a mantra that helped with my healing. Grief is ugly and messy and I just did it naturally. I cried when I cried, I laughed a lot, I loved a lot and I made an effort to record what I was grateful for every day. I also read and educated myself about loss and grief. The book that helped me most was George Bonanno’s The Other Side of Sadness. It told me that I will survive because I am hardwired for grief. I was also able to recognize that my story is a very sad story but there are other sadder stories out there.

If you had to describe your grief as a literal landscape, what would it look like and feel like at different points since your loss?

I think of my grief as a road, blacktopped and narrow, curvy and lit in a manner so that you have to wonder if it is dusk or dawn. There are hints of the shadows of trees, and the grass is just about the length where it needs to be cut. The trunks of the trees are dark and the leaves are deep shades of green because the light is producing a variety of hues.

At the end of this narrow path is a large tree with a tire swing. The tree is in an open pasture and sits alone. The tire swing feels safe and with each movement the gentle breeze sways the swing like a predictable pendulum, neither scary nor unsteady. I sit on the swing, moving back and forth, with just enough breeze on my face that it tickles and makes me smile. The tire swing is large and I need to concentrate to hold on but I like the way it feels: big. I feel subtle joy and peace.

Tell me about an object that reminds you of the person who died, and why? 

A deer with antlers. On a June morning after John died, a big deer with pointers (lots) walked through our backyard ever so slowly, and looked in the direction of the screen porch where I was sitting. In the 27 years I have lived in this house,  I have never seen deer in our fenced backyard, and deer do not have a huge rack of antlers in June. I got up to get my camera and the deer was gone. When we built this house, John set a ceramic deer in our yard and loved pictures of deer. It was one of the many signs he sent—John checking on us as he said he would.

How did the people in your life support you in your grief? What was helpful? What was frustrating? 

The people in my life, especially our friends, as I like to say, "carried me and my children.” I was constantly checked in on and invited places. I grew closer to my brother and to John’s brother, Mike. I embraced relationships, help, and support. I didn't try to fight it. I came to understand that if I allowed people to help in whatever way they were comfortable then everything would turn out ok. 

How did people who were grieving the same person respond to the death compared to you? What similarities and differences did you notice?

Everyone who loved John missed him. I think friends observed my grief but spared me their sadness and were reluctant to share their tears. I guess it was enough to be in the same space with each other and hold the sorrow that came with remembering.

I wish I could have better witnessed my children’s grief in those first few months, but physically I could not see them, and the tones of their words didn’t have any variation. I am not sure if I could even feel what they were feeling—despair took up a residence in me that was all encompassing. They wanted hugs and embraces and I was robotic; I didn’t respond properly. But they kept watching me and waiting, wondering when I would return, and I did slowly, with their help and persistence. 

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?: 

Grief crippled me in many ways; I was fearful, anxious, scared, and unsure. I didn't realize at the time that grief was those emotions, and that the ability to be rational is stunted.

After John died trying to be and act normal was exhausting. To go to the deli and order meat, to pay for gas, without telling people over and over that my husband died. I was also taken aback by how much you think of the dead person all day every day. I knew I was getting better in my grief process when I didn't think about John every waking minute, and it made me feel good that I was doing better. Now when I think about John it doesn't make me smile like the stupid cliché you read about; it still makes me sad but not as sad as I used to be.

Also I never anticipated the overwhelming feeling of homesickness and yearning for my husband. It was almost crazy how to sort through those emotions. The yearning would make me weak. Grief also made me immobile. I would sit and stare out my window, which I eventually called my “meditation window,” for what seemed like small eternities. There I would work on myself, listen to sad music, read, and pray.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning? 

Privately I screamed, laid on the floor of his closet crying, banged my head against the wall, walked around outside and cried, drove and cried, got on bended knee and prayed to the moon, the stars, and God to save me and help me grow and learn and move forward. I embraced and honored every single tear.

Publicly, I put on makeup, went to work, and cried. I talked openly about John, shared stories, and told people my life would never be the same but I was going to make it—and I faked it and I am still making it. I appreciated that my children and I never lost our sense of humor. In public I like laughing and having fun. Being busy was vital and helpful.

Was there anything about your cultural or religious background that affected the grieving process for you?

I believe in God and I put my healing trust in him. Without the grace of the Holy Spirit and daily affirmations I would have been stuck. My view of heaven changed after John died. It’s more concrete now, inhabiting a nearby dimension in which time is irrelevant. Heaven is so close but we can't see it or touch it because we live in our realm. I think in heaven they are busy doing what they do—not sitting on clouds playing harps in a golden city! Heaven is great and they are happy but they have the ability to visit us through many different channels.

Were there any personal or public rituals or structures that helped you in your grief?

His friends organized a golf outing for three years that kept alive his love of family, friends, and golf. It was good for us to remember him and salute his life through stories and laughter. I miss his guy friends. His buddies would come over for football, cookouts after golf, and hanging out. I liked that part of our marriage and I miss the guys.

When we did last rites and blessing of the sick he was fully awake and conscious. He sat up in bed and held his hand up and said, "Now I don’t want any crying,” and the priest blessed him and everyone went around and shared stories of his life and gave testimony to the great man and his loving influence on all present.

How did your loss and your experience of grief change you? 

I am a different person and I am ok with that. I miss the person I was before the loss. After John died I would look in the mirror and not recognize myself. Slowly I started to see myself, the person in the mirror, and she was changed but I started to acknowledge her. Parts of me came back, but with different eyes now, and my smile is a little crooked where I don't think it was before. I hold my head slightly off center now.

I hope that I am calmer now and that no problem is bigger than a life. I think I don't get disappointed anymore. I mean really, I suffered one of life’s biggest disappointments: I lost the father to my children, my beloved husband, my expected future, way too early.

Everyone liked John and we felt special because he was ours. For me and my children, not having him made us feel ordinary for the first time in our lives, because John was not an ordinary dad and husband he was extraordinary.

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an evolving art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants share an experience with bereavement, and I photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. 

Hero Sandwich

Name: Jessica*

Age: 43

Tell me about the person who died:

My father died a little over 10 years ago. He killed himself. He had dealt with depression my entire life, so in some ways, this was not a complete surprise, but of course, it was incredibly shocking and traumatic at the same time. 

When I was young, I was Daddy's little girl. He adored me and the feeling was mutual. My mother was the disciplinarian and my dad was all about fun. We went everywhere together. He'd patiently put up with my never-ending questions; he gave me candy and food that my mother did not allow. We hit golf balls at the driving range and went to car shows. Even going with him on weekend errands was fun. He would embarrass me with dorky “dad” jokes and, like me, he could be the class clown. I saw that whenever we went to a restaurant and he made the waitresses laugh. He was a good, but troubled person.

When adolescence hit, I no longer wanted to hang out with him and didn't feel comfortable talking to him, as all these things were happening to me, both physically and emotionally. Then I got to high school and I separated from him further. I think at least unconsciously, I felt like I didn't know how to relate to him now that I was no longer a little girl, so most of my interactions with him were brief and superficial.

Our relationship was also marred by his relationship with my mother, which was not good. I would say my mother was emotionally abusive to him. And he let her be that way—it takes two. I spent most of my adult life being angry at him for putting up with my mother. Our relationship suffered because of that, and I never returned to being close to him the way I was when I was a child.

Tell me about an object that reminds you of the person who died and why?

So many things remind me of him, but food probably stands out the most–peanut M&Ms, seltzer, bagels with tuna, sturgeon, and caviar cream cheese, which he would buy on special occasions, to name a few. Also, on occasion, he would eat an absurdly huge, unhealthy and delicious hero that he would get from the neighborhood deli, piled with turkey, roast beef, tongue, Russian dressing, and coleslaw. He would often give me some of it and it was one of our small ways of bonding. We both loved to eat and to indulge in "bad stuff,” especially since my mom was so concerned with what I should and shouldn't eat.

What was your experience of grief like after your loss? How did it change over time?

It was pure hell, initially. The worst experience I’ve ever had, without a doubt (as my sister once said, we lived rather charmed lives until my dad died). It was shocking and painful and excruciating and numbing and terrifying. I had never lost anyone very close to me before, with the exception of one grandmother who died when I was 13. I had never experienced true grief. 

My mother called me and told me what had happened. For the next two hours I went back and forth between shock and hysteria, even apologizing to her because I thought it was my fault. I was not thinking clearly, and I ran around my room trying to figure out what to pack to go back home. I packed a bunch of workout socks. I didn't pack any funeral-appropriate clothing.

I was going to take the train home but my roommate at the time convinced me that I should really take a cab. After a thirty minute ride, I gave the cab driver $100, got out and crossed the street to my childhood home. I started walking across my lawn when two cops approached me and asked if I was Alison*, my sister. “No,” I told them. “I’m Jessica.” I felt myself walking backwards. Each cop took an arm and guided me forward into my house where I began yelling for my mother as I walked down the hall. I was watching myself from above, as if I was in a movie. I reached the eat-in kitchen and at the table sat my mom, my father's best friend, his wife, and my father's brother and his wife. They all looked like hell.

My sister and her family were not able to come until the following day, and I remember being scared to be alone in the house with my mother. I’m not sure why I felt that way. Maybe I felt like I had to take care of her? I just couldn’t wait for my sister to be there with me. It was too much to handle on my own.

The first couple of weeks were full of terror (was this a dream? how can this be happening?), shock, guilt, tears, pain, and more guilt. Not just emotional pain, but physical pain in my chest, which I carried with me on and off for many years after. It's weird what your body does. My mom who "felt fine" ended up getting shingles, which is often caused by extreme stress.

My grief is not linear. The worst was not on day one and the easiest is not today. It ebbs and flows. Things are pretty stable now, but in the beginning, it almost felt like I was going insane. I could be completely fine one minute and breaking down the next, yearning for this excruciating pain to subside. I remember talking to someone whose sister had committed suicide, asking him if the pain was ever going to go away. It felt permanent and eternal, like I would never be normal again.

Although I was in therapy at the time of my dad’s death, I don't think I've ever truly dealt with my grief, even to this day. I've talked a lot about it, but it still feels almost imaginary. It sometimes feels like nothing happened because I'm so filled with guilt that I can't miss him. I also don't miss him because we weren't close for so many years, so I was used to not having him in my life, as horrible as that sounds. Most of the time, all I feel is guilt or nothingness. In many ways, he feels like a ghost.  

If you had to describe your grief as a literal landscape you've been passing through, what would it look like and feel like at different points in your journey?

At first it felt like a cave–dark and deep with lots of sharp stalactites hanging down. Black, deep reds, and fiery oranges. When I was not in hell, it would feel pretty normal, like a calm lake on a partly sunny day, with something bubbling beneath the surface. It reminds me of an EKG, where the lines go up and down, up and down, but then they even out a bit more. It's like having a massive heart attack, and then it calms down, and then maybe you have some heart palpitations along the way and it calms down again. At the end of the EKG line, the up and down is more regular like a normal heartbeat and hardly anything goes too high or too low.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

I was surprised at just how much I loved my dad. I remember sitting in therapy and crying so intensely into a pillow, trying to muffle the guttural screams coming out of me. I don't think I realized the depths of it when he was alive because my feelings were always clouded with anger and discomfort. It’s really hard for me to get out of my anger and be more accepting of things sometimes. I wish I had been able to express that love for him while he was alive.

How did people support you in your grief? What was helpful? What was frustrating?

My close friends were incredible. They listened and sympathized and were there for me in ways that astound me now. One of my closest friends called me every single day for three months after my dad died. I don't talk much about my dad now for the most part, but I know I can talk to them if I need to.

I cannot speak to my family about it. I have tons of anger towards my mom as I sometimes modeled my behavior towards him after hers, which burns me up inside now. She won't really admit to the role she played in his death or in their relationship, which she still insists was not so bad. Her general attitude towards anything is pretending everything is fine. It’s very difficult for her to accept feelings of sadness or regret or pain.

I also cannot speak to my sister about it, for the most part. My dad killed himself on my nephew's birthday. My nephew was 5 at the time. It wasn’t intentional, it was just a day when my mom was going to be out of the house for a few hours and he saw an opportunity. My dad loved my nephew very much. But my sister has always been very focused on making that day about her son and protecting him from anything negative. She helped me through the funeral, and I think we were there for each other in the beginning, trying to process all of this. But on anniversaries, we don’t discuss it. I’m sure everyone is having their own experience of it, but sometimes it feels like I’m the only one who thinks about him.

Were there any personal or public rituals or structures that helped you in your grief?

No. I generally don’t get into this kind of thing. I have visited my dad’s gravesite once or twice, but even that seems strange. He is not in the ground any more than he is standing right next to me, so I do not feel any different or closer to him at the cemetery and I’d prefer not to be there.

How did your loss and your grief change you?

I definitely felt like my dad’s death created a divide in my life. There was life before he died and life after he died.

For the first seven years or so after his death, I was very agitated in the weeks leading up to the anniversary. I felt sensitive and depressed and anxious. I did things in those weeks that I would not normally do. I called friends out on things in inappropriate ways. I just was not myself. 

I think as time has gone on, things have returned somewhat to normal. I’m not the same person of course–I’ve experienced a significant loss and something very traumatic and that will never change. I feel horrible saying this, but there are many days and weeks where I don’t think about my dad. 

Is there anything else you want to share?

When someone takes their own life, everyone is left with so much anger: at the person who did it, at family members, at oneself. There is a lot to untangle. And there is finger-pointing and so much “what if.” When I think about why this happened, it is like peeling an onion—things from his childhood contributed to his death as much as things from the week he died.  

And then there is the taboo surrounding suicide. People talk about suicide in hushed tones. In the beginning, my mother straight-out lied to a number of people about how my father died. People who went to his funeral had no idea he killed himself. A few years after his death, I told my mother I was getting back in touch with a childhood friend via Facebook and she threatened me over saying anything about my father. I think the taboo stems from a few things—from not understanding how depression works, from the guilt that people feel about the person who died, and from the idea, which I disagree with, that the person who did this must be selfish.

I have suffered from depression since I was about 13 years old. I have “attempted suicide” (they were really cries for help rather than legitimate attempts). I was depressed at the time my father killed himself, which was partly why I had barely been in touch with him during the months before his death. I understand what depression can do to you and where it can bring you. I have been at the edge before. I do not wish it upon anyone. Sadly, though my father and I both dealt with depression, we never discussed it.

*Name has been changed.

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an evolving art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants share an experience with bereavement, and I photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. 

Bicycle

Name: Leyla Nickerson

Age: 58

Tell me about the person who died:

Devon is my son, but more importantly he was my teacher. He was a beautiful burst of energy that flashed through 26 years. He was an adventurer, cyclist, farmer, singer/songwriter, poet, horseman, lover of life. It is impossible to illustrate the essence of Devon in just a few words. He moved through life with an urgency to experience as many different kinds of things and people as possible, but despite the speed at which he moved, he always took the time to make genuine connections and create lasting friendships. This was what gave his life true meaning and would be his most cherished accomplishment. 

The lessons I have learned from Devon's life are profound. He understood that we are given a life to live fully, not to waste. He lived with the realization that control is an illusion and that we need to make every day count by following our passions and dreams and staying true to ourselves.

He accidentally fell from a building on May 2, 2010–the darkest day of my life. Sharing a life with Devon has been my greatest joy and my deepest sorrow but the love we share is eternal.

What has your experience of grief been like since your loss? How did it change over time?

The loss of my son has been the most devastating experience of my life. I previously experienced many losses—both my parents, my sister and brother—but nothing could have prepared me for the depth of sorrow and suffering of losing my child. Physically I felt as if someone had cut out my heart with a very dull knife. Many times I literally could not breathe. I felt shattered into thousands of pieces and had no thoughts of putting them back together. I truly wished only to die and be with my son; I could think of nothing else. Every day was filled with visions of him and each moment was more painful than the last.

At some point, after several weeks or months maybe, I came to realize that I needed to make a decision about whether I wanted to live or die. It came to me that by giving up I would be dishonoring my son and everything he believed in. About a year after his death, I met other mothers who had lost children. By meeting these women who knew the depth of my grief but were actually living, I started to see some hope that perhaps I could find a path to a new life. The courage and compassion of these women became my lifeline. Today, six years after losing my son, I host and facilitate grief groups with another mom, and we continually support mothers by companioning them through their journey of grief. I have also become a yoga instructor and conduct workshops for healing grief. This has been my path to my own healing. Devon's life and death have taught me to cherish and live my life fully, even though my heart aches every single day for my son.

If you had to describe your grief as a literal landscape, what would it look like and feel like at different points since your loss?

It felt like I was plunged into a dark, bottomless pool of cold water. Dark blue or black. Tidal waves crashing over my head and feeling myself being pulled down, down, down. The landscape would be rubble—as if a bomb had exploded and everything was dead—but then, the sun starts to creep up over the horizon and I see one small seedling coming up out of the devastation. Each day something new might sprout and I start to see more green, and then the day comes when I notice that the sky isn't black anymore, it’s a beautiful blue. The bees are singing and buzzing, flying from one yellow sunflower to the next.

Tell me about an object that that reminds you of the person who died, and why?

Devon cared nothing for material items except for his beloved bicycles. He loved cycling and rode his bike across the country with his two friends. I have many pictures of him on different bikes. He also really wanted to be a hobo and make his way across country by jumping trains—this is something he never got to.

How have the people in your life supported you in your grief? What was helpful? What was frustrating?

The support of other mothers who have lost a child has been the most powerful support I have received. I am also blessed to have the most wonderful man in my life—my husband, Jeff. We came together about a year before I lost Devon. Even though we were both in our fifties, this was the first time either of us had experienced true love. He supported me with loving kindness and compassion; we had help from a counselor too. I don't think I would have made it without him.

In spite of this support, at times I have felt a great deal of isolation. We live in a society that has no understanding of how to handle grief or offer support, especially when you lose a child. No one wants to even imagine that it could happen to them, so some people avoided me. I was pretty angry about it at first, but have come to understand that they just didn't know what to do. Like talking about my son—I love to talk about him! It's so strange that some people think it will make me more sad. Do they really think that I don't have him on my mind every day—just like they do when their children are alive? I have become more tolerant of people's behavior but sometimes it really does hurt when family members or close friends forget his "angel date" or other significant times.

How did people who were grieving the same person respond to the death compared to you? What similarities and differences did you notice?

Devon's brother, Nathan, tried his best to support me but it was very difficult for me to understand why he was grieving so differently. His perspective was, "I cannot let my emotions overtake me; I have to put it in a box and stuff it under the bed.” Over time I came to realize that he has suffered deeply too, but his path was different. He seemed able to let only a little grief in at a time; he needed to keep his equilibrium because he had a family with small children to support. We do talk about Devon more now after six years. I want his children to know who Devon was. I want to keep his memory alive and I think that Nathan is on board with that now.

Has anything surprised you about your experience with grief? 

I am surprised that I have been able to survive this devastation. I remember in the past when someone lost a child I used to think: that would be it, I couldn't live through that. I guess I am surprised about the courage that I have been able to find in myself. I knew that Devon would be really pissed off at me if I gave up.

Was there anything about your cultural or religious background that affected the grieving process for you?

I come from a New England, Anglo-Saxon background where, as my mother used to put it, "We don't wear our heart on our coat sleeve." Personally, I think I have evolved from that upbringing and I do not feel uncomfortable expressing my grief. Religiously, I have a Buddhist practice which helped me cope with my grief in a big way. While my religion did not exactly allow me to make sense of this tragedy, it did give me the understanding that suffering is part of living and I do not have to let it defeat me.

Were there any personal or public rituals or structures that helped you in your grief?

I have an altar with pictures of my son and other family members who have passed away. I have opened my mind and heart to the possibility of signs from my son and have experienced many moments of knowing he is always with me. My Buddhist practice, which includes chanting, has been an integral part of my healing. Each year on the anniversary of Devon's death, my family gathers at the place where his ashes were put into the water and we walk and share stories of Devon. In the beginning, I walked almost every day at the beach where his ashes are. Also, my friend and I host a candle-lighting ceremony each December; it is a lovely way to remember and commemorate our children. I believe rituals are a very important part of remembering and honoring the people we lose.

How has your loss and your experience of grief changed you?

My grief experience has changed me profoundly. I no longer fear the future. I try my best to appreciate every aspect of my life, whether positive or negative, and realize that life, although extremely challenging, is also very beautiful. My son had a tattoo on his wrist, which I now have on my own: "Life is life.” He learned this from a homeless man many years ago. To me this simply means that life is not something we can control and that as long as we are alive, we will experience both joy and suffering. Accepting both is the best way to live.

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an evolving art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants share an experience with bereavement, and I photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. 

Jane Eyre

Name: Peter B.

Age: 60

Tell me about the person who died: 

I'm an artist who lives and paints in Wales. My beloved wife Donna died of pancreatic cancer last year on the morning of our silver wedding anniversary, the 8th of September, 2015. She was fifty-one years old. We were inseparable.

What has your experience of grief been like since your loss? 

I am exhausted. All of the time. I weep every day. It feels like a palpable barrier has been erected around me. Intangible, invisible and insurmountable. Life has become muffled. Time passes infinitely slowly. Everything has become excruciatingly difficult to negotiate.

If you had to describe your grief as a literal landscape, what would it look like and feel like? 

A bottomless pit of slate grey. Not black. There is light but filtered through layers of cloth of variable thickness.

Tell me about an object that I can photograph that reminds you of the person who died, and why?

A book. Jane Eyre. My wife loved to read.

How did the people in your life support you in your grief? What was helpful? What was frustrating?

My friends were wonderful. They still are. They seem to instinctively know when I need an arm around my shoulder and when to back off and give me space. I am reluctant to lean on them overly much. I don't wish to intrude on their lives. I don't wish to inflict my grief upon them.

How did people who were grieving the same person respond to the death compared to you? What similarities and differences did you notice?

My wife and I lived a solitary life together. All we needed was one another. We saw others very infrequently. Subsequently I grieve alone. I can't speak for our friends. They keep their feelings shielded from me.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

The sheer force of it. I lost both my parents a few years ago. My wife and I cared for them both in their last years. We loved them dearly but although losing them was terrible, it was nothing compared to losing my wife. Her loss has devastated me.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning? 

There has been no discernible difference. I only leave my home infrequently now. I break down unpredictably so I keep myself sequestered.

Were there any personal or public rituals or structures that helped you in your grief?

My life meanders from one day to the next. Only my painting gives form and structure to it. I created a piece in memory of my cariad* called "Rain Dancer" in those initial months after I lost her. Making it helped me enormously, though in a way everything I made prior and everything I make subsequent to her loss was and is for her, despite much of my work being commission-based. A little of her is in everything I make.

How did your loss and your experience of grief change you?

It's too early to say. I am still too raw, too confused to analyze or make any sense of how I am or will be.

*love, in Welsh

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants share an experience with bereavement, and I photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. 

Scallops with Arugula and Peas

Name: Catherine Mellinger

Age: 36

Tell me about the person who died: 

I met Vick when I was 28, after starting a certificate program in Expressive Arts Therapy in Toronto. She was one of my classmates. The program was a three year program and over the first two years, Vick and I began forming a friendship. Vick was a flame. She has this incredible curly red hair, a deep voice, intense eyes. She was honest, exceptionally intelligent, utterly kind and caring. I remember first bonding with her over California–she was from there, and my sister was living there, so I would go at least once a year to visit. I would randomly run into her on the streetcar and we'd talk about writing and what the process of making art was like for us. It was a slow build of just getting to know each other. 

During the second year of the program Vick experienced a lot of upheaval in her life. She switched jobs, and she announced that she and her husband had decided to separate. She decided to leave the program after second year, to focus on her work and her family, as well as her health. She had never had any major health issues but she suffered from intense migraines, some of which caused her to have slight seizures. 

We made an effort to stay in touch. A few months after she left, she contacted me to tell me that she wanted our friendship to be sustained outside of the program, and she wanted, point blank, to be friends with me. I told her I felt the same and that year our friendship flourished. She invited me over for meals, and I chatted up her son about Harry Potter. She told me how her separation from her husband was going, and how she was exploring her sexuality after realizing she was much more in her own skin when she could explore bisexual relationships. She talked about going out with women she had crushes on and how happy it made her. We celebrated her 50th birthday over Thai food. I celebrated Passover with her and her son.

During that year, as we bonded, she began to have more frequent migraines and fatigue as well as a lot of anxiety. She took a health leave from her new job and decided to begin writing more. We began working on a project together where I sent her some of my collages and she wrote short poetry to go with them, which ended up being used in a small exhibit I did. We had plans to make a children's book together, and to illustrate and write together more often. 

I hadn't heard from Vick in perhaps a couple of weeks, and I wrote her an email to see how she was and ask if we could meet up for tea. Less than 48 hours later, I got a message from one of the professors at the school we attended together. Vick had died. Suddenly and unexpectedly. I don't know that I've ever felt such shock. She was just gone, and I had no idea how, or when. All of the students from the school were sent details of her funeral and invited to attend. 

It wasn't until months later that I even found out where or how she had died. Her parents were visiting and staying with her. She hadn't been feeling well. She told her parents she was going for a run and asked them to watch her son. She didn't come back for quite some time and her parents called the police. They thought she'd gone out to run and something must have happened. The police told them that they couldn't file a missing person report until 24 hours later, but that the family could go out looking for her. I'm not sure how they thought to go down to the basement, but it seems someone did, and found Vick there, beside her treadmill. She hadn't gone outside to run, she had gone downstairs to her treadmill. They think she had an aneurysm, passed out while running and just died, then and there. They don't know how long she'd been lying on the floor. I can't even think about it without tearing up again. None of it made sense.

It felt so odd being at the funeral, standing at the back of the room with other students from the class just trying to digest it all. I recognized her son and ex-husband but knew very few of her friends, and none of her family, who had all come from California. It seemed like a strange dream in which I was an impostor who had just lost someone that I had so much more to do with, so much more to know about.

What has your experience of grief been like since your loss? How did it change over time?

Vick's death and the process of grieving was so different from previous losses I’ve experienced. It felt like an assault, like something was stolen from me. It felt harsh and heavy and violent. I was a complete mess when I heard the news, and I had an enormous sense of anger that I carried with me for a number of months afterwards. I remember bawling heavily for hours. I had no idea what to do. I had no one to reach out to. I didn't know her family, I didn't know her friends, I just wanted to reach out to her, to Vick. I was in shock for the better part of six months, not knowing where to put my grief other than on my now husband's shoulders. Mentally I felt confused, lost, mudded. Physically I felt tight and wound. Emotionally I felt angry, horribly sad, and somehow empty. It was a friendship so new yet so meaningful, with so much light and connection and promise, and it was just gone.

Over time it dulled and softened, and went more inward. I learned later that the University of Toronto had erected a commemorative bench for her on Philosopher's Walk on campus, just outside of The Royal Conservatory. I was often at the Conservatory, as I work there occasionally. It felt so special and perhaps even a bit kismet that her bench was right there. It felt like a sign that our friendship was real, that it actually meant something. Whenever I would go to the offices for meetings or classes, I got to sit on her bench, have my lunch, have a tea. She felt so far away yet somehow a little closer, knowing her name was there. 

I've realized that every year at the end of May, I can't stop thinking about her. I start to remember our friendship and the things we talked about, the meals we ate together, the streetcar rides we took together either by chance or because we'd planned to see each other. It's when I remember that this was the time of year that she died. My son was born in May, and every year, after his birthday, I'm overcome with thoughts of Vick again.

If you had to describe your grief as a literal landscape, what would it look like and feel like at different points since your loss?

Initially the grief was a hard and dark brick wall. It was physically painful to come up against. Thinking of Vick was like knives in my chest. Hard, heavy, not cold, but hot, sweaty even. Eventually it started to ease and turned more into waves, like sitting on an ocean and feeling like you wish you could connect with what was on the other side, whoever is out there, wherever they are. It's windy and comes and goes.

Tell me about an object that reminds you of the person who died, and why? 

Vick loved to learn to cook new things and one night she invited me over for dinner. She said she was really into this Jamie Oliver cookbook. That night she made me scallops sautéed with arugula and peas. It was one of the best meals I've ever had made for me. We sat, we ate, we drank wine, we chatted about our shared crush on Jamie Oliver. Anytime I see one of his cookbooks I think of that meal, I think of Vick, and it makes me smile.

How did the people in your life support you in your grief? What was helpful? What was frustrating?

I felt like there weren't many people with whom I shared my grief. I shared the most with my husband, Joel. Within the first two years of our being together he held me through the loss of my cousin, then Vick, and then my grandmother. I couldn't believe how understanding he was. He just listened when something came up. 

What was the hardest for me was feeling like I didn't have anyone else to talk to about it. None of my other close friends really knew her. Our relationship was quite private I suppose, perhaps because it was still new. It felt strange speaking about it to people who didn't know her. My classmates were good about it too, and we talked about her passing in class for a couple of weeks after. Then it all just seemed to fade for them, yet for me it didn't.

How did people who were grieving the same person respond to the death compared to you? What similarities and differences did you notice?

I felt disconnected from others who were grieving, because I didn't know her family and or many of her friends. I had connected with her brother at the funeral and told him about the project we'd been working on; that she'd written poetry for my pieces. He gave me his email so that I could send him some images. I emailed him and told him I would be honoured to send him a piece, as a gift. He chose one and I mailed it out to him, but we didn't really speak after that. 

At one point, perhaps a few weeks after Vick’s death, I emailed her telling her that I missed her, and that I wanted to write to her because I didn't know where else to talk about how I felt about her death. It felt somehow satisfying to send out that email into the void. And who knows, perhaps her family or her ex had access to the email and read it, I don't know. But if they did, they never wrote back to tell me.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

My grieving was all private. Where the grieving had a chance to be public was perhaps at our graduation from the program. I asked the class if we could honour Vick by putting out a chair for her with ours during the ceremony. The staff spoke about her and we took a moment. It felt nice, but like a token. Something to honour her as much as that setting allowed.

Were there any personal or public rituals or structures that helped you in your grief? 

I really immersed myself in my collage work; Vick’s death sparked a huge commitment in me to be the artist I wanted to be. To keep going, to make it my life, my profession. I loved that Vick was not apologetic about who she was or how she felt. She didn't apologize for wanting what she wanted. She made me feel like I had a voice that deserved to be heard, and that my art was worth seeing. I'm endlessly thankful for that.

A couple of years ago at this time, I remember a night when my husband took my son for dinner at his family. We had planned that I would stay home and do some studio work because I'd barely had the chance since my son was born. I went out and bought myself some scallops, and I made a dish similar to the one that Vick had made me. I brought it into my studio and I poured myself a glass of wine and I worked. I toasted Vick and I collaged. It made me so happy, and it made me feel connected to her again.

How did your loss and your experience of grief change you?

It made me very aware of hidden grief, in others and in myself. When Vick died I felt I was selfish for being so upset. How could I feel so violated when her family must feel even worse! How could I admit to my grief without feeling I was being dramatic? The privacy of my grief really made me aware of the "circles" of a death. There is the family, and there are the close friends everyone knows about, people who may have known the individual since childhood. But then there are those that you may not think are affected, yet aren't they? You never know how something will hit you, and you can never know how many people it hits. It's taken me a long time to grieve Vick I think in large part because I never felt seen in it by those who knew her best, because I didn't know them.

It's all feels so complicated really, and it's still hard for me to really accept and be OK with how much I miss her, how much I crumbled when she died. To accept and feel OK about knowing that our friendship mattered, that it meant something. It's like a secret I carry, my loss of Vick.

Catherine Mellinger is a mixed media collage artist, art facilitator and certified Expressive Arts Therapist who lives in Waterloo, Ontario with her husband and son. She is currently working on a visual/literary collaboration with Toronto writer Marianne Apostolides titled Deep Salt Water, which will be published by BookThug Press in Spring of 2017. For more information on Catherine's work, visit her website.

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an evolving art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants share an experience with bereavement, and I photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story.