Crabapples

Name: Nadia Obrigewitsch

Age: 35

Tell me about the person who died:

I lost my baby girl Aida during birth in December 2014. It was a freak accident, a prolapsed cord, and completely unexpected. My pregnancy was healthy and uneventful and I was planning a home birth before I got rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. She was beautiful, had a full head of hair and was a big baby—9lbs 10 oz! We were completely devastated. I remember being in the OR watching the paediatric team try to resuscitate her for about 30 minutes. I will never forget the paediatrician's face when she came over to me to say that there was nothing left to be done. Aida died as the sun set that dark day in December. I was in complete and utter shock.

What was the grief like after your loss, and how did it change over time?

The grief was an unmistakable force that took me on a whirlwind ride of raw, intense emotions. I played the traumatic event over and over again in my mind, each time changing the outcome, willing her to open her eyes and breathe. I could not control anything. It was a dark and confusing place, and a very ethereal experience in that I was never really present in the moment during the first couple of weeks. I was always in the past with Aida or in my head. 

The grief was like this dark visitor that I kept on fighting and denying. But he kept sitting next to me, forcing me to accept the situation. In time this dark figure became a familiar friend, letting me know that another wave was coming. I could not deny these emotions, I could not deny that she was dead. Over the last 10 months the dark figure's visits have spaced out; I can breathe lightly again and even experience some joy in my life. However, when he does visit, it is always an intense experience of loss, sorrow and yearning for that baby girl. 

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

For the most part everyone has been great. In the beginning we were inundated with meal trains, cleaning services, cards, childcare support, money, you name it! Close friends set up a group chat for me to vent whenever I was finding it overwhelming. They let me know that they were here for me and that they would hold me when I needed to be held. Two of my sisters came to visit and stayed with me for the first four weeks to support my husband and my 3-year-old, and one of my sisters helped me through the grieving process like a pro. What was helpful was just somebody saying 'I see you are in pain, I will hold some space for you, I will let you cry, please lean on me'. 

What was frustrating was hearing everyone else's baby losses (miscarriage, abortion) and then being inundated with stories of various losses. That did not make me feel any better. What was also frustrating and hurtful were friends who just dropped off the face of the earth.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

There was no difference. I cried everywhere. On the street, in my office, in front of strangers, in my bathroom. I was brutally honest with everyone and anyone who would listen. However, I only cried if it felt safe. If it felt like an inappropriate place to break down, like the middle of a meeting, or playing with my toddler, I would always pause the grief. Then I would dig it up again when I was in a safe private place. This involved looking at her pictures or listening to some triggering music. I knew that if I didn't address the grief in a timely manner that it would come back 100 times worse.

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

Nope. Not at all. I lost all faith in everything. The universe is chaos.

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

In the first couple of days I really felt Aida's spirit around me. It was a curious and protective spirit. I saw a flock of golden crowned kinglets on a walk shortly after she died and since then every time I see a bird peering at me curiously I think it's her saying hello. We planted her ashes in a crabapple tree at the Government House in Victoria, and had an intimate goodbye ceremony filled with family and friends around the tree. It was very beautiful. So the image of a bird or apple tree has really helped me try to believe that she is ok, and I am ok. 

I got my tarot cards read about 3 months after her death and the reader described Aida's spirit as this joyful curious light, saying 'what a ride that was mummy!'. She went from a very visceral experience in my womb to a very light ethereal experience in death. She never experienced the outside world; her spirit was never corrupted with any pain or suffering.

I guess these aren't rituals per se, but I did a lot of 'grief projects' to help me through my mourning. I drew, I wrote in journals, I went to therapy, I went for walks in the garden where her ashes are planted, I found a locket for her hair, I arranged for an illustration to be made of a bird and the tree to give to family and friends. These kinds of projects just let me believe that she was alive, she did matter, instead of it being some sort of figment of my imagination. That's the hard part about stillbirths. You don't have any actual memories or experiences of the child, just a whole load of hopes and dreams. So you can really mourn infinite versions of that child, which is so heartbreaking and never ending, and also not rooted in any reality.

How did your loss and your grief change you?

It turned me upside down and inside out. My whole molecular structure was broken down into mush and I am now slowly but surely reassembling it all. My heart is still pretty raw and I feel everything very deeply these days, from a silly ad on the telly to an intense crime drama program where there are characters grieving. All of that can sometimes be too much for me. 

It probably doesn't help that I am now 7 months pregnant again with another baby girl. This has definitely complicated the grief and has amplified it.

This experience has forced me to be present in my life, to take note of myself and my surroundings. I crave real connection with people. Pleasantries and acquaintances I can do without. I try to be kind with everyone because I know that infant loss is a minefield topic; however, I also set boundaries for myself and if I feel they are crossed I am honest about it. Above all the experience has taught me empathy. True empathy for the human condition which is suffering. I had no idea before. I thought I knew, but I didn't.

Nadia Obrigewitsch was born in Malaysia, grew up in Ireland and now lives in Victoria, BC with her two children and husband. In her spare time she likes singing and playing the ukulele and attending the odd burlesque show. She currently works at the University of Victoria as the Waste Reduction Coordinator.

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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 then photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. I’m looking for many more submissions and for a range of experiences, so please share widely! Learn more about the project and submit your story. - Mindy Stricke

Rudraksha (Prayer Beads)

Name: Sharada Eswar

Age: 42

Tell me about the person who died:

My dad’s name is Krishnamoorthi, and we were very close. He died suddenly sixteen years ago of a heart attack, when he was 65. It was so unexpected, it was the first heart attack, and he succumbed to it. 

My dad was a self-made man, and he was very much my sister’s and my hero. He wasn't much of a talker, but the silences spoke volumes. When I started working, he would drop me off every day. The ride was probably around 30-40 minutes. And there would be days when not a word would be exchanged. The entire ride would be done in complete silence, but it was very natural. Nothing needed to be said. 

He was in marketing and sales, so he traveled a lot and would be at home for about ten days in a month. He would always return with gifts for us, the same gift every time, because he would never remember that he'd gotten it for us. I think my sister and I were too kind to say, "but Papa, you got this last time,” because he would be so happy giving it to us.

What was the grief like after your loss, and how did it change over time?

I think the first couple of years, I sort of told myself that he's away, on one of his travels, and he'll be back. But then slowly, you realize, no, he's not coming back. My sister and my brother-in-law were very helpful, and my brother-in-law—so sweet of him—would offer to give me a ride to work. But I couldn't think of anyone else doing that for me. I probably felt guilty that if I accepted somebody's offer, I would be disloyal. On occasion I was probably rude to my brother-in-law and my sister, when they were trying to make it easier. I didn't want anything, I just wanted to deal with this myself. I knew that he was dead. But I was not ready to let go, either emotionally or metaphysically.

Time is the biggest healer though. It can't heal the scars that are there, but over the years, I've learned to allow people to extend their hand to console me.

Something like seeing a peanut—my dad used to love peanuts—sometimes even seeing one peanut, can trigger happiness or sadness, depending on what frame of mind I'm in. Then there'll be days where I don't actively think of him, but it's like an open wound. It never really heals, but I've learned to cherish the memories I have of him and to be kinder to myself. 

It's great to grieve, and it's okay for people to see you grieving. Because for me, it makes his existence real. The grieving, it tells me that yes, he was there. Since it's been so long since he passed away, I say that the tears are a reminder that I'm proud to be his daughter. I don't mind them anymore. I don't know how it makes the other person feel, and I'm sorry if it makes them uncomfortable, but there's nothing I can do about it.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

It was originally extremely private, because I didn't want my mom to see me breaking down. She often said she felt strong because I was strong, and while I understand that it came from a good place, it was a kind of a weight on me. Privately, when I was taking a shower, or taking public transport to work, I would suddenly find myself crying copiously.

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

In Hinduism, there are many ceremonies that take place during the 13 days after a death. My mom's older sister, who was with us throughout that period, is very traditional, and had a beautiful way of explaining the rituals and the stories behind them. Death is such a strange thing that even if you consider all of these rituals as old grandmothers’ tales, you still want to do them when something happens to you personally.

It was all about my dad's soul reaching moksha—not exactly heaven, but a safe place—and you want to do everything to insure that happens. For instance, on the 13th day, one makes donations. Some of them are symbolic, like you're supposed to donate a cow. And you do that because it's a long journey from this world to that world, and the soul has to to be nourished, and the cow is a provider of food.

Another example, on the 9th and the 10th day is when people come and visit you, and they wail loudly, I mean it's almost like Greek keening. At first it sounds irritating, but then it becomes comforting. Just being together. Though I think some part of you wants to be alone, there's also a part of you that doesn’t.

How has your loss and your grief changed you?

I think I'm not scared to lose another person now. Nothing worse can happen than losing my dad.

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

I have beads of his called rudraksha beads. They are seeds from a type of endangered evergreen tree. The name of the tree is Sanskrit. Rudra is a name of Shiva, and Aksha means teardrop. The story goes that Shiva was in deep, blissful meditation. When he opened his eyes, it moved him so much to see the beauty and the peace that surrounded the world that he cried. The teardrops that fell to earth became this tree. I feel very close to my dad when I wear the beads. He had a rough exterior but he was also man enough to cry. I wear them every day—sometimes I don't even realize they are there, it's just a part of me. 

If you had to describe your grief as a landscape you’ve been passing through, what would it look like and feel like at different parts of your journey?

It's a still body of water, like a lake. But then you drop a pebble, and the ripple triggers the grief, which becomes a torrential river or ocean, and I am completely subsumed in it, and then it becomes still again. It's ever-present.

Sharada Eswar's passion for words, spoken and written, began at an early age. A trained Indian classical musician (Carnatic School), Sharada has been performing and teaching in Toronto and internationally, drawing on her own South Asian ancestry and heritage. Sharada is a published children’s author, Ontario Arts Council’s Cultural Animator in Mississauga/Peel and a core artist with Jumblies Theatre in Toronto, where she works extensively with diverse communities. 

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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 then photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. I’m looking for many more submissions and for a range of experiences, so please share widely! Learn more about the project and submit your story. - Mindy Stricke

Questions

I’ve always been a big question asker (I think it comes with the territory of being extroverted and very curious about other people). Perhaps it runs in the family, because my father was notorious for asking question after question of my friends when I brought them around. When I was younger, I would sometimes get embarrassed, but more often than not, my friends felt flattered that my dad cared enough to ask about who they were. 

So it’s not a surprise that a big part of my art process involves asking questions. To some degree all art involves artistic research and questions, no matter what form one is working in. In my case though, I’ve found over the past few years that my questions have become more explicit. 

It started with the first Greetings From Motherland workshop that I ran. Since that project was originally sparked by my curiosity about how other mothers felt about their transitions to motherhood, I started the first session by having everyone brainstorm what they would ask other mothers if they could ask them anything. The women exploded with questions, and I think in ten minutes we had about fifty. “What would you have changed about the first year?” “In those very first moments after you met your child, what were you really thinking?” "How did having a baby affect your body and the way you felt about it?” “When was the loneliest time as a new mom?” “How did becoming a mother affect your relationship with your partner?” and so on. Those questions become the basis for many of the artistic experiments we did during the workshops. We wrote and photographed in response to the questions, and we went out and interviewed other mothers using those questions too. 

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                              The Way the World Works

All of that material came together in the final pieces we produced. The writing, the text from the interviews, and the photographs ended up as a moveable cardboard brick sculpture called The Way The World Works, in which audience members were invited to read the testimonies on the bricks and build with them too (although it was the kids who played with the sculpture the most). We also realized we wanted to gather more stories, so at the last minute we decided to set up a postcard rack and give other mothers attending the show the opportunity to write in response to the same questions we had originally brainstormed. They could choose the questions randomly from a bowl, answer anonymously if they liked, and then add their postcards to the rack. It was exciting to see people respond eagerly to the opportunity to share their real feelings and stories in response to the questions that had started the whole project (you can read some examples here).

Mothers responding to questions. That's my dad in the upper right corner, and fittingly, he really liked this installation.

The postcard rack continued to be an important part of the Greetings From Motherland research for the next few years, and I used the process of starting workshops by brainstorming questions in many subsequent groups. For the final Motherland project that culminated in Landing Gear, we actually started with no topic at all—everything grew out of the initial questions, so we could get a read on what people were interested in exploring.

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The Motherland Postcard Rack

My new project, Grief Landscapes, is starting with questions too, although I'm beginning this phase of the project on my own rather than through workshops, so it’s a bit of a different process. I brainstormed questions that would begin to uncover how different people deal with grief and bereavement, and then I consulted with grief counselors, as well as friends who have grieved. I’ve already received feedback that just answering the questions alone can be very cathartic for people, because many aspects of their grief have often been ignored by others. I’m continuing to add questions as they come to me, and I wanted to also invite readers here to add to the list if there’s anything you think I’m missing. Grief itself doesn’t have any answers, so it feels fitting that the project is starting with questions. I hope the work I produce in response will generate more. 

Help me add to my list of questions: 

If you’ve grieved the loss of someone close to you, is there anything you’ve ever wondered about other people who have also experienced a loss? 

And if you haven’t experienced profound grief in your life yet, what would you ask someone who has that perhaps you’ve been scared to?

How to Turn a Poppy Danish Into a Mountain

I’ve had a nice response so far since starting to get the word out about Grief Landscapes, and people’s stories are starting to come in. I’m finding my rhythm, and it’s interesting to see what comes up as I navigate the tricky terrain of interpreting someone else’s grief visually. Primarily I feel very grateful and honored that people are trusting me with their accounts. That can’t be an easy thing to do. And as I’m finding, neither is making an image in response, but I have to say that I’m really enjoying the challenge.

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Poppy Seed Danish, 2015

As I’m shooting a new image, I have to keep in mind three or four goals that I need to reach in order for the photo to be a successful reflection of a person’s grief experience. First, it needs to resemble a landscape, and some objects are easier than others to transform in this way (clothing, fabric, anything with an undulating surface, for example). It feels relatively easy to take a beautiful but non-specific close-up image of a familiar object, because there’s so much there one can’t always see with the naked eye. But to make it even slightly resemble a landscape turns out to be a lot harder.

The second thing I’m aiming for is to have the tone of the image reflect the person’s grief in some way. Sometimes it’s clear, and something jumps out from the text that’s vivid and an obvious path to represent the terrain they’ve described. Other times, their grief unfolds over a longer period and I have to either choose which aspect of the person’s story to portray, or try to get it all in there. I’m also trying to avoid being too literal or obvious, because then I risk veering into the sentimental (something that feels particularly easy to do with a project like this).

The third dimension is whether the photo feels like it truly represents the person it’s about, which emerges from the objects suggested for me to shoot. And sometimes I get that wrong. My friend Jordana submitted a beautifully written account of her father’s death, which followed years of dementia. In her text, she writes about how different she and her father were—he was a Holocaust survivor; a working class, salt-of-the-earth mensch who didn’t always understand her, but loved her deeply and unconditionally. There was a simplicity to her grief, which she recounted. 

For the objects, she suggested a greasy poppy seed danish, which her dad loved to eat, or a ladder, since he had been a roofer. I jumped at the danish, since I thought it would make a really interesting landscape, and it did. The poppy seeds looked like black boulders, and the white icing like glaciers on the side of a mountain. I was using the black and white nature of their relationship as the jumping off point and I was excited to share them with her. But after I did, she gently told me that while the images were beautiful, they didn’t feel like her dad. They were too beautiful, and he was a man with dirt under his fingernails. It just didn’t fit.

So I took another crack with the ladder. I had one in my garage, so I hauled it out and shot it outside from all different angles. This time, it all came together—the straightforward nature of her grief reflected in the straight lines of the ladder and the image, the choice to have a narrow depth of field to reflect the dementia at the end of his life. She thought I had nailed it, and so did I. I still love the danish photos, and it's hard to let them go, but I love the ladder images too, and each image is ultimately a collaboration.

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   Ladder, 2015

I’m excited to keep going, and I look forward to hearing more of your responses as well as starting to share them in the coming months. I also wanted to clarify the object aspect of the project, which some people have been confused about. The object does not have to be something currently in your possession; it can be something in your memory, or an object that represents an aspect of the person. In most cases I am recreating the object anyway (some people don’t actually have anything from the person who died, or what they have wouldn’t work with the text or as a landscape image). Keep the stories coming.