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. 

---

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

Belt

Name: Dave

Age: 43

Tell me about the person who died:

My mother’s name was Lynn. She died January 15, 2015 from Hepatitis C due to drug use. Our relationship was a violent and unhealthy one, as she was an abusive parent from my earliest memories. During her last few years of life, we did not have a relationship because I had finally grown to a place where I didn't feel guilty about it anymore. There was no obligation on my part. There was only self-preservation.

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

The object that reminds me of my mother is her belt. This is not just any belt. As a child, when I was 'bad', she would make me go and get the belt and bring it to her, so she could punish me. I was not hit with it in a standard way, as children in the past have been; I was whipped with it. She didn't just whip my bottom, she also whipped my back, and especially the back of my knees, while holding onto my head. Once it even wrapped around me and hit my crotch. I also recall, that as a young child, I would go get the belt and practice whipping my stuffed animals, so I could make sure that I did it right when I became an adult, because I thought that was part of being a parent.

I moved out and moved on when I was 15, and I hadn't thought about that belt again until the day after she died, when I found it while cleaning out her home. I was instantly in shock upon seeing it and grabbed it and took possession of it because it was mine...because it was ours together. I didn't know what to do with it. I brought it home and showed it to my wife and told her the story of the belt. The second night, I got completely drunk, overwhelmed with confusion and questions. All I could think was, she hasn't fit in this belt, or worn this belt for years–why did she keep it? It was in a drawer of keepsakes. There were birthday cards from her grandchildren…and this belt. A memento, like she wanted to remember what I couldn't forget.

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

I was told about her imminent death and I didn't want any part of it. I didn't want to make amends. I didn't want her to apologize. I didn't want to apologize. So I ignored it. I love my sister and my grandmother though, so when I was told that my mother could no longer speak and she was on her death bed, I went to the hospital. Trying to be a better person than my mother, I decided to go there for my sister because she was having to deal with the loss of her relationship with her mother, which had always been far different from mine. My sister said that she would give me a few minutes alone with our mother, so I could tell her what I needed to tell her, and left the room. I didn't say a word. Not one. I didn't think she deserved it. 

A few hours later, as we knew that our mother was in her final moments, my sister sat on her left side and I sat on her right, each holding her respective hand. As I held her right hand in mine, I realized the irony that I was holding and comforting the very hand that had hit me and brought me so much pain. 

The moment she died, I was instantly relieved that it was over, that she was gone. But then I felt that I had to fall into some sort of an acting role for my sister because she was devastated. It was a difficult situation because I wanted to dance a jig, but I couldn't because I felt I had to be somber. So I didn't give anything away. I was robot-like. 

The first night after Lynn died, I had guilt because I wasn't feeling grief, and that perhaps I should have been. Everyone was saying that she was the “only mother I will ever have,” so I kept trying to stir things up for myself, but nothing came. I felt like something was wrong with me.

The second day, I was feeling something, but I didn't know what it was. Upon exploring this with my wife, I realized that I was feeling a loss of some sort, but rather than grieving the mother I had, I was grieving the mother that I should have had, the mother that I deserved to have and would never have.

I no longer feel guilty. Something was telling me that I needed to feel grief, but I don't. I have a much better quality of life now. I can go out in public without worrying about bumping into her. I can be with the rest of my family at holidays because I don't have to worry about her showing up. I have my family back because she is dead. Most importantly, I have been able to reestablish a relationship with my 91-year-old grandmother, which had been impossible for years because of her daughter.

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 would look like a hurricane was just clearing, with all the wreckage and fallout barely visible, and with the sun and a bright blue sky following soon after. Chirping birds, water flowing, everything that represents life after a storm. Light after being in the dark. New life.

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

My wife helped me to understand that for my own sake, I needed to make amends with my past. That absolutely did not mean that I had to forgive my mother for all of the abuse and pain she had inflicted upon me for so many years, but perhaps I could forgive her for not being able to be the mother that I needed and deserved. That helped to shift my pain immensely, to a place that made more sense to me.

My sister and grandmother were both consistently trying to see if I was okay. They had the best intentions. But again, I felt as if I was acting, trying to be sad because they were or felt that I should be, or both. It wasn't helpful nor harmful, it was just very weird. I have always allowed my sister to talk about her grief, and I nod and give her space to grieve, but I cannot relate to her feelings. 

When others tried to comfort me, that was annoying. I have lived a life of lies. By giving up my relationship with Lynn many years ago, I stopped lying, so I didn't want people to feel sorry for me because I wasn't sorry. It was a bad relationship and it is over.

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

My mother’s relationship with other people changed over the years and she did become a better person towards those people. Therefore, they grieved far differently from me.

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

There was no formal funeral or memorial service for Lynn. From the time I was 5 years old, her wishes were to have her ashes scattered in the Niagara Gorge. Last summer, me, my wife, my sister and her kids hiked down to the gorge, found a private spot, and did exactly that. I did it for my sister, and for myself I guess because I had made a promise to my mother when I was a young boy that we would do that.

As a child, even being beaten by her, I loved my mother. I didn't know that what she was doing was wrong. When you are a child, there is no distinguishing between good and evil, you just love. When you are told that you are bad, you just think that you are bad, but you still love. It's not until you're an adult that you have the ability to quantify and qualify what went on.

How did your loss change you? 

It freed me. It freed me from being a scared 42-year-old man, from going out, from doing anything. The end of her life was a new beginning for mine.

---

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 accepting submissions until June 15th, 2016. Learn more about the project, share widely, and submit your story. 

Purple Cardigan

Name: Carly-Jay Metcalfe

Age: 39

Tell me about the person who died:

I grew up with the genetic disease cystic fibrosis and as of this year, have lost around 75 friends to it. I lost my first “best friend,” Ineka, on September 9, 1988, when I was eleven. The day before she died, I was allowed into the “dying room,” as we all called it, where I was able to sit with Ineka as she lay dying. I remember walking into the room; she was lying on her right side. She knew who I was and tried to whisper my name, but I just said, “Shh, you don't have to talk. I love you so much,” to which she replied, “I love you, too.” To have that love reflected back to me is something that will always be with me. Ineka and I were very close, though she was four years older than me.

I still have a photo of Ineka on my shelf today. If I had a photo of every person I'd lost to cystic fibrosis, I'd have no wall space.

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

Ine's mum, Trish, was a brilliant knitter, and I remember watching her create this beautiful purple cardigan for Ine about eighteen months before she died. As I said my final goodbyes and “I love you’s" to my friend, I walked back into the tiny hospital ward kitchen where Trish presented me with Ineka's cardigan. Trish, my mum, and I came together in a loving embrace, all of us howling about the loss we were about to experience. I knew right then the profundity of Trish handing over the cardigan she had so lovingly made for her daughter, and that night and for many nights after, I slept with it. I still treasure Ineka's cardigan and it still fits me (thanks to the baggy look preferred in the 80’s).

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

Immense. Heavy like a sodden blanket, but I felt lighter when I had Ineka's cardigan with or on me. I used it for comfort, for calm and to feel ‘near’ her.

During this time, I wasn't complying with my medication regime or my twice daily physiotherapy. I was eleven, and wanted to be a kid without the burden of having an illness that I felt was out of my control. Also, being punched in the chest for physio is painful. I loathed having to take my medication at school because I was called a junkie, but to be honest, most of the time I would just forget because I was trying to live like a normal kid. A social worker hoodwinked Mum and Dad into believing that I was morbidly depressed, and needed to be admitted to the “Child and Family Therapy Unit,” which was just another term for the psychiatric ward. The social worker also thought that sleeping with Ineka's cardigan was abnormal, so it was taken away when I was admitted. But all I was doing was processing my grief just as I'd always done, in a very customary way for a child. Sleeping with Ine's cardigan made me feel close to her and as though my grief was something tangible, something that I could touch.

I was in this ward for just short of two weeks. My family could only see me at certain times of the day. My door always had to be open and I had to have supervised showers because I was on suicide watch. When my Dad’s brother Garth died, I remember being in the arts and crafts room when my Dad came in. I knew that Garth was in intensive care after a heart attack. The day he died, Dad marched in crying. I had never seen him cry before. I even remember what I was painting—a Donald Duck plaster cast—so when Dad walked around the corner with tears in his eyes, I knew we'd lost Garth. He broke me out there and then, and when he was questioned about when I'd be back, he said, “She's never fucking coming back to this place.”

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

It was like a thick, gelatinous river, struggling to make its way through a pinprick of a hole in a mountain. I seemed to sink and climb deeper into myself with each death. I’ve always appreciated the allegory of drowning, in that this is what happens with CF. You essentially drown in your own mucous. 

Something broke within me when I lost Ineka. Death breaks you open in a way where you can never be the same again. The deaths wouldn’t let up, which felt like a cannonball puncturing my spirit each time. I felt quite alone in my grief, unless I was talking about it with my CF friends. None of the children at my school (barring one lovely girl who is still my best friend) were aware of the losses I was experiencing, though my teachers knew and were always very kind to me.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

Ineka’s death solidified the fact that I could die at any time from this disease. Even though I was quite healthy in terms of my CF, I seemed to be in hospital constantly. Ineka felt like a watershed moment, in that I lost dozens of friends after she died. It was as though Ineka had been the starting point—the lesson—and then everyone seemed to die. I have a photo that was taken when I was seven at a CF camp, and by the time I was 13, everyone in that photo was dead. It wasn’t a wake up call, as such, just another reminder of how insidious this disease could be.

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

It was so important that I was surrounded by my CF tribe, because they were the only ones who truly understood—at least, that was what I thought at the time. Looking back, I can see how my mum really suffered the loss of Ineka, as did my sister—a lot of my friends were her friends too, and I believe that Mum felt a responsibility with some of my friends to be there when their own parents couldn’t, whether physically or emotionally. 

I look back now and feel very selfish about my grief, because my whole family was feeling it—even my Dad, as much as he may have trouble admitting it due to his stoicism. Whether the deaths were a reminder that I may have a shortened life span, or because of the suffering, I know it affected my family greatly. 

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

When I would speak to my friends about how they felt, it was interesting to gauge their emotions. I was always a very curious little girl, and this made me more curious and so that’s when I started my first social experiment with grief. I didn’t write things down, as I usually did, because I felt that was a betrayal of my friends’ trust, but I kept everyone’s responses in my head and heart. There was a consistent thread of sadness, shock and disbelief (even though the deaths were often “expected”), and worry for other friends who were seemingly edging towards death. I would have to say overwhelming sadness was the emotion that united us.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

As a child and an adolescent, I was a private griever. While I was fearless in my nature, I always felt vulnerable and weak when I manifested my grief in a physical sense, such as crying. I thought it was up to me to be strong, and so my public grief response was a façade, whereas when I grieved in private, I’d always lock the door or ensure it was a dark place so that no one could see me crying. Even when I was on my own, there was always a degree of shame when I cried.

That's something that's only changed within the last five years. I am now an out and proud crier. I have reclaimed my tears and grief and have spun them into gold, and feel much lighter in my being. Writing over 100,000 words of my memoir while doing some really hard spiritual work has healed me to a point. I do not believe that time heals all wounds though; it numbs them, and you learn to live around the sadness.

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

In the 80’s and 90’s, there wasn’t a funeral I went to that didn’t have some injection of “God” and the scriptures, whether it was the Lord’s Prayer or singing a well-known hymn like “Amazing Grace.” 

I always felt cheated on behalf of my friends when a priest launched into a religious diatribe, because my friends and I had talked about death, but never had they mentioned religion. Then again, perhaps that was a private thing for them. 

Ineka planned her own funeral and it was the most beautiful funeral I’ve ever been to. I remember being surrounded by an abundance of blooms, as well as a palpable love and light. It was a celebration of her life, which is what Ine wanted. Of course, a great sadness pervaded the event, but there was an overwhelming sense of love on that day where everyone had come together to truly honour her life. She also wrote her own epitaph, which says, “Don't be too sad—just remember me at my best.”

Carly-Jay Metcalfe is an Australian based writer of literary fiction, poetry and memoir. She is also a death midwife and secular pastoral carer. Fragments of her life and work can be found at www.bruisesyoucantouch.com and www.carlyjaymetcalfe.com. In 2014, Carly-Jay spoke at TEDx Brisbane https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AYaBlW9sSYQ

---

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 accepting submissions until June 15th, 2016. Learn more about the project, share widely, and submit your story. - Mindy Stricke

Irish Cape

View fullsize

Irish Cape, 2016

Name: Merri-Lee Agar

Age: 43

Tell me about the person who died:

At the time of her death, my mum Sandy was my best friend and biggest fan. It wasn’t always that way; she and I butted heads from the time I was a teenager into my thirties. She’d had lung disease for decades, for so long that I don’t think any of us actually believed she would die from it. She was an incredibly strong woman who was much sicker than she ever let on. She lived for her family; her husband, her kids, her grandkids, and her one great-grandchild. Her family was everything to her and that was what kept her going.

A few years before she died, I started a Mother’s Day tradition where all the mothers and daughters in the family went out for brunch together. My Mum loved the idea and added her own touch to it by bringing a corsage for each of us: a single red carnation to be worn over your heart if your mother is living, and a white carnation if she has died. Being the matriarch, she was the only one who wore white. In the weeks leading up to Mother’s Day in 2010, she had not been feeling herself; she asked me to pick her up for brunch as she didn’t feel well enough to drive. 

As we drove the 20 minutes to the restaurant, she reached for my hand and told me how she had been to the emergency room the night before because she couldn’t breathe. Based on her history and her symptoms, the doctor had run tests and confirmed that her pulmonary disease had progressed to congestive heart failure. It was time to get her affairs in order; she was dying. While it was difficult to have confirmation, a part of me already knew. I told her that I would be there for her and would help her in any way I could, and she said she knew that. We spent the rest of the drive in silence, holding hands with tears streaming down our cheeks. At the restaurant, as she pinned the red carnation over my heart, we exchanged a look of understanding that the following year, mine would be white. 

June 29th will be six years since she died, just seven weeks after Mother’s Day and my last red carnation. She was 71.

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

I had a considerable amount of anticipatory grief. Not only over the several years of her declining health, but especially over those last seven weeks of her life. As soon as Mother’s Day passed, the busy work started: updating finances, advance directives, wills, funeral planning. I will never forget the day I watched her choose her casket and urn. Sitting in the selection room, she had a look on her face I had not seen before; a combination of peace and pain. She was tired of the struggle, and yet she knew that her peace meant our pain. That was one of the hardest days of my life.

It was her wish to die at home so her doctor educated us on what to expect and how to keep her comfortable. On June 26th, she became bedridden but was still completely lucid and we were still checking off her ‘to-do-before-I-die’ list. She had me email distant friends and relatives to thank them for their love and wonderful memories and we called the family home to say goodbye. We even had a minister come to the house so she could have last communion with her husband and four children—equal parts beautiful and emotional. I never left her side.

She was having more difficulty sleeping at night due to increasing discomfort, and I was sleeping in her bed with her, so we talked to distract her and pass the time. One night, I found myself confessing every “bad” thing I had ever done in my life, and found that she already knew about most of them! We laughed until we cried, and then she talked to me about dying. She wasn’t afraid, because she already knew where she was going. 

It was a story I had heard my whole life. She had hemorrhaged giving birth to me due to a rare and serious pregnancy condition that had gone undetected. The doctor was forced to perform an emergency hysterectomy to stop the bleeding and she was clinically dead for four minutes before he got her heart beating again. In that time, my Mum recalled seeing her own body lying on the operating table as she floated up towards the ceiling. She spoke of the bright light and feeling completely enveloped in an almost overwhelming feeling of warmth, peace and love. She heard a distinguished and welcoming voice speak to her, and she bargained for her life, saying that she had to go back; she couldn’t leave my Dad to raise three kids and an infant. He granted her enough time to raise her kids and see them grown and happy, but she wouldn’t live to be old. Because of that experience, she knew the beauty and the love there, she knew she wouldn’t be alone and she had so much gratitude for the 37 “extra” years she had been granted. 

The afternoon she died, she wanted to have one last euchre game with her friends so she decided to nap. I went out to the living room to go through albums to choose pictures for the funeral home slide show. As I came across one group photo, I placed my palm over her face to try to imagine her not here. As I did that, I heard her call to me, “Chumley, I need you” (Chumley was her pet name for me; mine for her was Mumley). What was incredible was that there was no way I would be able to hear her call to me from all the way down the hall to her room and with her door closed. I had heard her in my head, and I knew that it was time. 

When I got to her room and opened the door, her eyes were closed and she was moaning quietly. I went to her side and took her hand in mine and asked her what she needed. She opened her eyes and moved her hand to cup my cheek and said, “Just you.” I placed my hand over hers and told her that I wouldn’t leave her again. My sister looked in and I nodded to let her know that it was time, so she lightly rubbed her back while I gently stroked her hair, both of us trying to comfort her. Silent tears ran down our cheeks as we watched her skin change colour, from her toes towards her torso. While we knew it was her circulation ceasing, it seemed almost as if we could see her soul gradually leaving her body. Moments later, she turned her face towards us, and said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life…” and then she was gone. The person I had known to be my mother for 37 years was nothing more than an empty shell of a body. It was palpable.

In spite of all of the planning, reasoning and preparation I thought I had done prior to her death, nothing can actually prepare you for losing someone you love, especially a parent. It is impossible to contemplate what your life will look like without someone in it who has been there since you took your first breath. It felt like I had dreamed it all and I just wanted to wake up. I remember feeling confused and then angry that the world still looked the same and still sounded the same, and yet it was completely different. Birds were still singing and the sun was still shining. How dare they? I questioned everything. Was I still her daughter? Was she still my mother? Who was I without her? I felt that a physical piece of me was missing. As much as my Mum and I fought, any time I needed her, she was always there, and now, when I needed her most, she was gone. 

Weeks later, my husband gave me a grief kit and in it was “The Mourner’s Bill of Rights” by Alan Wolfelt. I was stunned by what I was reading. Everything that I was feeling that I couldn’t put into words was right there in front of me, and it made me feel less alone. I also saw the grief counsellor from the funeral home for a few months, and it helped me immensely. I learned from both that I didn’t have to let my Mum go entirely, that I was allowed to bring her with me in my life. I was allowed to talk about her and love her and keep her alive in memories and stories. I learned that death doesn’t end a relationship, it changes it. I began to heal. I still keep her close to me. I feel her with me, I talk to her and she is still the compass that guides me.

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

Her Irish cape. Her father was born in Ireland and came to Canada as a young lad, and she was very proud of her roots. She loved her drink, she loved to dance, and Murphy’s Law has always been quite prevalent in our family. It was always a dream of my Mum’s to go there, and it was always a dream of mine to get her there, but it didn’t happen.

But she will get there yet. My husband and I are planning a trip in 2017 to celebrate our 45th birthdays and I will be bringing some of her ashes with me to share with her father’s county and anywhere I feel she would love to “be”. Her cape is as green as any Ireland landscape, as were her eyes—as are mine. She only wore her cape on special occasions, but each time she wore it, she beamed with pride. So when she died, it was one of the few things that I wanted.

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?

Before my Mum died, with the anticipatory grief, I felt as though I was looking at a horizon way off in the distance, with gradual darkness leading to it. It turned out not to be far off at all, and after her death the terrain was more edgy and jarring than I expected. Almost immediately it seemed I was falling into a deep, dark pit. That was okay, as I wanted to be alone there and not have to deal with anything. So I did, for the first year–—it just seemed easier to get through all of the ‘firsts’ cold and numb. 

Then I started to climb back to civilization, only to find that what I thought was the top was simply a plateau, and that I had a much higher hill to climb. The second year was worse than the first year for me, because it was all about realizing that this was my new normal. I gradually climbed the rest of the way out into a more forgiving terrain, mostly warm, sunny, green and lush, though with bumps here and there.

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

My husband had never seen me in that state and didn’t know what to do for me, so he just held me, which was exactly what I needed. My daughter was 14 when my Mum died and she and I were already going through our own mother-daughter teenage crap. But she was hurting and so was I. She has never been a big communicator, so she would come into my bed and snuggle with me and we would just hold each other and cry together. I was thankful for that as I missed the snuggly little girl who used to be my daughter and I missed snuggling with my own Mum. I think it even gave me hope that one day my daughter and I would be as close as my Mum and I were—something to look forward to. And Panther, my cat and constant companion for 12 years at the time, could sense my pain and never left my side.

How did your loss and your grief change you?

Companioning my Mum at the end of her life inspired me to change my career entirely. She taught me that there is so much to learn from the dying–the stories that need to be told, the need to make meaning, the need for reconciliation, the legacy of their lives, and the beauty in all of that. So I became certified in Bereavement Education and Grief and Trauma Counseling, and became an End of Life Doula. I dedicate several hours a week to volunteering for hospice, providing respite to dying people in the community. People who are dying are alive in ways that we are not; it is an honour to work with each of them. While pursuing my education, I realized that my Mum not only chose me to journey with her, but had in fact groomed me my whole life to be comfortable with death and to care for the dying. This is what I was born to do, what she raised me to do. I could not feel more blessed or grateful.

Merri-Lee Agar lives in the Niagara region of Ontario with her husband and daughter. She is a Reiki Master and incorporates the healing energy into sessions with both grief clients and end of life clients to help make living and dying more meaningful. When not working or volunteering, Merri-Lee loves to be in nature, especially near water, and spend time with those who matter most.

---

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 more submissions and for a range of experiences, so please share widely! Learn more about the project and submit your story. - Mindy Stricke

Sweet Potato Casserole

Name: Kathryn Thies

Age: 28

Tell me about the person who died: 

Bryan was my older brother, my hero, and one of my best friends. When he was 25 and I was 22, I moved across the country to start grad school. A week later he got a huge promotion. He spent three weeks at the office, non-stop, learning his new role. With the promotion came a bigger salary. He booked airfare to come visit me and was even bringing our little sister with him. Two days before the trip, his first day off in three weeks, he went out to celebrate the promotion with his friends. After a day spent out in the sun at the lake, they went to a bar. At 2:30 in the morning, Bryan convinced his friends he was sober and able to drive home. The day had been long, it was the middle of a torrential rain storm, and Bryan picked up speed because the traffic lights were all turned to flashing yellow. About a mile and a half from home, his SUV hit a pothole and he hydroplaned into a tree. Later we found out that his blood alcohol content was .24, three times the legal limit. The police told us that he had probably not had time to even realize he was going to be in an accident and that he died the second the collision happened. They said that like it was a good thing. I always wondered if I would rather Bryan have had a chance to fight for survival.

Bryan had always loved to party but if I had even a sip of alcohol when I was with him, I wasn't allowed to drive. He wouldn't start the car until everyone had seat belts on. He was my protector, but somehow he forgot to protect himself that night.

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

I had never lost anyone close to me before. My grandfathers both died before I was three, and my grandmothers are still alive, so this was my first experience with grief. The hardest thing I ever had to do was to say goodbye to my brother and bury him. The second hardest thing I ever had to do was get on a plane and go back to grad school where I had only just started to get settled in and build relationships.

The first few months were simply about surviving the day. Some days it took everything I had just to get out of bed and show up to campus. I dropped one of my classes, and the rest of my professors gave me a lot of leeway with due dates. Everyone would tell me that they would love to help, just ask. The hard part was, I didn't know what to ask for. I will forever be grateful to the people who told me that they were going to feed me and did, the people who would sit with me while I tried to get homework done so I didn't feel so alone, the people who planned activities to help me find moments of happiness. I had a hard time explaining to people how lonely the world was. Yes, I had a ton of friends and family and lots of support, but I couldn't call Bryan. Dating was hard because people always ask about your family on the first date. Some people I would tell, others I didn’t. I still don't know how to answer the question "How many siblings do you have?"

I had a nightmare about three weeks after Bryan died. In the dream, the rest of my family was in a car accident and died. That brought on insomnia. It's been six years and I still can’t sleep at night without medicine to help. I lost about 20 pounds that first semester and didn't gain it back until recently.

Slowly but surely, I learned to function again. I didn't cry as often. I could think of Bryan with happiness. I hate when someone else is given a reason to grieve, but I do love being the person they turn to. I get to mentor them through their grief. It's one bright spot in the darkness that is Bryan's death.

I have a wonderful man in my life who knows about Bryan, but it's hard to know that Bryan will never get to meet him.

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

In our family, Bryan and I were two of five cousins all in the same age range. Every year at Thanksgiving and Christmas, the cousins would all fight over the leftover sweet potato casserole. It is our favorite to this day. Since I was the only one living away from home for college, I always ended up with the biggest serving. My mother would say "I'll make more. Y'all live here so you can have some later in the month." I don't think any was ever made later in the month, which makes me laugh. Now, when I'm home for the holidays, I like to take the leftover sweet potato casserole out to where Bryan is interred or to the tree. I sit and eat and talk to him about how the family is, the things going on in my life, his dogs. I always leave a spoonful for him.

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 the start, it was a war-torn country. Nothing made sense, and it was a fight to survive. After a year, I was in a valley. I was low, but I could see that there was life. Now, most days are sunny, but occasionally I'm hit with waves of grief. The waves ebb and flow. Some are so strong they pull me under and I just have to hide out in the grief for a little while. Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in the grief. Most days, though, I float along the surface. The grief is always there. Without it I wouldn't be who I am, floating along.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief? 

Depression is a part of grief. I knew that going in. I didn't realize just how exhausted the grief would make me. You have to talk yourself up to do things as simple as walking from the car to the door. That steals energy. The crying saps your energy. The insomnia wears you down. It was a miracle if I could stay awake for more than seven hours those first few months.

The anger part of my grief also surprised me. The stupidest things would make me mad. I had no tolerance for anything. My cohort would complain about homework and I would want to scream at them. I had that homework too, but I also had a dead brother.

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

I hate hearing platitudes (If God brings you to it, he'll bring you through it; you have to choose to be happy; God must have needed Bryan more, etc.) I hate hearing about silver linings. A silver lining implies that I should be ok with his death because it brought about a specific result. While I can see some positive changes in my life, they will never make it ok that he died.

I hated when people would tell me that they knew how hard it must be. They didn't. They didn't have the relationship I had with Bryan so they couldn't understand what losing him meant to me.

I always tell people who say "I don't know what to say" that there's two good responses. Say "I'm sorry" or "That sucks." It's simple and it's honest. It really does suck, but it’s important to acknowledge that it happened.

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

I will forever be grateful to my parents for recognizing that the grief my sister and I were experiencing was important too. So many people just worry about the parents of a dead person, but we loved him every bit as much! We made every decision about his funeral and afterward as a family. 

I had to set boundaries with my parents for a while. I think they were so worried about losing another child that they were scared of everything I did. We made a rule that if I went out drinking, I would have a glass of water for every alcoholic drink I had. That helped them ease up a little. 

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

I was an open book. There was only really one thing that I didn't share with a lot of people. In fact, only my counselor and my mother knew this part in the beginning: I often wished it had been me instead of him. I saw his strengths and my faults and weaknesses. In my lowest moments I thought the world would be a better place with him instead of me in it. I was never suicidal, I just wished I could trade places.

Years later, I realized I had worked hard to build up the skills that he had that I wanted. I'm grateful for the example he set and I try to live up to being Bryan's little sister.

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

I was born and raised a Christian. My faith was dealt a huge blow when Bryan died. I didn't want to believe in a God who would take my brother. He was a really good person who made a bad mistake. That didn't justify God taking him from us. My grandmother told me at one point "I've been yelling at God today because I'm so angry at him for taking Bry." That was a huge turning point for me; it had never occurred to me that I was allowed to be angry with God or yell at Him. I now believe that God felt my pain at losing Bryan, that He wanted to hear about my anger and sadness, and that He grieves with me.

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

Every year for Bryan's birthday, I take the money I would have spent on a birthday present for him and use it to do some good in the world. I always try to make that good a nod toward him and his passions. One year, I donated a soccer ball (his favorite sport) to a program serving kids in a very poor community. Another year, I took a big basket full of tennis balls to the dog park and gave them out to everyone who came in.

How did your loss and your grief change you?

I became a much more empathetic person. It took me a while to realize that when one of my friends got dumped that was the worst thing in the world to her, because she hadn't experienced losing someone close. 

I'm more of a daredevil than I was before. I want to be able to try everything at least once, so that I can share the experience with Bryan. I carry him with me wherever I go. I'm not as scared because I know that if I die, I'll see him again. I'm not trying to get killed, but I fear death less.

Kathryn Thies is a 20-something living, loving, and laughing her way through life in Chicago. In her free time, she loves trying new recipes and craft brews.

---

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

Art Supplies

View fullsize

Art Supplies, 2016

Name: Molly Mackay

Age: 45

Tell me about the person who died:

I grew up in a small village called Kilmalcolm in Scotland, and my grandfather was my closest friend when I was a child. He died when I was 7 on New Year's Eve. Every evening, my grandfather would ask me,”What shall I bring you home after work, Molly? Art supplies or chocolate?" Every day when he returned from work he would have something for me. We would sit in his room, talk about the world, and tell jokes, and he would talk about his life stories and ask me about my day. We would share a glass of Irun Bru or Lucozade (British pop drinks) and say "Cheers Beers” as we would clink our glasses. To this day I recall the sound of his voice. He was a tall, distinguished man, quiet, kind and a good friend to a small girl. I will always love him and remember him.

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

When my mom came into my room that New Year's Day to break the news that my grandfather had passed away I was devastated. I let out a loud scream.

The strange thing is the day before my grandfather died I had a sense that he was going to pass away. Even at age 7 I knew this. I have a memory of playing in the backyard and thinking to myself, "I need to go upstairs and see my grandfather one last time”. He was very ill and was too weak to get out of bed that day. I remember opening his bedroom door and asking him if he was ok and would he like a pencil and paper to draw with because drawing always made me feel better. He said no, that he just wanted to rest. I told him I loved him and closed the door. The next morning he passed away.

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? 

There have been some dark clouded mountains to climb but also sunny memories to reflect upon.

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

My family didn't handle grief very well because they didn't acknowledge it. It was never spoken of or discussed after the person passed away. I guess in a weird way that was their way of coping with it. I have always been more of the kind of person who thinks talking about grief and letting yourself go through it is far healthier.

I was seven years old so I dealt with my grief through drawing and doing art every day. This helped me greatly.

In general since then, although I do cry and talk about it somewhat when I lose someone, I deal with grief mostly on my own. That way it slowly makes sense and I can eventually accept it. I spend time thinking about the person, how they lived, my sadness at losing them; I do eat a vast amount of chocolate while doing this.

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

In Scotland we have the tradition of having the person who has passed away lie in their home for 3 days. The person is laid in their coffin as an open casket and friends and family members pay their respects to the deceased. It is cold enough in Scotland that doing this in a home is no difficulty at all. The belief is that the soul of a person lingers for 3 days. Thus the soul is present when family and friends come by to pay their respects.

This tradition wasn't done for my Grandfather but it was done for my Grandmother. I found it gave me closure and I was able to say goodbye.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

I learned to take each day as it comes and to try and not take life and the people you love in your life for granted. I also learned that even though the ones you love will pass away they never really leave you.

Molly MacKay was born in Scotland and moved to Canada when she was twelve years old.  She currently lives in Toronto, Ontario with her husband and her cat Toby. She enjoys playing her cello, ukulele & harmonica, painting from her home studio, and teaching art to children.

---

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

Crab Claw

Name: Erin McReynolds

Age: 39

Tell me about the person who died: 

In July 2004, when I was 27, I found my mother's body under a blanket on her bed. She had been stabbed in the neck by her boyfriend during an argument, and had been missing for three days. I had a locksmith let me in when the police wouldn't break into the apartment; I didn't know she was in there, but I knew I'd find some clue as to her whereabouts. Likewise, I didn't know her boyfriend was capable of killing her, but I knew—for a long time I knew—that something terrible was going to happen. To her, to me, it's hard to say; I grew up with a feeling of dread, and it hardened into something flexible and helpful as I got older. It's what made me clear-headed and capable of action when I moved the pillow on her bed and saw her hand there. I knew not to pull the blanket back further, not to see the rest. That it was not going to serve me, what was under there. That I was my mother now, and hadn't I always been? And that mother pulled me out of the room and let me rest on her home’s cool, terra cotta tiles, which she and I had painstakingly coated with sealant when she first bought the place, her first homeownership, when she was still employed, before she met him. I got down on those tiles and felt End wash over me. I heard it as a galaxy-sized book slamming shut. I saw it as an imprint of her hand, her right, white, soft hand, hanging limply in space, whenever I closed my eyes. To realize something you think you may have always known—to come to a moment you knew would always arrive but kind of hoped wouldn't. It felt like my own death.

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

Grief came in little springs, bubbling up in still moments, when I wasn't talking to police, to victim's services, my family; when I wasn't making lists, dialing strangers, ordering funeral arrangements; when I wasn't relaying the story to everyone I met: the clerk who sold me the makeup that would go on her face, the kind mortician who let me sit and talk because I was vibrating with trauma, someone in an elevator I think. I remember after taking stock of everyone who had come to say goodbye and show support—friends from my mother's better days, friends of mine from college whom I hadn't seen in years, my high school crush, my dad's side of the family—and I let myself fall on the casket in this kind of dramatic way that felt right and good but my brother pulled me off and held me instead. I kept saying I was sorry. And then we had a big party. And all the people came and we sang and danced and drank and laughed. We couldn't believe what we had lived through, and we celebrated that we did live through it. I woke up the next day and it was summer-hot and my dad had crashed on my couch and we both had monster hangovers, and I never felt more alone, more empty. It was the day I would begin to pick up and move on, and I had no idea how.

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?  

My grief is so intrinsically tied to trauma. I don't feel one without the other—one feels cool and heavy while the other is hot and spiky. About two years after my mother died, I went to a yoga therapist who moved various parts of my body and had me describe the resulting sensations in terms of color and texture. I described something green-gray in my chest, something smooth and glassy, and when she asked me to name it, I surprised myself with: Grief. Until then, I didn't know I had grief. I thought I had only trauma, anxiety, loneliness, hope, lust, and a number of other responses and motives, but not grief. As soon as I said it, something began to shift in my life. I broke up with a boyfriend who wasn't treating me very well, and met the man who would become my husband. I think what happened that day was I began to feel compassion for myself, for the very first time.

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

When my brother and I were kids, my mom came back from a trip to Ensenada with a crab claw she'd found on the beach. She used it to do an act from Señor Wences, a ventriloquist comic who was on Ed Sullivan when my mom was a kid: "S'alright? S'okay. Joo want to talk to my crab?" It made us laugh and laugh. She was so wonderfully silly, so adorable. To this day, I can't look at a crab claw without hearing that voice, and it always makes me smile—a little joke between me and her, wherever she is.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

How much beauty there was in it. Time slows way down, so you can see things happen in these tableaux. So much happens that you would otherwise miss: the way the flowers we threw in the ocean made a red, blue, and yellow path to Catalina island; the specks of blood on my grandfather's tissue as he hacked into it on the boat, and I realized what it meant for parents to outlive their child; how my mom's dog and I cried and threw our bodies against the bars of her cage at the shelter until someone opened it, and I knew I might never again share that howl of need with another animal.

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

Nobody knew what to say—of course they didn't—and when they stood there in silence, looking with that awful expression that says "I am beyond words for you but I am so sorry this is happening,” I felt loved and safe in a way I couldn't articulate then. I tell people now, when they say they don't know what to tell someone who is grieving, to just show up. Hold them if they want to be held, bring food they will not eat. Eleven years later, I remember the Indian food my friend Sara brought the day after, though I couldn't touch it. I remember my friend Brett, after the service, sent me Nick Drake's "Time of No Reply" and it was everything about loss. I remember my kind boyfriend's cool hand stroking my head, many, many times. I remember the mortuary wrote "professional courtesy" next to zero dollars owed on the pink bill. I do not remember a damned thing anyone said.

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

My grandmother was sedated, and her eyes, which are very light blue, went near transparent with grief. Later, she was angry, and that hardened in her and wore her out. I was annoyed by her anger then, in part because I couldn't locate mine, so I didn't understand it or its usefulness. My father talked, like me, a lot. He worked it out with his head, and could only let his big heart feel so much before he switched to head again. My brother—it's hard to say, because I project like crazy onto my brother. I made him call me every day when he went back across the country to finish school the week after it happened. He was more of a loner, so he didn't reach out to people. I remember he got this girlfriend not long after and when I asked if she was helping him through things, he said he hadn't told her, even after they moved in together. I worried endlessly about him; made myself sick with it. I made him promise me he would be okay, that I needed him to be okay. We're not great at being family, is the thing. We don't show our vulnerabilities to each other, and griping is our shared language. Griping and laughing bitterly. We're great at turning tragedy into a laugh.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning? 

I did nothing in private that I didn't write down with the intent of sharing it publicly. I wrote an essay the week after we took my mom's ashes to sea and applied for an MFA program with it. I knew I needed the right tools to tell the story. There is no private: I've been a diarist since I was eight years old, and a showboat, and a ham. I am an artist, so everything is grist for the mill. There's a scene in Contact where Jodie Foster is trying to describe to NASA what she is seeing, through the wormhole to the other side of space, and she says, "They should have sent a poet." That's how I feel every day I try to write about what happened. I went to the other side of space and I cannot make the words to convey it. But that's what I want my life to be about.

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

As early as the funeral, people were coming up to me to report where my mother was now, in what form. My very Catholic stepmother said she was with God, which my mom would have hooted at. "I am God, and so are you," she probably would have said. Her brother's girlfriend said she put a glass of red wine, my mom's favorite, on the mantel and was visited by her that night. Mom would have enjoyed that, too. We didn't go in much for ghosts. But she did believe in some kind of spirit—that we come from and go back to some enduring force. When I put her ashes into the sea to disperse and become totally lost to me, but part of everything, it was my form of prayer for that to be true. I believe in DNA and in the mind, and she's embedded deeply in both, so she is always with me, and that's been more sweet than sad.

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

Writing and reading. Reading and writing. I read Joan Didion's Year of Magical Thinking, which nailed grief for me even though our circumstances could not have been any more different. That's the thing about great writing: it transcends mere relatability. I read Thomas Lynch's Undertaking, essays by the poet mortician of a small northern town. I read Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried, the book of short stories about war and trauma and loss and writing about war and trauma and loss. I read Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson, because the things that are larger than words have to be wrought from words somehow. I flung myself across the page like I did across that casket, and I wrote my way into every part of it, sometimes elegantly, sometimes clunkily. The clunky times came when I forgot feeling, when I forgot the beauty of those slowed-down tableaux. When I tried to make it make sense. It doesn't make sense. Death will go on without your making sense of it, thank you very much.

How did your loss and your grief change you?

Here I will refer to the words of the poet they should have sent. Anne Lamott, spirit mother to all writers, said this about grief: "You begin to cry and writhe and yell and then to keep on crying; and then, finally, grief ends up giving you the two best things: softness and illumination." To this I would add, if you want it. And I did, right from the moment I saw her little hand there. And I knew she'd want it (joo want to talk to my crab?) for us all, too.

Erin McReynolds is the managing editor at Audible's online magazine Audible Range, and the web editor at American Short Fiction. Her fiction and essays have appeared in North American Review, Memoir, Split Lip, and others. She lives in NYC and is working on a memoir.

---

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

Vinyl Record

Name: Jennifer S.

Age: 47

Tell me about the person who died:

My best friend Michele died of a heart attack in January 2015, at just 46 years old. She had struggled with health problems her whole life and I knew I would outlive her but I didn’t know that my time with her would be that short. We met in college and were best friends for 28 years, and I will be forever changed and empty at losing her. Luckily I’m also very close with her family and even call her mother “mom.” Her mom and I have mourned together and shared our sadness as well as our appreciation of being lucky enough to have had her in our lives.

I know I'm biased but she was seriously the most selfless person I knew. She always put everyone else first and was like that even as a child and throughout her life. Sometimes I think I unconsciously took advantage of that. 

What was your experience of grief like after your loss?

Shock for the first couple of days and then I sprang into task mode thinking of all the ways I could help the family with the funeral arrangements. We had two services, one in Portland Oregon (where she resided) and one in New York (where she spent the majority of her life). Helping the family really helped me emotionally and made me feel like I was doing something for Michele. In the months since I have felt such an emptiness in not being able to talk to her and share life with her. I dream about her quite a bit and talk to her in my head.

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?  

A black hole morphing into a desert. I was emotionally blank at first and slowly I've come into the light but I'm searching through an emotional desert that seems to have no end.

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

Michele loved music and vinyl, and Prince was her absolute fave. She dressed in purple in high school and had those big round sunglasses. She also loved The Knack. In high school and college she had this great old 1970s 8-track; she would play “My Sharona" on it over and over, blowing out the speakers.

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

My husband was incredible. He helped booked my tickets to Oregon and New York and other tasks that were needed. He was very upset as well because he really loved Michele but he put my grief before his and supported me emotionally throughout and still does to this day. My family was also wonderful. Everyone knew Michele and loved her so there was a lot of grief around.

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

Culturally our family doesn't show emotions in public and saves that for private times which I know I echo. In public I didn't show any grief. It's hard for me to do. Only my family saw that side of me.

I've never subscribed to any particular religion but I have been studying the bible for a year or so now for the first time in my life. I had joined my local Unitarian Universalist church before she died, and having a newfound faith and church community definitely helped me cope with my grief.

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

I prayed for her family. This gave me some internal peace.

How did your loss and your grief change you?

I feel more alone in life. I trusted Michele implicitly and she knew me better than anyone on the planet. She was the closest person to me and no one else will ever be that close. That will never be replaced or replicated.

---

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

Armani Cologne

Name: Francesca S.*    

Age: 46

Tell me about the person who died:

James was my husband, my soul mate and the bravest man I ever met. I loved everything about him: his laugh, his hands, his intelligence, his irreverence, his sense of adventure, his hunger for life. He was big and bold and the most fun I have ever had. He was the best and scariest rollercoaster, the best song, the deepest belly laugh. He made me feel I was capable of anything, that I was finally fully alive. We accomplished more in our years together than I can fully comprehend. He was ready for anything, loved by all, and had dealt with more physical pain and illness than anyone I know. Every day was a triumph and a struggle. Born with hemophilia, he was given tainted blood and co-infected with HIV and HepC. He died suddenly of a heart attack one hot summer night in 2008, not long after we married and a few months short of his 40th birthday. I will never be the same. 

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

James was smell to me, deep spicy smell. He was a smoker, a secret one, always trying to quit and keep it from his family. He smoked on the back deck and in his car, so whenever he was about to see his family, he would stop in a random parking lot, spray the car and then himself with Febreeze, and then douse himself in Armani cologne. He had a bottle in his car, one in mine, one in his bathroom and others littered through the house. Everything he owned smelled of it, and his iPod and his watch still give off the scent. The bottle was important too, big and black and bold with a gold top with just a little bling, like James. I cannot think of him without the smell of it permeating my memories and I cannot smell it without thinking of him, closing my eyes and breathing deeply.

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

It has always been a completely embodied experience. I hurt all over, my skin peeled off my limbs, I could not eat, and I soiled my pants in the emergency room when they told me he was dead. The experience was sleeping in his t-shirts and putting his huge ring on a necklace around my neck. It was falling to the floor and sobbing uncontrollably everywhere and anywhere. It was quiet at times and full of resolve. It was remembering that he wanted me to go on, and it was confusion and hurt. It was the roof leaking and the ceilings coming down in the months after. It was the dog I adopted and who was the only living thing I could be with after he died. It was wanting to die a lot of the time and then wanting to live for him–at exactly the same time. It was deep anger and no memory, nausea and panic. 

The panic started slowly at first and then grew into full blown panic attacks that lasted for five years and still visit me to this day. That became not wanting to be in groups or with people who didn’t know him, not being able to work much but being able to teach. It was also very spiritual. In the year or so after he died, the tv and the lights on the bookshelf he had installed would turn on by themselves, and he appeared to me once, not fully, but I saw his outline standing in the dining room with light behind him. I knew it was him, and my dog, who was standing on the sofa and barking her head off, knew it was him too. He also woke me up one night, shaking the whole bed to get my attention. So I visited a medium. She allowed me to “talk” to him, and he told me how much he liked the orchid I put by his side of the bed and wanted to know why I had changed the duvet cover he had made. He said he was sorry for scaring the dog. 

A year and a half after he died, another medium led me to information that sent me into a tailspin and deep mental and emotional distress. I went quite mad. But it was the only thing that set me free from him, let some light in for another relationship to happen. And happen it did. I married again, to a happy, strong, loyal and protective man with a knack for the truth. But my grief makes me hyper vigilant, and I worry still that it will all end again.

My grief for James remains embodied. I still smell him from time to time, I feel him (though less), and I talk to him. The grief is quieter, like someone tired after sobbing too much. I could not be more grateful that he chose me, so I take what he taught me: how to laugh, how to live big. I do it as best I can.

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

It was a jungle at first. Hot, humid, wet, murky, dark. I hate humidity now as he died on a hot night and my body starts to tense up the minute it gets hot in the summer. Then it was very, very cold, with many mountains that I could not go around; I had to go over, alone, with my pup. I would take rests and then keep climbing, and sometimes think of going to sleep in the snow. I was so tired. I could not get warm. I wanted to just stay in bed, but I had to go out again and climb. I actually got over the mountains, and now it’s gentle hills. Some bad weather from time to time, but mostly gentle hills, open skies, and sun. Just like James would like it.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

The panic. I knew I would be sad, and I knew I would be mad, but I was unprepared for the terror that gripped me. I felt as if I was going to die every day from a heart attack. I felt my family were all in danger too. I worry over my second husband too much, and I still have deep panic at the slightest physical symptom–because I should have been more vigilant about James, because I should have prevented it. 

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

Some people were incredible. My parents, my brother who came for the weekend to help with all the stuff,  my old friend who came to stay with her new baby, my former PhD supervisor who had lost her husband. A group of widows I met. A neighbour. The friends who kept sending food. The people who have lost their ‘most important person’ understood. James’ friends were incredible. They made me go to yoga and the movies. 

But there were many who had no idea what to do or pretended it didn’t happen or said ridiculous, minimizing, dismissive things. I had no tolerance for bullshit. I lost people. I think I was blamed for his death. But people go mad after death. I see that now. I see my own role in the cycle too.

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

One person who loved James deeply has not celebrated Christmas since he died. There have been major illnesses in his family since, and more death. The pain seems unrelenting there. His friends get together to talk about him and grieve him and laugh and I love them for it. There is also a social media space dedicated to him.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

They were very similar. I let them seep into each other. It was part of the healing to allow the tide to come and go out when it needed to. I think this freaked people out. I didn’t care. I got very bold with my grief. I mourned big.

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

James was Greek Orthodox and I really appreciated it. Not at the funeral, which I did not understand. But the traditions of marking particular days were all very important to me. They allowed the grief to have space and time. At the third-year mark his Dad told me I could love again now. That I was ready. I felt it. I also loved the sitting stone we made for him that says ‘He taught us how to live’. I sit on it and talk to him. The sun always comes out.

How did your loss and your grief change you?

Everything changed. I feel people’s grief now. I respect it. I research grief. I write about it. I respect mediums. I respect grief rituals. I have patience for grief. I have patience for anger. I have patience for panic. I feel like I have been chosen to help people free themselves of grief limits or ways in which they are not allowed to grieve.

*Name has been changed.

---

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

Crescent Wrench

View fullsize

Crescent Wrench, 2016

Name: Mark K.

Age: 63

Tell me about the person who died:

My father was a family practice doctor who retired early, at the age of 60. He continued to consider himself a doctor, though, until his recent death in January at the age of 93. He had many health issues and after his retirement he spent much of his time diagnosing his own infirmities and felt that he and the doctors were working as a team—and I think he considered himself to be the lead doctor. 

My dad was born on a farm in Iowa and lived in small towns his whole life. His father owned a John Deere tractor dealership and my dad learned early on to fix things, build things and grow things. He defined himself as a doctor, a father, a husband—someone who made decisions, worked hard and got things done. When he could no longer work, and later as his other hobbies and his role as a provider became more difficult, he became depressed, feeling that he was no longer useful, as if he was losing his identity. At the same time, he became more philosophical and spiritual and, at times, less authoritative and judgmental. We could have “meaning of life” conversations and he enjoyed some of the quirky stories that I would write. He even tried his hand at poetry—this from a man who didn’t really see the point of reading fiction or watching movies, perhaps because it meant paying attention to a “made up” story.

In his last years he could barely walk, even with the help of a walker. He loved it when I would take him on drives, though. He had a special fondness for Fairfax, California, a small town near our home. It amused me that he liked it so much, being that he was such a straight-laced Midwesterner at heart—Fairfax is sometimes known locally as “Mayberry on acid.” He would see little cottages on small lots on narrow lanes and observe mountain bikers and joggers coming and going and exclaim, “I like this place—these people know how to live, how to get outside and enjoy nature and live in homes that are just the right size.” In fact, he told me once that as he started to get a bit of dementia and have trouble remembering things and distinguishing between reality and imagination, “Fairfax” became a special word for him. If he could still remember “Fairfax,” he knew that he was still thinking clearly.

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

There’s a lumber yard in Fairfax that has an area in the back with used tools, lumber, doors, windows, fixtures and the like. It’s called “The Away Station,” maybe because that’s the place you take things that you would normally throw away. When I first took my dad there, he said that he thought he had died and gone to heaven. He wasn’t able to make it upstairs to the rooms with used tools, but he would have enjoyed that. He had quite a collection of tools and cried the day that he gave them up and moved them to my brother’s house. The one item that might represent his passion for building, fixing and being useful would be a crescent wrench. It couldn’t be just any old adjustable wrench, though. My dad always told me that the Crescent brand was really the only kind of adjustable wrench that was worth owning.

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

My dad was in pretty good shape up until about a week before he died, when he must have had a small stroke which made it harder for him to communicate. His eyesight was almost gone and he started to hallucinate. He expressed his fear about dying and described being transported up a hill on a train, moving toward a door. This really bothered him and I worked and talked with him a lot, trying to make the end easier or at least less fearful. I even tried to give him metaphorical tools to make the train stop if he wasn’t ready. I spoke of things he was familiar with from his lifetime of fixing and building—brakes, welding, chains, locks, a roadblock. We slowed the train a bit and it even went back downhill for a while. Eventually, after two days of this restlessness, he became unconscious and then finally the end came.

My mother and sister and I were with him at the end. It was at the same time the most difficult thing I have ever done and the most natural. I’m glad that I was there with him, and I hope we helped make the transition though that gate he feared a little easier.

My grief started with a profound tiredness, and images of his last days that were hard to get out of my mind. The tears still come from time to time and I catch myself saying, “Oh, I need to ask my dad about this,” or “Dad will get a big kick out of this,” and then I remember that I can’t share things with him anymore.

Has anything surprised you about your experience with grief?

Maybe I’m surprised at how I was able to be present and calm at the time of passing. I’m a little surprised that I suggested that we break out some brandy moments after my father’s body was taken away, and also that my mom and sister agreed that it was a good idea. 

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

It’s been very comforting to me when people say kind things to me about the passing of my father. I wrote a little something and posted it on Facebook and it was nice to hear from people in my life today as well as students from long ago, relatives from Europe, and friends with whom I had lost touch. Some people apologize for taking so long to say something, but I actually like that—it’s like the support is spread out over a period of time. 

Some reactions are a little odd, though. Sometimes I’ll tell someone that my dad passed away and they don’t really say anything—they talk about other things, almost like they haven’t heard me. Maybe they feel that they are saying it without saying it, but are too uncomfortable to come right out and address the issue. A couple of people who were once close to me haven’t responded at all—and that makes me sad.

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

My mother is experiencing a fair amount of regret along with her grief. I have felt some of that, but mostly I feel pretty good about how my relationship with my dad was at the end. I don’t think there were any unsaid “I love you’s” or apologies. He wanted to end his days at home under hospice care, around his family, and that’s exactly what we did.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

I wouldn’t say that it’s too different. I thought that I might be breaking down in front of people, but that tends to happen only when I’m alone. I’ve learned, too, that there are some tender personal things that I can’t share with everyone, so I only talk about those things with people who I trust and I think will understand. I’m coming to realize, though, that there are more of those people in my life than I thought.

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

My dad was Lutheran and the rest of the family is Catholic. He seemed to become more religious as time went on, and said that he was spiritually comfortable with his death and confident he would go to a better place. As much as I want to believe in the same way, I am not as certain of all of these things. It was ironic, then, that I found myself reassuring him of his faith during his final days.

I do find the rituals and prayers of my Catholic religion comforting during the grieving process. I have long put off deciding what, exactly, my faith and religious practice is all about, but my father’s passing will probably lead me to examine this more carefully. 

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

We decided to have a small prayer service just for immediate family right after my father passed. To my surprise, my brothers, who both live quite far away, decided to come as well. We set up a table with photos and mementos from my dad’s past—there were tools, his old doctor’s bag, a microscope, a John Deere hat, a picture of a street car that he had rebuilt, and a carpenter’s apron. Someone said that looking at that table gave you a good picture of what my dad was all about. It turned out that that ritual was very beneficial to all of us—we put it together very quickly, but it helped us to process what had happened and support each other.

I had planned a trip to Yosemite with a couple of childhood friends and we went ahead with the trip just a few days after the memorial. That was the perfect thing for me at the time—good friends who knew my dad, lots of laughs and stories. We played music and spent time in nature. It definitely helped with the healing.

How did your loss and your grief change you?

There is something profound about being with my dad when he died—talking with him and comforting him and talking about his faith, even when he wavered and was fearful at the end. It made me feel like I could be present with something that uncomfortable and unsettling without being afraid. It confirmed something that I hoped was true about me, but I wasn’t sure about. It made me want to be present to comfort others when they are fearful or hurting, and it made me hopeful that I can face my own difficulties and the end of my life in a peaceful way.

---

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