Bicycle

Name: Leyla Nickerson

Age: 58

Tell me about the person who died:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has anything surprised you about your experience with grief? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bathrobe

Name: Nancy Goldstein

Age: 70

Tell me about the person who died:

Her name was Millie K. Markison and she was my mother. She was very smart, kind, compassionate and remarkably generous. She was "an intellectual,” reading all the time—usually non-fiction (history, biography) and always the daily paper. She loved classical music and musical theater and had a lovely singing voice. She was an engaging conversationalist. 

A daughter of immigrant parents, she grew up in poverty and never forgot those who still lived there. She told me that when she was a child, she had one dress and had to wash it every night to wear it to school the next day. Sometimes she’d come home to an empty house, with everyone and everything gone, one step ahead of the landlord, whose rent the family couldn’t pay. She knew the drill: sit on the front step and wait for one of her older siblings (she was the fifth of seven) to come and get her to take her to their new home.

Despite (or perhaps because of) this precarious life, she had a wonderful sense of humor and the ability to make people laugh. She appreciated comedy that was sophisticated and quick-witted; she wasn’t a fan of slapstick or sarcasm. So many comedians and TV shows made her laugh: Jonathan Winters, Ernie Kovacs, Jack Paar, Johnny Carson, Steve Allen, Peter Sellers, F Troop, All in the Family, MASH.  Because she was an insomniac and enjoyed the company of her children, she made sure we stayed up late to watch the comedy shows with her. I think I was about 5 when I started joining her. Mom often babysat for our son, and one night my husband and I came home at about 11:30 pm to find Mom and our son, age 4, watching The Benny Hill Show.

Along with all these wonderful qualities came frequent bouts of major depression and constant anxiety, untreated in the 1950's, especially in women, who were simply given Valium and told to sleep it off. She was often incapacitated by these ailments, making family life challenging, to say the least. I never knew, as I walked in from school, if I’d have to make dinner because she was still in bed. I’ve been broiling chicken since I was ten.

I’m sure her ability to laugh helped alleviate her depression. As clichéd as it is to talk about laughter as an antidote to sadness, it’s also true. It’s really hard to feel sad when you’re laughing very hard. I think she took refuge from her depression in the laughter all those comedians brought her. Who knows how much worse it would have been if not for them?

She died of metastatic breast cancer in 1990 when she was 72. She'd been in the hospital for three months, at which point my father decided to move her to a nursing home. She died the night she was moved there. I'd been at the hospital during that day, had gone home that evening, and learned at 6:00 the next morning that she'd died.

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

Although I'd anticipated her death, seeing her body that morning in the nursing home was shocking. It was just that—a dead body. She—who she was and had been—was gone, no longer physically in my world, and I wept. I couldn't imagine life without her. 

The acute pain of her death is long gone but she’s never far from my thoughts. When she was alive, we spoke almost every day and I still go to the phone to call her when something happens I'd like to share with her. There’s so much she’s missed.

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

She wore her simple, white, terry cloth robe whenever she was at the beach, and did she ever love beaches! The robe reached to the middle of her calves, had long sleeves, and a terry cloth tie—like those robes you occasionally find in hotel rooms when you get upgraded. I have the robe, and it's in my closet. I'm never going to wear it, but I absolutely can't give it away.

Since she also suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder, her depression would worsen as the days shortened. But for the last ten years or so of her life, she was able to spend winters in sunny places, and she relaxed and her mood brightened. I like to think that finally, she was happy. Imagine! This woman, who’d grown up impoverished, could now spend time enjoying the warm sun and beaches in the winter. She never took her great good fortune for granted.

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

At first I'm slowly climbing a mountain of grief. Then I come to a high plain and I stay there for years, and perhaps am still there. But amid the fields of corn and wheat are occasional bursts of color: sunflowers, maybe lavender, and I talk to her spirit about the miracles occurring here--the hilarious things my grandchildren say, the new additions to our family, the things I hope she somehow sees too.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief? 

I was surprised at grief's ability to ambush me, even after years of coping with it. I still get tears in my eyes when I see a young woman pushing a child in a stroller and an older woman is walking beside them, just as Mom used to walk beside me as I pushed her grandchild’s stroller. Even as recently as a few years ago, I teared up while reading an article in the food section of the newspaper. The writer described a restaurant where she and her mother had enjoyed a lovely lunch the week before; it was a restaurant my mother and I had enjoyed too.

I also began to understand that a death can have unintended consequences. My mother's family is large and some months after her death, I realized I no longer knew what was happening in the rest of the extended family. No one was telling me the news. My mother had been the family switchboard operator for me and the switchboard was no longer operating.

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

The Jewish rituals of shiva (a week of mourning) and Kaddish (a prayer recited at synagogue services for 11 months) observed after a death were immensely helpful. Our family sat shiva for Mom for the full seven days, during which time friends and relatives brought food for us, said prayers with us and talked about Mom with us. I felt tremendously supported and cared for.

After shiva ended, my husband and I went to our synagogue every Friday night after dinner so I could say Kaddish. We'd been members for a while but had not attended services there so often. That regular attendance led to many new friendships and a real feeling of belonging. I could share my grief and feel supported in doing so. I still think of Mom whenever I hear others reciting Kaddish at services.

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

Often, my personal rituals continue to remind me of her. She was very shy and hated the idea of speaking in public. Whenever I speak to a group, I wear a bracelet she wore and as I approach the front of the room, I touch the bracelet, take a deep breath and say, “Mom, this one’s for you.” When I try a new ethnic cuisine I know she would have loved, I take a forkful for her. I think of her when I cook a brisket. When I attend a family event, her handkerchief is in my pocket, and I’m wearing her earrings. It makes me feel she’s there with us, as she would have wanted to be. When people compliment me on her jewelry that I’m wearing, I can talk about her, which is something I love to do. 

And I made sure to stay up late to watch Johnny Carson’s final night as the host of The Tonight Show in her honor.

Nancy Goldstein is a retired clinical social worker who continues to use her clinical skills as a hospice volunteer. She loves to travel and unless they have to cross an ocean, she and her husband Mel prefer to drive, if possible, as in: to Alaska...from their home in Maryland. She loves to cook, to laugh, and more than anything, she loves the company of her absolutely delightful grandchildren.

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

Guitar

Name: Ashley Taylor

Age: 30

Tell me about the person who died:

I lost my father on March 1st, 2016. When my phone started ringing at 5am I knew something wasn't right, but since my dad was often in and out of the hospital, I assumed I would have to make the three hour drive to Cumberland, Maryland to see him. Most times it wasn't anything major but I tried to be there when I could. But it was my grandmother on the line, crying and telling me that my father was dead. All I remember from the next little while is my husband calling our boss to tell him we wouldn't be in.

Up until he and my mother split when I was 13 years old, I was always a daddy's girl. He taught me how to work on cars, use tools, build things, and do home maintenance. Never in a million years would I have guessed that all he taught me would be so valuable in my adult life. My dad was a painter by trade and the years of working with fumes and having your body stuck in one awkward position for hours took a toll on him. He suffered from degenerative disc disease, migraines, had 57 kidney stones in 17 years and a multitude of other ailments. 

He started going to the doctors for pain. In the beginning they gave him all the pain meds he needed. He eventually went on disability and the pain meds continued. A couple months before his death, the doctors decided they were not going to give them to him anymore. I am not sure of the reason why, but they just stopped. 

When we spoke to the detective that day to find out what happened, we could tell something was off. Apparently there was a girl with him who had called 911. Nothing added up right and the whole vibe was wrong. Two days later we were forced to clear out his apartment. My husband told me later they found a needle and a spoon hidden under a dresser. Suddenly, everything was moving in slow motion. I just couldn't believe my dad would have done that, it’s like signing a death sentence. I have street smarts, I would have seen the signs. His best friend had died from that, and my dad couldn't be that stupid. This couldn’t be happening to me! 

After the doctors took him off his meds he must have needed something to replace them. He was addicted to pain pills, and I guess he replaced that with heroin. An autopsy later confirmed a heroin overdose as the cause of death.

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

Over the last three months it’s been confusing. I don't understand why most times I feel completely normal, and other times I feel like I can’t breathe. I don't understand why people don't think before they speak and say things that are insensitive. And mostly, I don't talk about it because I don't want to be judged and I don't want him to be judged. I have only told four people what really happened and those are all close family members. I realized I have very few people I can depend on and that the world is a lonely place. I have realized how easy it is to fool everyone into thinking you are OK.

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? 

My grief feels like a forest that has been cut down. A barren landscape devoid of all life. Just a shell of what it once was.

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

A guitar. He owned 6 when he passed. He loved playing all types: electric, acoustic, bass. He also played mandolin.

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

My husband was the biggest help, he stood by me through it all. His patience the first day was tremendous, and his continued support has been phenomenal. There was a period when he felt I should be letting out more emotion, but after explaining to him that I would work through this in the way I needed to, he stopped. All of the speculation from my mother, grandmother, and others on why my dad did what he did started to get tiresome and irritating. No one will ever know the causes and we all have to live with that.

Though I am realizing now how common overdose deaths are, most of the losses that people I know have experienced were from natural causes or old age. This is really a completely different animal, especially with all of the shame involved. Because of this I joined a group of people who had lost loved ones to overdoses. Though I am the only one there who has lost a parent, they seem to understand me better than other people do, and we all relate to each other.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief? 

The lack of feeling after the first few days. I thought I would be a blubbering mess for months but I attribute that to finding outlets to release my feelings and to keeping busy.

Also, I never realized that overdoses from heroin and other drugs were such an epidemic. After my father’s passing I did a lot of research and the numbers are staggering.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

In public no one would know anything happened. In private all I did for the first few days was cry. Now most of the time it’s just quiet reflection.

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

Not having one made things more difficult. Many people believe that their loved ones went to heaven and are in a better place. I am not saying there is or is not a heaven, I just don't know what there is because I've never seen it. I can see the benefits now for having that belief though.

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

I really don't think there are words to describe how I have changed and will continue to change.

Ashley Taylor is a full time manager of a disaster restoration company, where she spends her days fixing people's homes when they have water or fire damage. Her favorite past times are crafting of all varieties, reading and being with her family. 

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

Shandy and Vodka and Coke

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Shandy and Vodka and Coke, 2016

Name: Leigh H.

Age: 21

Tell me about the person who died:

On Sunday, September 19th, 2004, at the age of ten, I lost my father to terminal lung cancer. I remember being pulled out of my grade five class to find out that we had to make a decision whether to "pull the plug" by Sunday night. I was not present for the decision, but I was informed on Sunday evening that my family decided to take my father off of life support upon the doctor's advisement. 

Flash forward nine years to early morning on Monday, March 4th, 2013; I was 18. I had spent the previous night with my mother on the palliative care unit at the hospital, just waiting for the gurgling to cease. She was steadily declining in health, since she could no longer swallow food or water. The doctor informed us that she had about a week left to live. But two short days after we were told this, the moment I left her to go home and shower, my mum passed. 

Both losses were equally significant, but struck me in entirely different ways. I’ve attributed the differences to the ages at which I lost them. I had more time with my Mum, and we had to fast forward through time as if we were running against it. I went from rebelling against her, always up against a wall, to taking care of her in her darkest days. The times she wept because I needed to be there for her and it was painful for her. The things I didn’t expect to hear until I was at least forty. Whereas with my Dad, it’s not that it didn’t hurt, it’s that I didn’t know. I was too young to comprehend what was going on around me, and I was kept in the dark because of my age. To me, the deaths are united by a feeling of incomprehensible loss, because when I lost my mum, I lost my father all over again. My world fell apart with an unavoidable immediacy.

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

Something that I’ve noticed about grief is that it has no boundaries whatsoever. It will invade every crevice of your mind, bones, heart, and spirit. It is a circular staircase, where you climb each stage of grief and then end up at the bottom stair again, because you never truly stop grieving. It is an ongoing process.

My grief has exacerbated my everyday anxiety and “depression,” whatever that constitutes. But what is grief if not the experience of loss? What is anxiety if not the fear of losing something? What is “depression” if not feeling as though you’ve lost your vitality, your source of content, your entirety, and ultimately your soul? Few understand this, and if this can’t be understood, how can my grief progress? How can I climb the stairs without falling on each step? 

I’ve been made very well aware that the losses I’ve experienced are rare for someone my age. It’s not that I desire for anyone to comprehend my loss in the same way—I would never wish that upon anyone. I do desire that my grief be understood, and a few years ago, I would have never expressed this. But recently, I have found contentment in sharing my grief with others. How else could I become comfortable with this experience if I didn’t speak about it? The stage that I have reached is “acceptance”–the top stair–but I will end up on the bottom stair again soon. It’s a natural process that is marginalized and dismissed, but in actuality, bereavement is essential to our well-being.

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?

Encompassing darkness, overwhelming confusion, skin crawling, desperation, melancholic, discontent, anger, red, black holes, tunnel vision, irreconcilable rage, tingling sensations, lost/sinking/falling, dizzy, light, hopeful, angels, emptiness.

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

We used to all gather in our basement for family time. I remember vividly the image of them at the basement bar—a shandy (beer and ginger ale) filled to the brim for my Daddy, in a distinct glass cup he had. He would be behind the bar pouring my mum a vodka and coke, or a Baileys, preparing for the evening. We would listen to music—they enjoyed American Graffiti and other oldies too. “Distant Drums” by Jim Reeves always made my mum tear up, as it reminded her of my dad after he passed. We would have ice cream, chips, and drinks. And play darts. My childhood, encapsulated.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

The most surprising thing was when my grief officially settled with me. When I was younger, it was difficult for me to wrap my head around everything. But I distinctly remember a point where I felt guilty for continuing on without my dad as I was a kid. Guilty for carrying on like everything was fine. And this feeling only grew after I lost my mum. It truly is life-shattering to lose your parents, and to pretend to be brave at times when you feel the most vulnerable. Grief allowed me to realize that it isn’t even the big things anymore; it’s not the holidays or the birthdays, it’s the little things. It’s my inability to run to my mother to share with her my day, how I’m doing in school, to gossip or cry on her shoulder. Or to share with my father a boy that I wish for him to meet, or to have him mold my everyday actions—and not just to have him influence me, but to hear him say what I’ve done right and wrong. To have that sink in.

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

The most frustrating thing for me with grief is that there is a skewed and widespread conception of grief being disordered if it goes beyond, stereotypically, six months. Some jobs only allow a few days off for grieving. How is this humanly possible? At what point did we tear death away from compassion and humanity? At what point did grief become something we get over, or move on from, because someone is still “with us” or “would be proud” of us?

Another substantial frustration for me is that people often don’t understand the sensitivity of the topic. For instance, I understand that some people do not get along with their parents. But when people complain to me for hours on end about a parent who, for the most part, is genuinely kind and treats them well? I become enraged, jealous, and selfish. This is the worst side of grief.

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

Something that I have noticed is that people try to compare grief experiences, but each experience is unique. The meaning you pull from it is simply your own. Even the role of the individual in your life contributes to the meaning you gather from their death. I found that with my mum, I couldn’t speak to her about the loss of my dad, because it was her husband. It wasn’t until she lost her dad that she truly understood. But the intimate love she had with my father formed her perspective, and I can’t disregard that. Similarly, these are my parents, and no one will understand the depths of my grief. However, they may relate to my grief in some ways, just as my mother did when she lost her father.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

The funerals felt like bombardments. I had chest pains. It felt like everyone and their mother was there, but the most important people were notably missing. 

I received comfort from people for about three weeks after the funeral. People ask you how you are, if you’re holding up okay, how your relationships are, and offer assistance. But when I really needed it, a year later—when I realized how difficult it really is to carry on—it wasn’t there. The mourning I experience now occurs privately since I’m past that “acceptable” time frame for grief.

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

I asked my mother to connect with me in any medium she could, to reassure me. She has visited me in dreams, and I’ve felt her energy. She has visited me more than my dad, and I believe this is because I was so young when he passed and he kept me in the dark with his illness. I was his little girl, and he didn’t want me hurt. He still doesn’t, and while he’s come a few times with my mum, I know this is because of her spirit.

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

There was a Christmas tree ceremony at Durham Hospice. Putting an ornament on the tree in memory of my parents, I felt as if they were there. I also wear a necklace and a claddagh ring my father gave to my mum, as it makes me feel connected to them.

How did your loss and your grief change you?

My grief made me appreciate life for all that it is. I’ve used my parents’ strength to bring me to where I am, and understand my weaknesses as acceptable in my journey—a journey I begin every day, in a physical sense, without two of the most important people in my life. They both passed young, and recalling all of my memories with them—good or bad—makes me value the time I have with them, and with anyone. I strive to believe that everything happens for a reason, and that people come in and out of your life for a reason, too.

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

Cowboy Boots

Name: Kerry Anne

Age: 66

Tell me about the person who died: 

I met my life partner Inez in January of 1966, a few days after I turned 16; she was 20. The family I was babysitting for had moved and I needed a job for spending money. My mom told me they needed someone part time at the hotel not too far from our house. As I walked into the housekeeping department, I heard the housekeeper tell someone, "Go out and greet her and offer her something to drink.” Inez came in sporting a nylon apricot pinafore with a white shirt underneath, sleeves rolled up like a muscle shirt. Her white socks were rolled down to the tops of her tennis shoes.

As I turned to look at her I saw that her eyes were twinkling. As she pulled out a chair she excitedly yelped, “WOO-WOO!” She had the biggest grin on her face. As I had just turned 16, she scared me; I didn't know why she was acting like that or how to react. As we worked together at the hotel, we talked and got closer. She was so loving and patient. From that point on we developed a very loving and devoted relationship.

When I was 20 and she was 24, we moved into a converted garage and started building a life together. Inez was as devoted to me as I was to her. She was Hispanic and Native American and stood 4 ft. 11 in. I'm fair skinned, a redhead, and stand 5 ft. 7 in. We were complete opposites. But we were always very much in love. She grew up in a house that her grandfather built right next to a river. It had a dirt floor and no electricity. They brought what water they needed up from the river daily. She was not materialistic. She would tell me she didn't need anything… she had me. 

We were always together, including at our jobs in a plastic fabrication factory. The labor was intense. One of the jobs we did together was to fabricate a 6-foot-wide golf ball. We had to blow the plexiglass into a mold like blowing bubblegum into an upside-down bowl. The material had to be heated to the right temperature and blown slowly so it would not explode. Inez was really good at this. My job was to paint it white and symmetrically shade in the holes. Working together made it easier. 

She was a protector, fun-loving, and loved to learn new things. She was skeptical about adventures I would plan for us, but it turned out we always agreed on liking or disliking them. On one of our adventures, we were on our way to our nephew’s graduation from college and I wanted to make a road trip out of the time we had off. Our first stop was Mesa Verde National Park in the southern corner of Colorado. Of course Inez was hesitant. "Why do I want to see Indian cliff dwellings? That sounds boring!” I signed us up for an all-day, hands-on tour. We climbed the wooden ladders into the different levels of the dwellings, and crawled through the openings the Pueblo Indians used to get from room to room. She had so much fun climbing and crawling around the buildings that we always wanted to go back.

She was diagnosed with cancer in July of 2012 and was told she had 6-9 months to live. It was a rare and incurable cancer that attacked the nerves. The tumor was behind her nasal cavity and affected her cognitive thinking. It also destroyed the optic nerve of her left eye and her hearing. It left her upper body very sensitive to touch and temperature changes. She endured radiation, chemo, nerve blocks, and the strongest pain medications, just to stay with me as long as she could. She was so brave! We were at Starbucks on a Sunday, she wasn't doing well on Monday, went into transition Tuesday and died Wednesday morning, April 16, 2014. She died in our bed with me wrapped around her. She said when the Lord came to get her she would be ready and she was. But I wasn’t!

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

As I knew she was dying, I felt I could handle the grief, because what would be harder than watching her die? I was so wrong. The grief knocked me to my knees. I was devastated. I felt like I had lost part of my body. She took my heart with her. I couldn't remember anything, l felt nauseated all the time, l could not sleep and cried nonstop. I didn't want to be around people. 

She gave me an open heart necklace that has a star with a diamond at its center. She told me that after she died to look at the stars and she would send me a shooting star. The fall after she died I was up in the mountains just staring at the sky, looking at the Milky Way, and a shooting star streaked across the sky. I sat there and cried a long time. She never broke her promises.

It's been two years now, and I feel the grief is starting to ease a little. I can remember things better now so most of the Post-It Notes that have been all over the house have started coming down. One slowly learns to walk in this life alongside the life one had with one’s beloved.

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?

Landscape? It has been more like a waterscape. A turbulent, spring run-off river. With high rough rapids, steep deadly waterfalls, and very brief calm areas. As time has passed the turbulence has lessened, the waterfalls aren't as deadly and there are more calm spots. At the beginning it was like a black and white photograph. Now the colors are starting to come back.

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

Cowboy boots. We used to go dancing two times a week. The bottom of her boots had circular patterns from the sawdust on the floor. She didn't know how to waltz, so as our 25th anniversary was nearing, I told her if she didn't learn how to waltz I would divorce her. We danced the waltz on our 25th anniversary.

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

Our friends and families have been as supportive as they knew how. They have let me have my space and have also listened. I have a very dear friend who talks while I cry. She tells me about her dogs, garden, etc. and when I stop crying, then she listens. I think listening is the most helpful of all. I have an awesome grief counselor to help me navigate through the grief process, all the feelings and why I'm having them.

Frustrating are people who mean well, but say stuff that hurts. "She's not in pain anymore”, "Now you can move on”, "I bet it's a relief not to have to take care of her anymore”. The hardest comment to take is "She's in a better place". Her better place would be here with me and no cancer!

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

Her brother took her death very hard. He lives next door, and came over every day to sit with her and see how she was doing. Some days the cancer was a bear and we wished he didn't come over so much. He finally realized that, and started calling before he came over. 

Her brother told me one day that he and I loved her so much and that people can't understand why her death is so hard to take. He still has a hard time coming into the house. But he's getting a little better. He and I talk about her a lot when no one else is around. I think that helps him and I know it helps me.

Has anything surprised you about your experience with grief?

Yes, how hard it is! How alone you feel. How life goes on around you while yours is not moving. How brave you really are but don't realize it until you look back at your experience.

How has your private grieving related to your public mourning? 

Private grieving is much more intense. Public mourning is almost nonexistent. People either don't understand or don't want to.

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

Being gay, it’s hard to explain who you are grieving for to people you don't know. Now I am attending a gay-affirming church. The pastors and community are very supportive.

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

My partner and I always went to an old adobe church that was built in 1816, close to where she grew up. We were so connected spiritually there. I have been there several times since she died. I feel so close to her there. I feel she is sitting beside me while I talk to her and pray. I tell her what is going on in my life, and with our families, and times I wish she could have been here for certain events. It is so comforting for me. The church is a 5-hour drive from home so it gives me a mini-trip to go visit with her. The last time she and I were there together was a month before she died. The trip was very hard on both of us. But that's what she wanted to do so I made it happen with the help of my sister.

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

I don't know. I'm still trying to figure out who I am without her.

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

Green Tabasco Sauce

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Green Tabasco Sauce, 2016

Name: Suzanne Galante

Age: 42

Tell me about the person who died: 

My 11-year-old son Riley died on October 20, 2014. He didn't recover from his sixth heart operation. His fifth surgery was seven years earlier, so we had almost seven years of nearly normal life. Or as normal as you can have when you're raising a son with half a heart. You see, my oldest son was born with a complex heart defect and a chest full of organs that landed as if they’d been jumbled in a bingo machine. His first surgery was when he was six days old. But more than his heart, I want to tell everyone about his quick plays at second base during his seven years of Little League, about the short stories and poems he wrote, about his love of maps and of his siblings, about his interest in penguins, and about his desire to open a restaurant one day. We used to joke it would be called “Riley’s Salads and Fried Things.” From the time he was just two years old he loved salad and caprese sandwiches. He loved his Italian heritage and enjoyed making his family bruschetta and croutons; he ate cloves of raw garlic. I can remember sending a little three-year-old boy into the backyard to pick handfuls of basil for batches of homemade pesto that would be spread onto thick slices of crusty bread.

There was a sweetness to our relationship, a closeness that is different from the closeness I have with my other son. It was a physical relationship with him, always sitting on my lap and holding my hand (even at his middle school), and offering up hugs in front of his friends, even when his friends were shy about hugging their moms in public. He was the best thing that ever happened to me. Getting to be his mom was the greatest gift.

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

In the beginning, it was not breathing, not getting out of bed, disbelief. The world was so confusing, like all the walls and streets and buildings that I saw and passed on a daily basis were nothing but a mirage. People were still grocery shopping and going to work and school and it made no sense. And I felt like I had no purpose because I had spent the previous eleven-and-a-half years protecting him. Without him, I lost my identity. I had no idea who I was without him.

I also remember feeling like a rat inside a wooden maze. It felt as though everyone was looking down at me from the maze walls, scrutinizing my every move. I felt they were thinking, "Why did she turn left? Didn’t she know she was supposed to turn right?" I felt as if they knew what I should be doing as I fumbled along in grief. I couldn't help but wonder if the process of grief was some kind of riddle that each of us has to decipher.

For all of Riley's life, through years of photos, I had long hair. Even when a hat covered my hairline or glasses outlined my eyes, my long strands followed me. The baby grew into the toddler, who became the Little Leaguer and viola player; the long hair was consistent. Through long hospitalizations, holidays, separation and divorce, it was there. Through new love and step-family and pets, it was there. As his heart slowed and squeezed for the last time, it was there. During an emotional tide about four months after Riley died, I retrieved the scissors from the kitchen knife block. Clasping a fistful of hair, I chopped through one side, then the other. Again and again, I cut and sawed and chopped until any visual sign of that happy woman in all the photographs was gone. Afterward, like a mound of severed limbs, a heap of hair laid on the countertop. I stared into my own eyes again. Without hair to hide behind, the dark rings from exhaustion and grief stood prominently above my cheekbones. While I didn’t recognize the short-haired stranger, she was scraggly, ugly, and looked how I felt on the inside. 

And I am still lost, but in a different way. I am lost now because I cannot imagine a time when I will want to be at a party or at a place where anyone is celebrating anything. It feels impossible. I don't know how to interact with humans who have healthy, living children. I have shut down most of my friendships and spend most of my time alone. I'm largely terrified of everyone. I'm also confused by all of them: their smiles, laughter, or their annoyance at traffic or the wrong latte at Starbucks. To be fair, I imagine people's lives are far more complex than what I catch a glimpse of as I blast through my kid's school with my head down. We share the same roads and schools and grocery stores and oxygen supply, yet it feels as if we exist in parallel worlds. Most of the time I want to be invisible, yet having people ignore me is a different kind of trauma. They're damned if they do, damned if they don't. I don't make the rules–I’m just stuck in this miserable game of trying to figure out how to exist among the living and having no clue about how to do it.

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?

Imagine petting your dog through rubber gloves. Imagine kissing through a sheet of plastic wrap. Imagine showering wrapped in a rain poncho. Imagine trying to smell freshly baked cookies with a nose clip. Imagine listening to your lover while wearing earplugs. Most of the day, I’m wrapped in this numbness. My world is a spectrum of gray—colors covered in soot. Then grief throws me down and for that period, I feel everything. All the numbness disappears while I’m overpowered by a current, a rawness, the force of every ounce of grief bound together like a bus that rushes toward me at 110 miles an hour. It flattens me, leaving me breathless and weak and feeling even more broken. When it passes, numbness returns for another moment or few hours or days.

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

His Tabasco sauce caddy was the best gift he ever received! We used to joke that he would end up taking it with him to college. Green Tabasco has always been his favorite, but he would dabble with original and garlic and Buffalo-style. At his 10th birthday, the party favor was little bottles of Tabasco. We think one of his medicines dulled his taste buds, which is why he liked strong flavors. He put hot sauce on everything–even graham crackers. Whenever my son or my two stepchildren draw pictures about Riley, they always contain a bottle of green Tabasco.

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

There was food, a long succession of meals to feed us. Children from Riley's school wrote #TeamRiley on their arms in solidarity with him while he was in the hospital. They wrote notes to Riley and our family on heart-shaped pieces of paper. They arrived at the memorial and after we were done with them there, I laminated them and hung them on my front door and front windows. One child made #TeamRiley wristbands and sold them to raise money for Camp Taylor, a free summer camp for kids with heart defects. Other children organized a bake sale for Camp Taylor and the Children's Heart Foundation, which funds research for congenital heart defects. Another classmate organized a 5k run which eventually included 200 people. 

We have a video of Riley as a little kid singing Owl City’s “Fireflies." We played it at his memorial. After his death, the school played it on the loudspeaker on his birthday, and the orchestra chose to play it at the Christmas concert. On the first anniversary of his death, we had a handprint memorial. Our garage door was painted with hundreds of classmates' handprints. It was helpful because seeing all of those people come over and stand in a long line to wait to participate showed me that people have not forgotten him. I get notes from people every now and again telling me how they have thought of him recently. One example would be when a classmate stands up in her synagogue and says Riley's name when she's asked who she is mourning. Seeing how people are honoring and remembering him is healing. One of my biggest fears is that people will forget him. 

What’s frustrating is communicating. As a bereaved mother, I have found conversations with acquaintances to be painful, not because I am asked to speak about my son, but because the weight of the conversation is so often plunked down on my wounded heart with good, but flawed, intention. "How are you?" or even Sheryl Sandberg’s modified "How are you today?" sounds innocent enough. But in order to answer, I must access myself for this other person, in what ultimately is a passing moment in their daily routine. To me, it is so much more as I frantically scan myself in an attempt to sum up what it is like to live today without my son for a near-stranger. What would be better? "I'm thinking of you" or "It's good to see you out." 

I have so desperately wanted to connect with other women who have lost school-aged children. Just as I wanted to go through the newborn phase with other women, I've wanted to explore grief with someone who was about the same place I was. I found some women who lost children a decade or more ago, and it felt like they just kept telling me it would get better. But that isn't what I needed to hear. Quite frankly, I don't want it to get better. Grieving so hard feels right and any changes in my grief are another loss. Now that I only cry a few times a day instead of 30 times a day, it's a loss. Being able to go to the grocery store on my own or cook dinner or do laundry, all of those achievements feel wrong. I want to reject anything to do with the regularity of life because it feels like figuring out how to live without my son, and I don't want to live without my son.

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

One night while my husband was at a meeting, I sat at the table with my three loud children. They were excited about the cheesy garlic bread I made. They wanted to grate mountains of cheese onto their spaghetti. They did not like the look of their apple and beet salad with walnuts. But they laughed. They hummed. Told jokes. They were just being themselves. I scowled at them. The things I used to enjoy about my kids are upsetting now. I get mad at them. I scowl. I don’t like fun. 

Mealtime used to be a joyful event. A few months before Riley went into the hospital while my husband was out of town, we spent an entire meal only singing to each other. “Would you please pass the cheese?” was a melodic request followed by: “Yes. I will pass the cheese, pass the cheese, PASS the cheese.” Think Bohemian Rhapsody. It was the best. Laughter is now grounds for disgust. Despite the talks my kids and I have had about them feeling sad on the inside even though they look happy on the outside, it’s hard to accept. All that laughter feels like a betrayal of the truth.

My husband, Riley’s stepdad, held our household together when I fell apart. He had to compartmentalize in order for our house to survive. At the same time, I didn't understand how he could do it. On his birthday, my husband shuffled the kids off to bed and I plowed my face into pillows and refused to speak. I transformed from Present-Buying Wife into Bitch Wife, angry that Husband had a birthday in the first place. Angry that his family sent birthday cards. Angry that he called them and laughed and joked about who-knows-what. I could still picture him jumping around the kitchen like one of the kids repeating, “It’s my birthday. It’s my birthday.” In between each line, I hear: Riley died. Riley died. Riley died. I have crazy days when I feel like him going to work and being able to go see friends at the pub is a betrayal of Riley's death. No one will grieve Riley the way that I grieve Riley. But I made a pact early on that I didn't want to lose my husband as well as my son. 

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

I am not interested in holding myself back or denying my emotions. When I'm in public, I cry or shake uncontrollably. At the school’s holiday concert I sobbed for the entire show. When my younger son Carter had his glee concerts, I had to leave the room several times to catch my breath. I think much of my social anxiety is just not knowing who I might run into. When I spoke at the school project ceremony, I cried. When I handed out #TeamRiley bracelets to a bunch of 8 and 9 year olds, I cried. It's human. His death is fucking sad–how could I not cry?

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

We have a makeshift memorial that we visit on the trail we often hike. We take the kids and "go visit Riley." Sometimes, one of them will say, "I'm going to run ahead to talk to Riley." Seeing the kids thinking about Riley and feeling like we have a place that we can visit him feels right. 

How did your loss and your grief change you?

I believe in things that I otherwise would not believe as an intellectual and rational human. I get "Letters from Riley" every so often. They are little notes that just appear in my head out of nowhere. You can call them whatever you want, but I believe he sends me little messages. The first was: 

Dear Mom, 
I've been thinking a lot about Tabasco.
Love, Riley

Another was:

Dear Mom,
Don't let me dying be an excuse to lie around in bed all day.
Love, Riley

Another:

Dear Mom,
I miss Carter.
Love, Riley

Another:

Dear Mom,
I don't miss macaroni and cheese.
Love, Riley

Riley went into surgery scared, but hopeful. He looked forward to running, flying on airplanes without oxygen, and going to the mountains–something he could not do because of his low oxygenation. I like believing that he died still feeling hopeful for those things, and I imagine him running and running and running. I feel grateful that he died while being soothed by his mother, father, and two bonus parents and not in an operating room. He is no longer in pain, no longer suffering, no longer struggling. For this I am also grateful. Afterward, I noticed a vertical beam of light pressed against the wall near the closed blinds at the end of his bed. In that moment, I believe that his essence was that beam of light. And as a result, I talk to strips of light on the walls, often out loud, as if I'm talking to Riley, and I can hear his replies in my head. Why wouldn't I talk to him? And since I cannot see his physical body, I talk to the light. 

Suzanne Galante is the founder and editor in chief at Six Hens (http://www.sixhens.com), a literary magazine honoring life's defining moments. She holds an MFA in Writing from the University of San Francisco and a Journalism degree from Northeastern University. She has been writing as Mother in Chief since 2005 (http://www.motherinchief.com).

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

Mug

Name: Angela Osborne

Tell me about the person who died:

I met my husband Bernie at work in 1964, and although he asked me to have dinner with him I turned him down. I was still mourning the end of a nine-year relationship with a much older man who had been my mentor and lover, and who had recently died. Bernie finally convinced me to go to the last day of the World's Fair in Queens, NY, so we made a date for the following Sunday. I always went home for the weekend and decided I would stand him up. As sometimes happens in storybooks though, I was in a cab when I spotted him walking away from my apartment. We saw each other at the same moment. He got into the cab and we headed for the World's Fair. Five months later we were married. 

People we worked with warned me that my future husband and I had nothing in common and that the marriage was doomed, but Bernie was the right person for me. He was the most gentle, the most loving, the kindest person I ever met. Bernie left me a great legacy. He taught me that things don't always go the way we plan. He told me every day that he loved me. He adored his children and was an amazing father and grandfather. He loved his two girls with all his heart.

Bernie loved to drive so we drove everywhere; to all family events, and twice across the country. We had been married for a few years when I underwent a ten hour surgery to correct a congenital scoliosis. The operation didn't go well and I ended up paralyzed from the waist down and was told it was permanent. I was fitted with a six pound brace and consigned to a wheel chair. However, Bernie had other ideas. He compiled a book that outlined a cross-country automobile trip and announced that within the year we would make that trip. I didn't believe him. But we did it five months after I left the hospital. He made detailed travel plans that allowed for only four hours a day of driving with a stop every two hours for me to get out of the car to walk a bit to prevent blood clots in my legs.

The only real argument we ever had was after he retired. He wanted to move out of the city, and I can't live anyplace except in New York City. When he became ill with cancer we put off the idea. Cancer is known as the bankruptcy disease for a reason. After two and a half years of treatment we had gone through our insurance, 401K and IRA funds, and our savings. We had to sell our apartment and move into a rental on the West Side—far away from friends and family. Still, Bernie never lost faith that the chemo would either cure his cancer or put it into remission. But I noticed the daily changes in him. He used to take a bus to the hospital for chemo, then he started taking cabs. Then he needed a cane to walk. He fell twice when walking outside the house, but never told me; I learned about it from a neighbor. Eventually the day came when I confronted his doctors and was told there was nothing more they could do as the cancer had spread and the chemo was no longer working. The doctor told me he had several months to live. By that time we had already sold our house and moved.

As in every marriage of that length we had our ups and downs. But mostly we loved each other. Bernie told me he wanted to die at home, not attached to tubes, not to extend his life by mechanical means. He died in my arms with his children holding his hands.

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

When my husband died in 2013 I was introduced to the American way of death. There were mountains of paperwork—thank you notes, pension documents, social security forms, insurance claims, wills, bills from the funeral home, bills for car rentals and much more. My daughters took care of most of the details.

At first my home was crowded with people and food. Co-workers, neighbors, and relatives came from all over; some left after the funeral and others stayed on to be with me. I met with a grief counselor at my children's insistence, but she didn't help me. She kept telling me I couldn't move on until I got over the anger of his dying on me. But I was never angry at my husband; I was angry at the American health system that involved tons of paper work to help pay for his care while he was dying.

For whatever reason I didn't mourn right away. I was told that I was in denial. Four months later when everyone had gone home I realized that it wasn't a dream, that Bernie was never coming back. I felt as if I had fallen off a cliff. I didn't cry and moan, but I isolated myself. I stopped seeing friends, stopped going out, was alone for the first time in my life, and simply didn't know what I was doing in a rental far from the East Side neighborhood I had lived in for 38 years. I was lonely, scared, and unable to cope.

I had also been totally naive about one thing: from that moment on everything that needs to be done to get through life now had to be done by me. Some were small things: taking in the mail, taking out the garbage, getting into my boots, hooking the latch on a necklace. Some were the hard things: paying the bills, dealing with the bank, and most of all getting places. I do not drive. Gone were our frequent auto trips, and I suddenly had no way to get places out of New York City. I now needed to rent a car and driver or ask my daughter to drive me.

I also realized that we live in a couple society. We used to regularly give and attend dinner parties, but those stopped. And then there was what I called the “ticket” problem. As New Yorkers we subscribed to more than one theater series. No problem, I thought. I’ll just ask a friend to join me. But it didn’t work out that way. My married friends were reluctant to go to events that didn’t include their husbands and my single friends were “busy” with their single lives. I discussed this with an older friend who lost her husband years ago. She told me she hasn’t stopped going to the theater or concerts; she goes alone. I haven’t reached that ability. I still have friends, but I have to do the work of keeping those friendships–I initiate lunch dates, for example. Socially, I'm still learning how to meet new people.

One of the hardest things for me to do was to visit the gravesite.  On the day when we had the unveiling of his tombstone the realization that Bernie was really gone finally hit me. I broke down and cried for the first time since his death. It was the saddest day of my life.

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?

Living as a widow is like living on a foreign planet. There are lots of social opportunities for single people, but few for older widows. There are websites for singles wanting to meet potential mates such as Match.com, Christian Mingle, and J-Date, but no organizations where older widows can meet someone without marriage in mind. Not all widows want marriage; we want companionship. I did try a senior center in my neighborhood, but it was 99% women (who weren't happy to see another widow join their club) and the main activity at the center was playing bingo. I never went back.

I began having chest pains, but tests showed no physical ailment. My doctor told me my grief was the physical manifestation of the heartache I was experiencing. Loneliness is a dark place. I do delight in colors though. A pair of cardinals that has taken up residence in my courtyard brings red color into my life.

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

Bernie was director of special events for ABC-TV News. In that capacity he attended every political convention for years, and he always brought home a mug from each event. Each of the mugs has the convention year written on it; some are Democratic, some are Republican, and they are in a prominent place in my bookcase. 

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

The most helpful are those who offer to drive me places. Also, at first one of my daughters took care of the bills, a job Bernie always did. One day she announced that I had to take on that responsibility myself. I was very hurt until my older daughter explained that her sister was trying to get me to be more independent. I now have finally learned to handle the finances, and have done well. When I put my mind to something I usually can do it.

I had to have surgery a few weeks ago. It was minor surgery but I reacted badly to the anesthetic. When I got home my doorman was very concerned. He stopped in to check on me, my next door neighbor offered to food shop for me, and one of my daughters stayed with me for a few nights.

The most frustrating thing was having people say "He's in a better place." I don't know what that means. Was he not living in a good place with me? To me, he is not in a better place. He's alone in a cold cemetery. 

One of my daughters attended a series of group grief support sessions and apparently was helped to get through her grief. It didn’t work out that way for me. It was not unlike sessions at an AA meeting. Each person stood, introduced herself, and briefly talked about her loss. Within minutes most attendees were in tears. It was very depressing.

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

I haven't seen my older daughter grieve as she lives in another state. She sends me lovely cards on our anniversary, or just cards saying "Thinking of you,” or will display paintings Bernie loved which I gave to her after his death. But my younger daughter is still grieving after two years. She was a "daddy's girl." I recently mentioned I was getting rid of Bernie's medical records and she got very upset. She doesn't want me to get rid of anything of his, but she doesn't understand that I have to downsize and move into a smaller space within the year. I can't keep everything. 

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

I was told over and over again that "it will get easier." It doesn't ever get easier; it only gets harder. As I am getting older and have creaky bones and arthritic hands I wish I had someone here to help me get through the day. However, in some ways I've become stronger. I now have come to the realization that I am much more capable that I thought I was. I still miss my husband every minute of every day. But sometimes it is a relief to be alone and not have to explain myself to anyone. As a writer I always had to explain over and over again that although I was working from home I was still working. Bernie would interrupt me with a stupid question such as "Are we out of coffee?" (Answer: If there is no more in the coffee container, yes we are out of coffee.)

My father was killed in an auto accident when I was young, and I thought that was the worst thing in the world that could ever happen to me. But losing my husband was another kind of loss. The grief was entirely different.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

I do not grieve in public. I was former president of the professional organization Women in the Arts & Media, and at the first meeting I attended after my husband's death, no one mentioned it. They simply said, "Glad to have you back." That was enough. Shortly after my husband died my grocer sent me a tray of food. When I thanked him a few days later he simply said, "We all miss him." That was enough.

I mostly grieve at dinnertime—he loved to eat and he loved my cooking. Now I seldom cook; I order in or eat out. And of course, I miss him at night. And I miss sex. It was more than the act of sex, it was having someone tell me I was loved that I miss the most.

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

After the unveiling of Bernie's gravestone we went to a special event that my sister organized for members of her church who had lost a loved one during the previous year. I was surprised that she managed to get films of me and my husband, pictures of my husband from our wedding, and pictures of him with our children when they were small. Those films were shown during the reception that followed the Mass said for those who had recently died. It was a great surprise to me to see those films, and a joy that he was remembered in such a special way.

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

It made me realize that my expiration date is a lot closer than I thought. The unthinkable had already happened to me. I lost my husband, my father and eventually my mother. One of my many cousins reminded me that "we are now the older generation." That has made me aware that holding resentments and grudges is a waste of valuable time. I am much more forgiving of those who have done me harm. I don't reach for the unreachable. 

Angela Osborne is a graduate of New York University, a widowed mother of two adult daughters, and a published author of two books: Miss America, the Dream Lives On (Taylor Publishing), and Abigail Adams, Women's Rights Advocate (Chelsea Publishing). In addition, she has written dozens of articles for the online Christian organization Education Spot.com.

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