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. 

Varsity Jacket

Name: Paul Weinstein

Age: 79

Tell me about the person who died:

My brother, Stan, died of lung cancer in 1979. Stan was my only sibling. He was fifty-seven years old and living in California. I was fifty-four at the time and living in New York. 

Stan was the consummate “older brother,” always in charge, always my “boss.” When we were kids, he was often controlling and abusive. When we played cowboys and Indians, Stan would tie me up with a rope and tickle me until I cried. Why I agreed to play that game is beyond me, but I guess I just liked to interact with my big brother. In Brooklyn, as kids, we played lots of street games. I recall a game of ringolevio where my brother and I were on opposite teams. I hid behind a car and when Stan came by, I captured him. He threw me to the ground and shouted, “You can’t capture me, I’m your brother.” My hatred of him burned right through my heart. I thought, “I wish you were dead.”

All through our growing years my brother never let me forget he was the older brother and as such I needed to respect him or pay the price. I learned to monitor my behavior around him and distance myself emotionally. When Stan settled in California I was glad for the distance between us. He called me on my birthday and I called him on his birthday. In between, we rarely had contact.

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

Stan battled the cancer for almost a year. The disease metastasized and over the last few weeks, he was on heavy doses of pain medication, he couldn’t eat, and he had trouble staying conscious for any length of time. Each day he slipped a little more. His wife and children knew, and the doctor confirmed, that my brother wouldn’t last more than a couple of days.

My wife and I flew out to be with him. Stan seemed happy I was there, and soon after we arrived I bathed and shaved him. Stan’s cheeks were hollow. His eyes had that unfocused look of a person already partially dead. His body was fragile and gaunt. The cancer had bloated his stomach and ankles.

Sitting at Stan’s bedside, holding his hand in mine, recalling the history of our relationship, I watched my revenge fantasy play out. There I sat, my brother holding tight to my hand as though my hand was his connection to life. There I sat, watching the morphine that would stop Stan’s heart, slowly drip into his bloodstream. There I sat, hoping this would be a short vigil.

As the evening wore on though, I began to think about my brother’s struggles. He was not an easy child, nor was he a happy child who felt loved and worthwhile. According to my mother, Stanley was irritable from birth. She would often recall and retell the trials and tribulations of having to deal with Stan's projectile vomiting episodes in his infancy, or the sleepless nights she and my father had to endure because my brother wouldn’t stop crying. 

When I came along, I was a “good baby.” I kept my food down. I wasn’t “trouble.” My mother gave me all the love that she withheld from my brother. Beyond infancy, it was still clear that I was the “good son.” Even as an adult, Stan found that acceptance and a sense of achievement still eluded him. Perhaps because he was unable to control how he was regarded by my parents, Stan needed to control something (or someone) else, and I was the obvious choice. 

Stan was still clutching my hand. Time lost its relevance as I sat there and relived our relationship. I found myself remembering things that I had long since forgotten.

For the first two years of my life, we lived in the Bronx and shared a bedroom. Sometimes, during the night, I would awaken and be frightened by a picture that hung on the wall. I would crawl into my brother’s bed and say, “There’s a man on the wall.” Stan would snuggle with me and reassure me that I was safe.

I remembered the way he used to like to take care of me when I wasn’t feeling well. He made a game out of it. I was the patient. He was my nurse. In summer, he would take me to see fireworks at Coney Island. Those gestures continued into adulthood—on my fiftieth birthday, he flew to New York for my surprise party. I recalled other kind and caring things Stan was capable of, and I began to feel his pain. Was this the revenge I had fantasized about for so long?

Stanley was always my big brother, always in charge, but when I was sick, or hurt, or being taken advantage of by other kids, he was always there for me. It's something I knew in my gut. I knew it through my anger, through my frustration, through my rage.

Through the experience of sitting with my brother at his deathbed, my sense of our relationship shifted profoundly. Now, after his death, when I remember my brother it is with love, and my memories are filled with the loving things he did for me. I will never stop regretting the loss of what might have been. I regret never being able to give him the support and empathy that could have drawn us closer together as equals.

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?

The feeling I am in touch with as I reflect on this question is sadness. I think about the brothers we could have been but never will be.

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

When Stan was in high school, he was on the gym team. As a member of the team he obtained a varsity jacket with "Midwood High Gym Team" emblazoned on the back. It was blue with white lettering. I coveted that jacket and when he left high school and joined the Air Force, I began wearing it and got a vicarious thrill from it.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief? 

I didn't cry.

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

While others were presumably thinking back to loving memories, I was remembering the times when I hated him and feeling guilt about that. I knew my brother in ways only I could have known him. His wife and children reminisced about the good times. My perception of the man was a complex and multifaceted one.

How did your loss and your grief change you?: 

I try to take more responsibility for angry feelings.

Paul Weinstein is retired and living in South Florida with his wife of fifty four years. Golf and writing are two of his passions, both of which keep him engaged and excited. Paul takes very well to the retired life and finds he has a natural gift for it.

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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. 

Music Box

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Music Box, 2016

Name:  Julie Fitzpatrick

Age: 38

Tell me about the person who died:

Elizabeth was my first friend. Literally. My folks were driving me home from the hospital after I was born in New Haven, Connecticut, and stopped off at the Rigneys’ house on Three Corners Circle Road so that we all could meet. Elizabeth was just over a year old at the time.

I can't remember not knowing her. We carved pumpkins each Halloween, went to church together, went to the beach together, were always at each other's houses, went to Friendly’s together. Elizabeth was in many ways my opposite. She was on time; I was late. She was neat; I was messy. She was clear and direct, while I was often indecisive and uncertain. Elizabeth knew who she was from day one, it seemed, and I only knew what I wanted for lunch. That was a major crossover point for us: lunch. Food. We'd gab for hours over ketchup and fries, or ketchup and microwaved melted grilled cheese. We’d pour a mountain of the red sauce into the center of our shared plate and then dip away.

Elizabeth said "what" all the time since she was deaf and I was not. I filled her in on what was happening around us in the hearing world, and she kept up by lip-reading with remarkable accuracy. She spoke in a loud funny accent and often beeped because her hearing aid needed adjusting. “Elizabeth, you’re beeping,” I’d say, and she’d nod and raise her arm to twist the knobs at the top of her hearing aids and then she’d suddenly go quiet, the whistling kettle sound silenced. I remember someone asking me if I minded filling her in all the time, and I didn’t at all. Elizabeth grounded me. In many ways being with her gave me a sense of purpose. I was her conduit to the hearing world and she made me feel like I had a place in the world in general. Elizabeth was a straight shooter, very frank. This was refreshing for me because my family was incessantly polite and politically correct. I knew where I stood with her. In many ways I was the deaf one.

Elizabeth had a host of physical problems that really caught up with her in high school: she had a kidney transplant freshman year and then struggled with heart problems in the next few years; eventually her lungs stopped functioning. She died the day after my birthday in 1999.

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

I have to say I was pretty numb for a long time. I was in college when Elizabeth died and I always thought she'd just be there. She had been such a fixture in my life. It was like she had a sensor on her car for when I returned to our hometown. Moments after opening the front door, I'd hear her car in the driveway. It's Elizabeth - she knows I'm home, I'd think. And lo and behold, there she’d be. After she died, it took me a long time to stop checking the driveway for her car. I’m home, I wanted to tell her. Come over. Drive on up. I’m here.

I don't have that many girlfriends with whom I am still close; I have many friends, but no one as close to me as Elizabeth was. I was so comfortable with her, so seen and understood. Elizabeth was great at giving me basic instructions throughout our childhoods: do this, Julie; do that; clean your comb, put on lotion daily, read, keep things tidy, write letters and save your pen pals’ notes in stacks tied with ribbon. It was simple wisdom that Elizabeth knew innately, but it helped me. 

My folks were pretty much done with teaching kids how to do things. I was my mother’s sixth child, though a brother had died before I was born, and I think they just trusted I would figure things out. In many ways, Elizabeth helped me to do that. Her mother often told me that Elizabeth looked to me for an entry into the hearing world, and she’d tell me what a good friend I was to her, but I don’t think that’s the full story: any help I gave her, she returned to me tenfold. I didn’t get the chance to tell her that–I mean I think she knew but I wish I could just sit with her over some melted cheese and thank her.

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

A windswept field with cattails blowing in the marsh and a few wildflowers popping up here and there. Elizabeth loved Anne of Green Gables and Prince Edward Island and I love Irish countrysides so in my mind, my grief picture is a blend of those two scenes: harsh and beautiful, with a sense of emptiness and loss.

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

There was a shelf above her bed that ran the length of her wall, and on it, Elizabeth had a collection of music boxes neatly lined up one after the other. There was a trolley and a ballerina and a circular one–different compact boxes with lids and cranks. She’d turn the crank and watch them spin. Of course she couldn’t hear them but perhaps she sensed the vibrations. I’m not sure what it was about them but their delicate designs fascinated her. She dusted them and treasured her collection.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

Just that it continues. I guess love is like that. What also surprises me is that it still surprises me that Elizabeth is no longer alive. How can that be? Someone as bright and funny and opinionated and detail-oriented as Elizabeth? She’s not still here? She’s not in the kitchen in the house her parents no longer inhabit, putting marshmallows in her hot chocolate and writing notes on the margins of her books in pencil so that she’ll remember everything?

At the time of Elizabeth’s death, I was relieved for her that she was no longer yellow with jaundice and could breathe comfortably in heaven–her body had gone through so much and it was tough for her to constantly visit doctors. But I was numb to the reality of her absence. I shoved those thoughts to the back of my mind and carried on with my busy collegiate things.

Now, the Friendly’s where we used to ketchup-dip has morphed into a bland cafe and I can’t believe we haven’t tested their fries and rated them against their predecessor’s. I’d like to sit across from her there, or anywhere, and talk to her about how my marriage has broken up and how I have a little boy who loves to do the alphabet in sign language and that I am rethinking being an actor and what does she do when she gets down? Can she remind me? She was a good friend to me as a child and I wonder what we would be like as adults. I would have brought her to the recent Broadway production of “Spring Awakening” with deaf and hearing actors lighting up the stage. I would bring her to a church I’ve found with a deaf community and an interpreter where we could listen to the priest together. I want to hear about how she is as a woman–what kind of work she is no doubt excelling at, and if her heart still beats for Jeff Marcino.

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

I think my parents said the right things, but they were pretty wrapped up in their own grieving–my brother was hospitalized for mental illness during the same time and my sister had gotten sick with breast cancer. It’s like we were separate orbiting agony balls that couldn’t align with one another. We couldn’t see past our own atmospheres.

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

I was kind of shocked by how her family members seemed to shut down about her passing. Perhaps they were too sad to fathom talking about her or staying in touch, but her older brothers seemed particularly reserved when she died. I ended up writing a performance piece about my friendship with Elizabeth several years after her death, and after her family saw the show, one of her brother’s wives told me, “He never talks about Elizabeth. This was good for him. Thank you.”

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

Not really. I pray now and I prayed then. I suppose now I think the line between here and not-here is thinner though, so I have a sense of her presence even to this day and for that I am grateful.

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

I call her mom every year on the 10th of December, her birthday. Somehow I often miss the 22nd, her death day. I tell myself I will call Sue then too, but I often don’t. The day Elizabeth was born feels so special and the day she died, so confusing, sad and ugly. I call Sue and we talk and catch up and this year she said, “Oh, you called. All of my kids called.”

How did your loss and your grief change you?

I have gone on to study sign language and have been involved with two productions that include signing and deafness as themes with deaf and hearing characters and actors. I feel so at home when I hear Elizabeth in the deaf voices around me or when I experience their candor. I am learning that is a common trait amongst deaf people: honesty and directness. And devotion and loyalty and good humor and incredible expressivity. Or maybe I am just projecting her on all of them. Probably.

In many ways I think I’ve shortchanged myself in the grief department. I am still pretty sad about Elizabeth and haven’t given myself a whole lot of room to feel that sadness. I am good at compartmentalizing and forcing myself to show up for life even when I probably ought to take a pause. 

Elizabeth really cared about me and took care of me in many ways. I think that sweetness of her in my life is still changing me–she continues to move me and sometimes that takes the form of sadness and sometimes that looks like delight. Elizabeth never spent time dwelling on her waist size or her hair style. She was staunchly who she was and I found that calming and kind to be around. We championed each other. So if my grief changed me, it made me sad, and also very glad for having known her.

Julie Fitzpatrick is a mother, actress, writer, and car salesperson-in-training based out of New York City. She grew up in Guilford, CT near a family car dealership where she has recently been working and enjoying herself learning about cars and the business world. She is grateful for this opportunity to share a slice of her friendship with Elizabeth Rigney in Mindy Stricke's Grief Landscapes Series and she would welcome hearing from readers at julie@juliefitzpatrick.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 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. 

Baseball

Name:  Adi Wyner

Age: 49

Tell me about the person who died: 

I can recite my father's phone number at work, even today, nearly 20 years after he died: 582-2916. He was almost always in his office when I or my sisters called and he always answered with a cheery, "Wyner speaking!" I cannot recall a time when he was not delighted to talk to us. He was a famous mathematician working at Bell Laboratories at the height of its renown, and was devoted to his work. One of my dad’s colleagues recently told me that, as committed as my father was to Information Theory and the Mathematics of Communications, he nevertheless felt it was only his hobby. His real life's work was his family: his wife, his kids, his parents, and his sister. We all knew it too.

My father was always there. He made it to every ball game and every swimming meet (I think he came to every practice too). He travelled a little for work, but often, the family would accompany him to conferences around the world. Since I was the only boy among three sisters, I was always with my dad. On trips, that meant I would lug the suitcases and stay with him when he dropped off my mother and sisters while we found parking or dealt with a technical issue. At home, I was his right-hand man in every activity, whether that was fixing toilets, shoveling the snow, or going to the barbershop for a trim (“A little off the top and just above the ears”). We attended synagogue (which we called shul) every Shabbat. The walk there and back was his favorite part since it promised 25 minutes of uninterrupted time to talk with his children. I sat next to him in shul every week. He wasn’t very spiritual and I don’t think he ever opened the siddur (prayer book). But he loved to sing and he knew all of the melodies by heart. We were always the last to leave for home since he loved lingering after services, talking to his friends.

My father was a tremendous intellectual. He read and worked constantly, but casually. He would sit at night in one corner of the big couch in our living room with either a book (always non-fiction) or a pad of paper where he would scribble equations and prove theorems. Opera was almost always playing in the background, which would leave me with a terrible headache. Although he was a slow starter academically and he did not distinguish himself in high school, my dad was able to transfer to Columbia College after two years at Queens College, where he finished his B.S., M.S., and Ph.D. in nearly consecutive years. He finished his Ph.D. at age 23, and he looked even younger. He was offered a faculty position at Columbia, which he accepted, but soon after, he was recruited to Bell Labs where he worked for the rest of his life. When I was in college at Yale, he would come to the Columbia football games up in New Haven. We never really paid much attention to the game; instead, we would work on math problems on the backs of napkins while seated in the stands.

What was your experience of grief before and after your loss?

My father died of breast cancer. Yes, that’s right; about 2-3% of all cases are men. I used to avoid telling people he had breast cancer since it is so strongly associated with women. I think he was 47 years old when the tumor appeared close to the surface, a growth near the areola. He ignored it for many months, not making the connection. I remember seeing it while I was home from college. I didn’t think anything of it really. He was almost never sick and it took some convincing on the part of my mother to get him to the doctor. The cancer had spread to a few lymph nodes, which were removed with fairly radical surgery that left him somewhat disfigured. The chemotherapy was difficult and he was weakened. He had been in terrific physical condition right before his diagnosis, having taken up running 6 years earlier. After finding out that he had cancer, he never attempted to get back into serious shape again. The cancer had wounded him terribly, physically of course, but mentally too. A sadness developed in him that was never there before. 

He had about 5 years of remission. During that time, he visited me at Stanford quite regularly; I don’t believe I ever went longer than a month or two without seeing him. Technically, he had colleagues at Stanford that he formally visited, but he was really there to see me. On one of those visits he complained of back pain. I sensed that he already knew the cancer had returned. He was treated with radiation and a new hormone therapy, Tamoxofin (a treatment which today is prescribed prophylactically to great success), but the cancer had already spread to his bones. Still, his cancer was “indolent” and we had hope, if not for a recovery, then at least for a long life. The years passed. I got married. My son was born. My dad made many more trips out to California. He completed research that is among his most famous work. He was awarded patents that are still used in Qualcomm’s mobile technology. Life moved on. 

I knew something was different about my father the summer my first daughter was born. My whole family, as usual, came to celebrate her birth. I spent many hours with him on that visit. By that time, I was already following in his footsteps—we had completed one joint mathematics paper together and were working on a second. We didn’t talk too much about the bigger issues such as health and “feelings”; my dad was a classic man of the 1950’s in that respect, but I could sense there was something bothering him. He was weak and tired. I didn’t want to notice. I looked instead at all the evidence of vitality that was still present. Those talks were to be the last we ever had. 

Less than a month later, the cancer, which had spread to his liver, caused enough impairment to interfere with his brain. He could no longer speak coherently. I rushed from San Francisco to his bedside in NJ. This brought back memories of when I was 12 and I went with my father to visit my grandfather, who was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. My father cried that day because his father did not know who he was. On that day, in September of 1997, my father could no longer talk and I am not sure he knew that I was there. What my father experienced with his father, I was now experiencing with my father. I cried for the first time.

Shortly thereafter, my dad was moved to hospice and we were told that he had at least a few weeks, if not months, to live. So I flew back to San Francisco to prepare for the High Holiday services at my synagogue, where I served as part-time cantor. When I learned that my dad’s condition had worsened, I was torn apart, trying to decide whether to fly home before or after Rosh Hashanah services. That Shabbat, I saw the parents of one of my young students who had been killed weeks earlier in a car crash. The minute they saw me, they recognized the shadow of death hanging on me. I had changed permanently. Until then, I had never known a moment of serious sorrow. That evening, during the recitation of the annual S’lichot services (when the congregation gathers to ask for forgiveness in the face of God’s judgment), I completely collapsed in tears. I have been blessed with a powerful voice, but that night, my voice could not rise above a whisper. My father died the next night. 

For months after he died, my father appeared every time I closed my eyes. He would come and sit with me while I slept, although I don’t remember what he said or even if he spoke at all. His presence was immensely comforting. He appears in my dreams only very rarely now, but I think about him often. 

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 was strongest in the weeks before he died. It felt like a raging sandstorm without calm, rest, or sleep. It was an awful place since you couldn’t really see and didn’t know where to turn. Now, I don’t feel any deep sadness, anxiety, or distress, so you could say that the storm has wound down to a gentle summer rain shower filled with fog and mist.

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

My father talked frequently of his childhood in the Bronx. My grandparents still lived in his childhood home and we would visit there often. My grandfather loved the game of baseball and the Yankees in particular, and my father did as well. My Uncle Herman was an executive with a sporting goods company and was able to take my father to countless Yankee games during the great seasons of the late 1940’s and 1950’s. I was absurdly envious. My father gave me two baseballs signed by the entire Yankee team, one from 1947, and the other from maybe 10 years later. They prominently feature the signatures of Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, and Yogi Berra (who signed his name as Larry Berra in 1947). The baseballs represent my connection as a child to my father’s own childhood. Unlike most other sports, baseball is still played more or less the same today as it was then, by players who look more or less the same way now as they looked then, in stadiums and uniforms that are still more or less the same. The baseballs are paths across time; they will always preserve the connection I have to my father and that he had to his father. Judaism does that too. I guess I have two religions; thank God, they are not incompatible.

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

We had a wonderful, supportive Jewish community in San Francisco. Our friends brought meals for a month, which is the tradition in the observant Jewish world. The rabbi I worked with was exceptionally good at helping the living confront and understand death and his words were comforting. My wife, who later became a rabbi, was of course especially helpful. Observant Jews are required to say a memorial prayer (Mourner’s Kaddish) for their immediate relatives after they die. It cannot be said alone; it requires at least 10 adults, a minyan. So I went to daven (pray) with a minyan every morning and most evenings so that I could say Kaddish for my father. On Wednesdays, a group of my guy friends would join me at the minyan and we would all go afterwards to a local diner for 2 eggs, two pancakes, and 2 pieces of toast for $2.99. There is no minyan like the one in Congregation Beth Sholom in San Francisco. I have been back a few times over the years and it still has the same feeling. 

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

My entire process was shaped by Judaism’s halacha (a Hebrew word that means “the way”). It is the set of instructions for following the traditional Jewish path. Before the funeral, I ripped my shirt as commanded: not a symbolic ribbon, but a real rip down a nice collared shirt. Jews “sit” in their homes for seven days after the death of a family member, which can be a powerful beginning to the grieving process. This is called shiva, which means “7,” referring to the seven days of intense mourning when you don’t leave your house, wear shoes, or take care of your personal appearance. We observed shiva, which ended after only one day, because my father died right before Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Our family rabbi came and met us at my mother’s house. He walked us around the block, symbolizing the need to curtail the period of our most intense grief in preparation for celebrating our most important community holiday. Jews do not grieve alone, nor are they permitted to grieve too much. Moderation is the rule, in celebration and in sadness. Returning to the synagogue where my dad had so many friends who loved him was a tremendous comfort.

The text of the Mourner’s Kaddish is a short two paragraphs that proclaim God’s holiness and greatness. Its literal meaning is not that important. It doesn’t refer to the dead in any way. It is recited as an acceptance of God’s final judgment. In Judaism, it is acknowledged and accepted that “God has given and God has taken.” The obligation to say Kaddish every day for 11 months is traditionally observed by the sons and I took this obligation very seriously. I would leave the house before anyone was awake. When I was in mourning for my father, saying Kaddish every day allowed me to confront my grief and his loss without thinking. You just did it.

We moved to Philadelphia when I was still in mourning. I was still saying Kaddish, so I found two minyanim in the city (an Orthodox and a Conservative minyan) and just like that, I had a community. Instantly. 

How did your loss and your grief change you?

Until my father died, I was unable to speak to anyone about their loss, grief, or sadness; the experience was just too foreign. But with the loss of my father, I too suffered from a broken heart and could now relate to others’ grief. When I was grieving and in the most pain, I discovered that the best way to talk to me was normally. So, ever since, I have no trouble talking or visiting with people in pain; I just talk to them normally.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

I was surprised at how I felt on the very last day that I said Kaddish for my father. I was attending a conference in Boston so I went with my sister to a shul near her house every morning and evening. It is the tradition that mourners lead the service if they are capable. When you do something over and over again, you acclimate yourself and you feel less. But during the recitation of my last Kaddish, I broke down and sobbed just as I had on the night of S’lichot almost one year earlier. 

Adi Wyner is a Professor of Statistics at the Wharton School of Business. His research areas and professional interests include sports analytics, machine learning, and statistical models. He is also a professionally trained opera singer and cantor. Adi is married to Rabbi Lisa Malik and is the proud father of three children: Ariel (age 20), Eva (age 19), and Rivkah (age 14).  

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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. 

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.

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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.