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. 

A Collective Grief Landscape for Orlando

All I can think about this week are the ripples of grief that are a result of the tragedy at Pulse; both the individual grief, and the collective grief of the LGBTQ community and all of us who grieve with them. If I’ve learned anything from working on Grief Landscapes, it’s that there will be an incredible variety of expressions of that grief, and that the best thing we can do is reach out and show our support, any way we can. 

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. 

Purple Cardigan

Name: Carly-Jay Metcalfe

Age: 39

Tell me about the person who died:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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. - Mindy Stricke

How to Support a Stranger

I’m almost five months into posting stories and images for Grief Landscapes, and every week there is a new outpouring of response; through comments on Facebook, from emails I receive, or from people telling me face to face the effect the project has had on them. Some people tell me that reading the stories has helped them feel less alone in their grief, and others mention that the project has taught them how to be there for others. One example that really moved me: 

I lost a friend this week–she was pregnant and collapsed on Monday. Both died instantly. I heard the horrible news when I received an email that I had to read about five times before the news actually set in. It was an invitation to celebrate the "life and love of Julia.” Once I realized what the email was saying, I said I'd be there, without question. I wasn't afraid I'd have nothing to say to her mother or sister. I wasn't afraid I wouldn't know what to bring or what to wear. Thanks to Grief Landscapes, I knew exactly what to do: be there. It was a beautiful event. I brought a loaf of bread and a growler of beer for her husband. I walked up to Julia's mother and told her I just wanted to offer a hug. She breathed a sigh of relief and thanked me for being there as she hugged me, a stranger. While I know I could have done this for a friend or relative before Grief Landscapes, I am certain I wouldn't have felt comfortable offering support to a stranger. Thank you.

I’m starting to realize that while there are many facets to Grief Landscapes, one of the major hopes I have had for the project is to start conversations about how we can be there for people who are grieving. How we can connect with each other, listen, and not turn away. 

People are uncomfortable with grief. I’ve noticed how many people change the subject when I tell them what I’m working on. But if I’ve learned anything so far, it’s that people who have lost someone they love are thinking of that person every day. Mentioning to them that you are thinking of them, or saying the name of the person who died, helps them know that you remember too. 

So if there’s anyone you know who has had a loss, why not introduce them to the project and tell them you’re thinking of them? I know not everyone necessarily wants to hear or read about other people’s grief (after all, the project is about how everyone grieves differently), but even the gesture can help let someone know that they’re not alone.

Some other things of note:

- Many people ask me what inspired me to start working on Grief Landscapes, and recently I was able to go more in depth about the origins of the project in an essay for the beautiful and groundbreaking online magazine Modern Loss. You can read that essay here.

- I went to a Death Cafe in Toronto last month, and ended up on CBC radio! A Death Cafe is an informal gathering where people can come together to talk about death and dying. You can hear the snippet of conversation I had with some of the other attendees in the first 5 minutes of the piece, but I recommend listening to the whole thing. 

- I’m partnering with the amazing website What’s Your Grief for their new photography ecourse: Exploring Grief Through Photography, which is part of their PhotoGrief initiative. I love the site, and I’ve used it a lot during my research. I’ll be developing an assignment for the course based on Grief Landscapes. The course will run from May 23rd until July 3rd, and I encourage anyone who would like to explore their grief visually to sign up.

My other big announcement is that I’m setting a deadline for gathering the remaining stories I’ll need for Grief Landscapes: June 15th. I’ve received incredible submissions, so it’s time to put a cap on it so I can sort out which stories I’ll make images for to complete the first stage of the project. In a few months, I’ll be able to tell you more about what’s to come with the next stage. In the meanwhile, please consider submitting your story to the project! 

Diamond Earring

Name: Katherine Cousins

Age: 43

Tell me about the person who died:

My father died on April 16, 1987. He was 40 years old. I was 14. 

My dad had left my mom and my brothers long before that though. In 1978, when I was 5, he sat my older brother and me down and told us that he was leaving. My younger brother was 6 months old. There wasn't really an explanation. It wasn't discussed; it was just our new reality.

After that point, my dad was in and out. Money was in and out. Mostly out, really. It was unpredictable. 

When my dad first left in 1978, I always hoped he would come back permanently. He never did, not for any meaningful length of time. There were holidays here and there and, oddly, these great presents. I always got great presents from him—a Swatch watch, Valley girl t-shirts (“Gag Me With a Spoon” and “Grody to the Max”), shirts from Hard Rock Café Stockholm and Tokyo, a pair of diamond earrings. The gifts were episodic; the deeper wound was so much inconsistency and uncertainty and disappointment. When he died, it was a relief in some way to stop the cycle of hoping and being disappointed. The finality of it made my day-to-day life more predictable and finally forced us all to deal with his permanent departure. 

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

I still have one of the diamond earrings that my Dad gave me in 1985. I lost its mate in college in that awful dorm carpet that can swallow a small animal. It seems fitting somehow that even my memories are broken. I still wear it sometimes in my double-pierced ear that he hated.

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

I come from a family of secrets. They can't stay hidden forever. They come into focus slowly, revealing a damaged puzzle, one piece at a time.

I was never told why my dad left in 1978. When he died in 1987, I was told that he had viral meningitis. In 1997, I discovered that he died from complications associated with being HIV+. I still don't know how he contracted AIDS.

In all those layered secrets, there was a deep instinct to protect—my grandfather, my mother, our meagre life insurance payments. But the secrecy prevented me from feeling some compassion for him or for myself. Why was I sad about such a jerk?

The story is more complicated. His own mother had committed suicide when he was 12 years old. The 1950s were not an especially forgiving time for boys to express grief or work through issues. At 22, my parents married too young, and they had their first kid at 24 years old. My dad never had time to grow up.

I married at 31 and had my first kid at 33. Sometimes I feel like I'm barely keeping it together (in a two-parent household no less). I have so much more compassion for what my young dad must have experienced. I imagine that he had no ability to identify, let alone express his issues. Escape was the only option.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

Major milestones (marriage, birth of children) present new moments of poignancy. I am sad for him and for my kids. He missed everything.

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

I think about two periods of grief—the time after my dad left and the time after he died. 

After he left, I was deeply grateful for the surrogate parents—my grandparents, my Aunt Jean. And for our family friends—the Gootblatts, the McClintocks, the Shanahans. They all selflessly helped my family so much, without expectation of getting anything in return.

After my dad died, it was also really nice and yet painful to meet his work colleagues at the funeral. Apparently, my dad talked all about us to them. He was very proud. I never knew.

The condolence letters also really mattered. They were incredibly touching and thoughtful. Miss Whittington, my beloved eighth grade French teacher, wrote me the kindest note of support. I still have it.

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

I noted gender differences. In the short run, the men in my family seemed to internalize their grief more. Then they acted out in self-destructive ways for periods of time. Most emerged from their rebellious periods after a while. 

The women tended to get down to grieving more quickly—talking more, working through it. They seemed more resilient.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

In the hustle and bustle of daily life, I don't often reflect on it anymore. It was so long ago...

How did your loss and your grief change you? 

I believe deeply that I am more resilient, stronger, and self-reliant than I would have been.

Katherine Cousins lives on the north shore of Massachusetts with her husband and two sons. She works at Timberland, a global outdoor lifestyle brand that has a long heritage of environmental stewardship, responsible sourcing and social justice. She also serves as the Board chair for the Global Development Incubator, a non-profit focused on scaling social enterprises around the world. When not working or volunteering, Katherine loves discovering new places with her friends and 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 then photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. I’m looking for more submissions and for a range of experiences, so please share widely! Learn more about the project and submit your story. - Mindy Stricke

Irish Cape

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Irish Cape, 2016

Name: Merri-Lee Agar

Age: 43

Tell me about the person who died:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did your loss and your grief change you?

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

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

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an evolving art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants share an experience with bereavement, and I then photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. I’m looking for more submissions and for a range of experiences, so please share widely! Learn more about the project and submit your story. - Mindy Stricke

Sweet Potato Casserole

Name: Kathryn Thies

Age: 28

Tell me about the person who died: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did your loss and your grief change you?

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

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

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

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an evolving art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants share an experience with bereavement, and I then photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. I’m looking for many more submissions and for a range of experiences, so please share widely! Learn more about the project and submit your story. - Mindy Stricke