Hero Sandwich

Name: Jessica*

Age: 43

Tell me about the person who died:

My father died a little over 10 years ago. He killed himself. He had dealt with depression my entire life, so in some ways, this was not a complete surprise, but of course, it was incredibly shocking and traumatic at the same time. 

When I was young, I was Daddy's little girl. He adored me and the feeling was mutual. My mother was the disciplinarian and my dad was all about fun. We went everywhere together. He'd patiently put up with my never-ending questions; he gave me candy and food that my mother did not allow. We hit golf balls at the driving range and went to car shows. Even going with him on weekend errands was fun. He would embarrass me with dorky “dad” jokes and, like me, he could be the class clown. I saw that whenever we went to a restaurant and he made the waitresses laugh. He was a good, but troubled person.

When adolescence hit, I no longer wanted to hang out with him and didn't feel comfortable talking to him, as all these things were happening to me, both physically and emotionally. Then I got to high school and I separated from him further. I think at least unconsciously, I felt like I didn't know how to relate to him now that I was no longer a little girl, so most of my interactions with him were brief and superficial.

Our relationship was also marred by his relationship with my mother, which was not good. I would say my mother was emotionally abusive to him. And he let her be that way—it takes two. I spent most of my adult life being angry at him for putting up with my mother. Our relationship suffered because of that, and I never returned to being close to him the way I was when I was a child.

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

So many things remind me of him, but food probably stands out the most–peanut M&Ms, seltzer, bagels with tuna, sturgeon, and caviar cream cheese, which he would buy on special occasions, to name a few. Also, on occasion, he would eat an absurdly huge, unhealthy and delicious hero that he would get from the neighborhood deli, piled with turkey, roast beef, tongue, Russian dressing, and coleslaw. He would often give me some of it and it was one of our small ways of bonding. We both loved to eat and to indulge in "bad stuff,” especially since my mom was so concerned with what I should and shouldn't eat.

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

It was pure hell, initially. The worst experience I’ve ever had, without a doubt (as my sister once said, we lived rather charmed lives until my dad died). It was shocking and painful and excruciating and numbing and terrifying. I had never lost anyone very close to me before, with the exception of one grandmother who died when I was 13. I had never experienced true grief. 

My mother called me and told me what had happened. For the next two hours I went back and forth between shock and hysteria, even apologizing to her because I thought it was my fault. I was not thinking clearly, and I ran around my room trying to figure out what to pack to go back home. I packed a bunch of workout socks. I didn't pack any funeral-appropriate clothing.

I was going to take the train home but my roommate at the time convinced me that I should really take a cab. After a thirty minute ride, I gave the cab driver $100, got out and crossed the street to my childhood home. I started walking across my lawn when two cops approached me and asked if I was Alison*, my sister. “No,” I told them. “I’m Jessica.” I felt myself walking backwards. Each cop took an arm and guided me forward into my house where I began yelling for my mother as I walked down the hall. I was watching myself from above, as if I was in a movie. I reached the eat-in kitchen and at the table sat my mom, my father's best friend, his wife, and my father's brother and his wife. They all looked like hell.

My sister and her family were not able to come until the following day, and I remember being scared to be alone in the house with my mother. I’m not sure why I felt that way. Maybe I felt like I had to take care of her? I just couldn’t wait for my sister to be there with me. It was too much to handle on my own.

The first couple of weeks were full of terror (was this a dream? how can this be happening?), shock, guilt, tears, pain, and more guilt. Not just emotional pain, but physical pain in my chest, which I carried with me on and off for many years after. It's weird what your body does. My mom who "felt fine" ended up getting shingles, which is often caused by extreme stress.

My grief is not linear. The worst was not on day one and the easiest is not today. It ebbs and flows. Things are pretty stable now, but in the beginning, it almost felt like I was going insane. I could be completely fine one minute and breaking down the next, yearning for this excruciating pain to subside. I remember talking to someone whose sister had committed suicide, asking him if the pain was ever going to go away. It felt permanent and eternal, like I would never be normal again.

Although I was in therapy at the time of my dad’s death, I don't think I've ever truly dealt with my grief, even to this day. I've talked a lot about it, but it still feels almost imaginary. It sometimes feels like nothing happened because I'm so filled with guilt that I can't miss him. I also don't miss him because we weren't close for so many years, so I was used to not having him in my life, as horrible as that sounds. Most of the time, all I feel is guilt or nothingness. In many ways, he feels like a ghost.  

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 first it felt like a cave–dark and deep with lots of sharp stalactites hanging down. Black, deep reds, and fiery oranges. When I was not in hell, it would feel pretty normal, like a calm lake on a partly sunny day, with something bubbling beneath the surface. It reminds me of an EKG, where the lines go up and down, up and down, but then they even out a bit more. It's like having a massive heart attack, and then it calms down, and then maybe you have some heart palpitations along the way and it calms down again. At the end of the EKG line, the up and down is more regular like a normal heartbeat and hardly anything goes too high or too low.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

I was surprised at just how much I loved my dad. I remember sitting in therapy and crying so intensely into a pillow, trying to muffle the guttural screams coming out of me. I don't think I realized the depths of it when he was alive because my feelings were always clouded with anger and discomfort. It’s really hard for me to get out of my anger and be more accepting of things sometimes. I wish I had been able to express that love for him while he was alive.

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

My close friends were incredible. They listened and sympathized and were there for me in ways that astound me now. One of my closest friends called me every single day for three months after my dad died. I don't talk much about my dad now for the most part, but I know I can talk to them if I need to.

I cannot speak to my family about it. I have tons of anger towards my mom as I sometimes modeled my behavior towards him after hers, which burns me up inside now. She won't really admit to the role she played in his death or in their relationship, which she still insists was not so bad. Her general attitude towards anything is pretending everything is fine. It’s very difficult for her to accept feelings of sadness or regret or pain.

I also cannot speak to my sister about it, for the most part. My dad killed himself on my nephew's birthday. My nephew was 5 at the time. It wasn’t intentional, it was just a day when my mom was going to be out of the house for a few hours and he saw an opportunity. My dad loved my nephew very much. But my sister has always been very focused on making that day about her son and protecting him from anything negative. She helped me through the funeral, and I think we were there for each other in the beginning, trying to process all of this. But on anniversaries, we don’t discuss it. I’m sure everyone is having their own experience of it, but sometimes it feels like I’m the only one who thinks about him.

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

No. I generally don’t get into this kind of thing. I have visited my dad’s gravesite once or twice, but even that seems strange. He is not in the ground any more than he is standing right next to me, so I do not feel any different or closer to him at the cemetery and I’d prefer not to be there.

How did your loss and your grief change you?

I definitely felt like my dad’s death created a divide in my life. There was life before he died and life after he died.

For the first seven years or so after his death, I was very agitated in the weeks leading up to the anniversary. I felt sensitive and depressed and anxious. I did things in those weeks that I would not normally do. I called friends out on things in inappropriate ways. I just was not myself. 

I think as time has gone on, things have returned somewhat to normal. I’m not the same person of course–I’ve experienced a significant loss and something very traumatic and that will never change. I feel horrible saying this, but there are many days and weeks where I don’t think about my dad. 

Is there anything else you want to share?

When someone takes their own life, everyone is left with so much anger: at the person who did it, at family members, at oneself. There is a lot to untangle. And there is finger-pointing and so much “what if.” When I think about why this happened, it is like peeling an onion—things from his childhood contributed to his death as much as things from the week he died.  

And then there is the taboo surrounding suicide. People talk about suicide in hushed tones. In the beginning, my mother straight-out lied to a number of people about how my father died. People who went to his funeral had no idea he killed himself. A few years after his death, I told my mother I was getting back in touch with a childhood friend via Facebook and she threatened me over saying anything about my father. I think the taboo stems from a few things—from not understanding how depression works, from the guilt that people feel about the person who died, and from the idea, which I disagree with, that the person who did this must be selfish.

I have suffered from depression since I was about 13 years old. I have “attempted suicide” (they were really cries for help rather than legitimate attempts). I was depressed at the time my father killed himself, which was partly why I had barely been in touch with him during the months before his death. I understand what depression can do to you and where it can bring you. I have been at the edge before. I do not wish it upon anyone. Sadly, though my father and I both dealt with depression, we never discussed it.

*Name has been changed.

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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. 

Bicycle

Name: Leyla Nickerson

Age: 58

Tell me about the person who died:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has anything surprised you about your experience with grief? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jane Eyre

Name: Peter B.

Age: 60

Tell me about the person who died: 

I'm an artist who lives and paints in Wales. My beloved wife Donna died of pancreatic cancer last year on the morning of our silver wedding anniversary, the 8th of September, 2015. She was fifty-one years old. We were inseparable.

What has your experience of grief been like since your loss? 

I am exhausted. All of the time. I weep every day. It feels like a palpable barrier has been erected around me. Intangible, invisible and insurmountable. Life has become muffled. Time passes infinitely slowly. Everything has become excruciatingly difficult to negotiate.

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

A bottomless pit of slate grey. Not black. There is light but filtered through layers of cloth of variable thickness.

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

A book. Jane Eyre. My wife loved to read.

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

My friends were wonderful. They still are. They seem to instinctively know when I need an arm around my shoulder and when to back off and give me space. I am reluctant to lean on them overly much. I don't wish to intrude on their lives. I don't wish to inflict my grief upon them.

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

My wife and I lived a solitary life together. All we needed was one another. We saw others very infrequently. Subsequently I grieve alone. I can't speak for our friends. They keep their feelings shielded from me.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

The sheer force of it. I lost both my parents a few years ago. My wife and I cared for them both in their last years. We loved them dearly but although losing them was terrible, it was nothing compared to losing my wife. Her loss has devastated me.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning? 

There has been no discernible difference. I only leave my home infrequently now. I break down unpredictably so I keep myself sequestered.

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

My life meanders from one day to the next. Only my painting gives form and structure to it. I created a piece in memory of my cariad* called "Rain Dancer" in those initial months after I lost her. Making it helped me enormously, though in a way everything I made prior and everything I make subsequent to her loss was and is for her, despite much of my work being commission-based. A little of her is in everything I make.

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

It's too early to say. I am still too raw, too confused to analyze or make any sense of how I am or will be.

*love, in Welsh

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an 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. 

Scallops with Arugula and Peas

Name: Catherine Mellinger

Age: 36

Tell me about the person who died: 

I met Vick when I was 28, after starting a certificate program in Expressive Arts Therapy in Toronto. She was one of my classmates. The program was a three year program and over the first two years, Vick and I began forming a friendship. Vick was a flame. She has this incredible curly red hair, a deep voice, intense eyes. She was honest, exceptionally intelligent, utterly kind and caring. I remember first bonding with her over California–she was from there, and my sister was living there, so I would go at least once a year to visit. I would randomly run into her on the streetcar and we'd talk about writing and what the process of making art was like for us. It was a slow build of just getting to know each other. 

During the second year of the program Vick experienced a lot of upheaval in her life. She switched jobs, and she announced that she and her husband had decided to separate. She decided to leave the program after second year, to focus on her work and her family, as well as her health. She had never had any major health issues but she suffered from intense migraines, some of which caused her to have slight seizures. 

We made an effort to stay in touch. A few months after she left, she contacted me to tell me that she wanted our friendship to be sustained outside of the program, and she wanted, point blank, to be friends with me. I told her I felt the same and that year our friendship flourished. She invited me over for meals, and I chatted up her son about Harry Potter. She told me how her separation from her husband was going, and how she was exploring her sexuality after realizing she was much more in her own skin when she could explore bisexual relationships. She talked about going out with women she had crushes on and how happy it made her. We celebrated her 50th birthday over Thai food. I celebrated Passover with her and her son.

During that year, as we bonded, she began to have more frequent migraines and fatigue as well as a lot of anxiety. She took a health leave from her new job and decided to begin writing more. We began working on a project together where I sent her some of my collages and she wrote short poetry to go with them, which ended up being used in a small exhibit I did. We had plans to make a children's book together, and to illustrate and write together more often. 

I hadn't heard from Vick in perhaps a couple of weeks, and I wrote her an email to see how she was and ask if we could meet up for tea. Less than 48 hours later, I got a message from one of the professors at the school we attended together. Vick had died. Suddenly and unexpectedly. I don't know that I've ever felt such shock. She was just gone, and I had no idea how, or when. All of the students from the school were sent details of her funeral and invited to attend. 

It wasn't until months later that I even found out where or how she had died. Her parents were visiting and staying with her. She hadn't been feeling well. She told her parents she was going for a run and asked them to watch her son. She didn't come back for quite some time and her parents called the police. They thought she'd gone out to run and something must have happened. The police told them that they couldn't file a missing person report until 24 hours later, but that the family could go out looking for her. I'm not sure how they thought to go down to the basement, but it seems someone did, and found Vick there, beside her treadmill. She hadn't gone outside to run, she had gone downstairs to her treadmill. They think she had an aneurysm, passed out while running and just died, then and there. They don't know how long she'd been lying on the floor. I can't even think about it without tearing up again. None of it made sense.

It felt so odd being at the funeral, standing at the back of the room with other students from the class just trying to digest it all. I recognized her son and ex-husband but knew very few of her friends, and none of her family, who had all come from California. It seemed like a strange dream in which I was an impostor who had just lost someone that I had so much more to do with, so much more to know about.

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

Vick's death and the process of grieving was so different from previous losses I’ve experienced. It felt like an assault, like something was stolen from me. It felt harsh and heavy and violent. I was a complete mess when I heard the news, and I had an enormous sense of anger that I carried with me for a number of months afterwards. I remember bawling heavily for hours. I had no idea what to do. I had no one to reach out to. I didn't know her family, I didn't know her friends, I just wanted to reach out to her, to Vick. I was in shock for the better part of six months, not knowing where to put my grief other than on my now husband's shoulders. Mentally I felt confused, lost, mudded. Physically I felt tight and wound. Emotionally I felt angry, horribly sad, and somehow empty. It was a friendship so new yet so meaningful, with so much light and connection and promise, and it was just gone.

Over time it dulled and softened, and went more inward. I learned later that the University of Toronto had erected a commemorative bench for her on Philosopher's Walk on campus, just outside of The Royal Conservatory. I was often at the Conservatory, as I work there occasionally. It felt so special and perhaps even a bit kismet that her bench was right there. It felt like a sign that our friendship was real, that it actually meant something. Whenever I would go to the offices for meetings or classes, I got to sit on her bench, have my lunch, have a tea. She felt so far away yet somehow a little closer, knowing her name was there. 

I've realized that every year at the end of May, I can't stop thinking about her. I start to remember our friendship and the things we talked about, the meals we ate together, the streetcar rides we took together either by chance or because we'd planned to see each other. It's when I remember that this was the time of year that she died. My son was born in May, and every year, after his birthday, I'm overcome with thoughts of Vick again.

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?

Initially the grief was a hard and dark brick wall. It was physically painful to come up against. Thinking of Vick was like knives in my chest. Hard, heavy, not cold, but hot, sweaty even. Eventually it started to ease and turned more into waves, like sitting on an ocean and feeling like you wish you could connect with what was on the other side, whoever is out there, wherever they are. It's windy and comes and goes.

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

Vick loved to learn to cook new things and one night she invited me over for dinner. She said she was really into this Jamie Oliver cookbook. That night she made me scallops sautéed with arugula and peas. It was one of the best meals I've ever had made for me. We sat, we ate, we drank wine, we chatted about our shared crush on Jamie Oliver. Anytime I see one of his cookbooks I think of that meal, I think of Vick, and it makes me smile.

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

I felt like there weren't many people with whom I shared my grief. I shared the most with my husband, Joel. Within the first two years of our being together he held me through the loss of my cousin, then Vick, and then my grandmother. I couldn't believe how understanding he was. He just listened when something came up. 

What was the hardest for me was feeling like I didn't have anyone else to talk to about it. None of my other close friends really knew her. Our relationship was quite private I suppose, perhaps because it was still new. It felt strange speaking about it to people who didn't know her. My classmates were good about it too, and we talked about her passing in class for a couple of weeks after. Then it all just seemed to fade for them, yet for me it didn't.

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

I felt disconnected from others who were grieving, because I didn't know her family and or many of her friends. I had connected with her brother at the funeral and told him about the project we'd been working on; that she'd written poetry for my pieces. He gave me his email so that I could send him some images. I emailed him and told him I would be honoured to send him a piece, as a gift. He chose one and I mailed it out to him, but we didn't really speak after that. 

At one point, perhaps a few weeks after Vick’s death, I emailed her telling her that I missed her, and that I wanted to write to her because I didn't know where else to talk about how I felt about her death. It felt somehow satisfying to send out that email into the void. And who knows, perhaps her family or her ex had access to the email and read it, I don't know. But if they did, they never wrote back to tell me.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

My grieving was all private. Where the grieving had a chance to be public was perhaps at our graduation from the program. I asked the class if we could honour Vick by putting out a chair for her with ours during the ceremony. The staff spoke about her and we took a moment. It felt nice, but like a token. Something to honour her as much as that setting allowed.

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

I really immersed myself in my collage work; Vick’s death sparked a huge commitment in me to be the artist I wanted to be. To keep going, to make it my life, my profession. I loved that Vick was not apologetic about who she was or how she felt. She didn't apologize for wanting what she wanted. She made me feel like I had a voice that deserved to be heard, and that my art was worth seeing. I'm endlessly thankful for that.

A couple of years ago at this time, I remember a night when my husband took my son for dinner at his family. We had planned that I would stay home and do some studio work because I'd barely had the chance since my son was born. I went out and bought myself some scallops, and I made a dish similar to the one that Vick had made me. I brought it into my studio and I poured myself a glass of wine and I worked. I toasted Vick and I collaged. It made me so happy, and it made me feel connected to her again.

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

It made me very aware of hidden grief, in others and in myself. When Vick died I felt I was selfish for being so upset. How could I feel so violated when her family must feel even worse! How could I admit to my grief without feeling I was being dramatic? The privacy of my grief really made me aware of the "circles" of a death. There is the family, and there are the close friends everyone knows about, people who may have known the individual since childhood. But then there are those that you may not think are affected, yet aren't they? You never know how something will hit you, and you can never know how many people it hits. It's taken me a long time to grieve Vick I think in large part because I never felt seen in it by those who knew her best, because I didn't know them.

It's all feels so complicated really, and it's still hard for me to really accept and be OK with how much I miss her, how much I crumbled when she died. To accept and feel OK about knowing that our friendship mattered, that it meant something. It's like a secret I carry, my loss of Vick.

Catherine Mellinger is a mixed media collage artist, art facilitator and certified Expressive Arts Therapist who lives in Waterloo, Ontario with her husband and son. She is currently working on a visual/literary collaboration with Toronto writer Marianne Apostolides titled Deep Salt Water, which will be published by BookThug Press in Spring of 2017. For more information on Catherine's work, visit her website.

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

Bathrobe

Name: Nancy Goldstein

Age: 70

Tell me about the person who died:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guitar

Name: Ashley Taylor

Age: 30

Tell me about the person who died:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief? 

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

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

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Varsity Jacket

Name: Paul Weinstein

Age: 79

Tell me about the person who died:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief? 

I didn't cry.

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

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

How did your loss and your grief change you?: 

I try to take more responsibility for angry feelings.

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

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

Shandy and Vodka and Coke

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Shandy and Vodka and Coke, 2016

Name: Leigh H.

Age: 21

Tell me about the person who died:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did your loss and your grief change you?

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

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

Music Box

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Music Box, 2016

Name:  Julie Fitzpatrick

Age: 38

Tell me about the person who died:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did your loss and your grief change you?

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

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

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

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

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

Cowboy Boots

Name: Kerry Anne

Age: 66

Tell me about the person who died: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has anything surprised you about your experience with grief?

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

How has your private grieving related to your public mourning? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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