Roasted Marshmallow

Name: Ali Miller

Age: 39

Tell me about the person who died:

My mother died on the morning of March 3, 2013, in bed at her home in White Plains, New York. She was 66 years old. She’d been diagnosed with metastatic melanoma about two years earlier, and nine weeks prior to her passing she’d had a brain hemorrhage while flying home from India, where she was vacationing with my father. She’d been doing fine, mostly symptom-free, until she started vomiting violently on the plane. We assumed it was food poisoning at first, but soon discovered through a scan in a London Emergency Room that it was much worse: the cancer had spread to her brain. This was the diagnosis we’d all been dreading since learning about the typical course melanoma takes. She was medevaced over the Atlantic Ocean, from London to Greenwich Hospital in Connecticut. Thankfully she arrived alive and conscious, but she was, in many ways, a completely different person, unable to walk and hardly able to talk. Permanently altered, but still here.

I flew from San Francisco to meet her, my dad, and my sister at the hospital, spent that night alone in the ICU with her, and then, along with my father and sister and the hospice team, took care of her in our family home. Her prognosis was three weeks to three months. Putting my life and work in California on hold, I took up residence in the house where I had spent my high school years, devoting myself to spending this precious time with my mom and to doing everything I could to make her comfortable. I bore witness to her dying process and, after she’d been bed-ridden, brain-damaged, and in and out of lucidity for nine weeks, watched her take her final breath. Watching my mother gradually die before my eyes was both the most meaningful and most traumatic experience of my life. I’ve yet to experience anything as challenging or profound. I consider it the greatest blessing of my life that I got to have that time with her and to be with her so intimately in her final months, weeks, days, hours, and, most importantly to me at the time, her final moment.

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

In a word: complicated. Since my mom died I’ve also been through two very intense breakups, so it’s hard to separate out which feelings are tied to which events. What stands out the most to me is how, on a very core level, I feel much more alone than I think I ever have.

When I came back to Berkeley a couple of weeks after her funeral, I moved in with my boyfriend at the time. He took care of me as I gradually adjusted to being back in California, back at work, back “in the world,” after having spent nine weeks hardly leaving my parents' house. The primary way he took care of me was by feeding me: planning meals, cooking them, and literally handing the bowl or plate to me as I sat curled up on the couch or on the patio in the sun. When we broke up five months later and I moved into my own apartment, feeding myself became a huge struggle. I often felt like an infant longing for her mother’s breast, longing to be effortlessly nurtured, held, and cared for. The emotional pain of not having a mother anymore, but also of not having the support I’d been getting from my boyfriend, was excruciating at times. I spent many moments feeling extremely hungry but not being able to get out of my bed to feed myself, full of resentment that my body needed to be fed and that it was my responsibility to feed it. I ached for someone to take care of me. I still struggle with feeding myself sometimes, but not nearly as much, because I got professional help from an Ayurvedic Health Coach who has helped me take better care of myself. It’s not easy.

Every night before I turn my light out to go to sleep, I look at a photograph of my mother, and every night I shake my head in disbelief. Over three years have passed, and I still am dumbfounded every time I look at that picture and contemplate the reality of her being gone. Since I live in California and she lived in New York, I’d been used to not seeing her regularly, so it’s still really hard to believe that I’ll never see her again (at least not unless I get to see her when I die, which is what I wish more than anything).

In the first six months or so after my mom died, I often dreamt about her. In the dreams she would be alive again, but it would be clear that she was going to die again, so I’d always feel this mixture of joy that she was back, and dread that I’d have to go through losing her again. About a year ago I had my first dream of her where she wasn’t dying, and I was so happy, but then I realized that I was dreaming, and I woke up sobbing.

For the first six months or more, it was hard for me to be with other people and not have my focus be on the fact that my mother had just died. Wednesday was my favorite day because that’s the day my grief group met. I liked being with other people who “got it” and where the intention of our gathering was to talk about what was in the foreground for all of us. It was such a relief to not have to put it aside. Nothing was interesting to me for awhile, other than death and grief. Everything else seemed insignificant. Now it’s more in the background. In fact, a few months ago, at my 20th high school reunion, an old friend greeted me and said, “I’m so sorry,” and it took me a few moments to even know what he was referring to.

About two-and-a-half years after my mom died I got a dog, and she has been the best thing for my grief. After dealing with so much loss, it has been such a joy to gain a new love in my life, someone to take care of, to keep me company. The “Who rescued who?” bumper sticker says it well. She follows me around, always has her eyes on me, and clings to me in a way that gives me a deep sense of mattering. She’s my family. She’s about one-and-a-half years old, and sometimes I find myself believing that she’s my mom reincarnated. I find comfort in that thought, that my mom wanted to come back as a creature with whom I could share such an intimate, uncomplicated, loving bond. My mom and I, like most mothers and daughters, certainly had our fair share of complicated dynamics. But underneath any conflicts we had, there was always a bone-deep sense of closeness, mutual admiration, and unconditional love. I especially miss her hugs and the physical affection we shared. 

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?

Cold. Lonely. I feel helpless. I’m a baby calling out for her mama and her mama’s not there. A desert. Thirsty, hungry. 

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

A roasted marshmallow. When my mom was in hospice, she was on a steroid to keep the swelling in her brain down, which gave her a massive appetite (plus, after a lifetime of worrying about her weight, I think she was like, “Fuck it! I’m eating whatever I want now!”). She would “place orders” with me, my father, and my sister, and we’d serve her whatever she wanted. I remember one time she asked me softly but anxiously (her memory functioning was severely disabled), “Did I order my food already?” I couldn’t tell if she was confused and thought she was actually in a restaurant, or if she was being playful. In any case, one of her favorite foods to “order” was a roasted marshmallow. My dad had mastered the art of making the perfect roasted marshmallow by putting the marshmallow on a chopstick and holding the marshmallow over the electric burner on the kitchen stove, just the right distance from the burner so that the heat could create a flame on the marshmallow. He taught the method to all of us, and you’d often see us going back and forth from her bedroom to the kitchen for “one more” marshmallow. She kept asking for “one more,” not with words, because she could hardly speak and did so very sparingly, but by holding up her pointer finger and conveying desire through her eyes as soon as she finished the one she was eating.

This marshmallow image is joyful for me because I loved watching her enjoy herself, and the roasted marshmallows seemed to give her so much pleasure. The juxtaposition of all the suffering with the joy of a dying woman delighting in eating a roasted marshmallow, made by her devoted family members, in a hospital bed in her home… kinda says it all.

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

My boyfriend at the time was very helpful. He was in California while I was taking care of my mom, so I would call him most nights and fill him in on what was going on. He was a touchstone to my Berkeley life, and helped me remember life beyond the walls of my parents’ house-turned-hospice. He and some of my friends generously moved all of my stuff into his apartment so that when I returned I could live with him, rather than in the house I’d been living in with housemates with whom I was in conflict. 

Two of my closest friends, both of whom knew my mom, have also been hugely supportive to me in my grief. Their loving presence in my life over many years, their interest in the details of my inner world, along with their love for my mom, has made a huge difference in my grief process. I feel less alone because of them and the love of other friends and family members as well. 

Another big source of support has been connecting with my mom’s friends, some of whom I’d never met until they came to visit her. These were people who knew sides of her that I didn’t have access to, and who loved and cared about her very much. After she died, staying in touch with them has helped all of us keep her alive, in a way.

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

My parents met when they were 12 years old and became childhood sweethearts. They celebrated their 44th wedding anniversary on January 18th while my mom was at home in hospice care. I was worried about my dad losing his lifelong partner, and I was both shocked and relieved by how he handled it. He started going on dates with various women shortly after my mom died, and became much more social. Before I knew it, he had a girlfriend. He was really happy and full of energy.

While I wanted to go to grief counseling, write about the experience, and really focus on my feelings, he wanted to move on and focus on creating a new life. While I was clinging to my mom’s clothes and anything I could find that would remind me of her, he was donating and consigning her wardrobe. While I was trying to hold on to her in every way I could (reading her notes in the margins of her books, trying to figure out which passage in a book was meaningful to her on a dog-eared page, memorizing the lyrics to her favorite song, reaching out to her friends, taking dance classes, writing classes, and singing lessons to feel more connected to her since she was a writer, dancer, and music lover), it seemed like he was trying to let her go. 

While I’ll only ever have one mom, he’ll have other partners. At times this has been hard for me, especially when I start to think his moving on means he doesn’t miss, love, or respect my mom, but then he’ll say things like, “She was the love of my life,” or I’ll visit and see that he still has pictures of the two of them together, and I feel relieved. It’s strange but also sweetly connecting when he tells me about his love life, his dating adventures. I’m getting to know a side of him he’d never shared with me before.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

Being public about my grief has been very helpful for me. Right after I returned to Berkeley, I joined a writing class that my boyfriend was teaching, so that I could begin to write about my experience, hoping to share it somehow. When the class ended, I joined a writing group. I had visions of doing a one-woman show to tell the story, but that hasn’t come to fruition yet. About a year after my mom died, I spoke at a Service of Remembrance put on by the hospice where I received grief counseling. I had written a few pages about my “grief journey,” and I found it very gratifying, though nerve-wracking, to share it with other grievers.

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

My family is Jewish, and my mom considered herself agnostic. I would say I’m agnostic, too. So I often find myself wondering where she went after she died. A lot of people have convictions or even certainty about what happens after death, but I just have a deep curiosity. The questions “Where did she go?” and “Where is she now?” have been with me continuously since I watched her stop breathing that Sunday morning. The other question that comes up a lot is, “Will I ever see her again?” I hope I will. It seems curiosity and hope are all I’ve got—no beliefs or faith.

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

One of the things that has been most helpful is connecting to my mom through physical objects. I wear her wedding ring and diamond studs nearly every day, and on most days I’m wearing at least one article of her clothing and/or shoes. I like to feel her close, and this is one way that works for me.

As the three-year anniversary of her death approached this year, my goal was to memorize all of the words to Waters of March, which was one of her favorite songs. Two of her musician friends sang it at the funeral, and it has since become one of my favorite songs as well. The version by Susannah McCorkle is my favorite, and the beautiful lyrics capture for me the bittersweetness of life, which includes the mundane, the profound, the joy, the sorrow, and everything in between: from “a sliver of glass” to the “joy in your heart.” On her anniversary, I sang the song and made a little video that I shared with my best friend. I think it was the start of a yearly ritual.

How did your loss and your grief change you?

I think it’s made me more compassionate towards other grievers, and also towards myself for the many losses I’ve experienced in my life. For a while after my mom died, I was way more accepting of others, way less judgmental. I remember thinking often, “Judging others doesn’t even make any sense anymore. Our time here together is so short, why waste it being critical of others?” Unfortunately, that sense of acceptance didn’t totally stick!

Ali Miller lives and works in Berkeley, CA. When she’s not out frolicking with her little dog, Bella, she’s most commonly holding space for people in her therapy office as they grapple courageously with their own unique versions of this challenging human condition. She wants everyone to have the inner and outer resources to unabashedly enjoy the roasted marshmallows of life, and is doing her small part to contribute to that being a reality.  BefriendingOurselves.com

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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. 

Deer Antler

Name: Roberta O.

Age: 56

Tell me about the person who died:

My beloved husband John was a man’s man type of guy, very John Wayne-esque. He lived life by three F’s: faith, family, and football. He treasured the USA and told his children often that they were living in the greatest country, and should be thankful. I always described him as a “workhorse”—he put 100 percent into everything he did, whether it was fathering, coaching, running, golfing, or being a good husband and friend. We loved him very, very much. 

Our children, Jacqueline, Ben and Margaret, threw us a 25th wedding anniversary surprise party Labor Day weekend in 2011. John was scheduled for a thyroid scan that following Tuesday, and after discovering a tumor they sent him to the ER. He was admitted to the hospital and the next day they told him he had a rare fatal thyroid cancer. Without surgery he would live three weeks and with surgery maybe three months. There was no protocol, and the prognosis is always death. So in his John Wayne fashion, we pulled up our bootstraps and requested he be released from the hospital to spend the weekend with family. We pulled in the garage and he took off his work boots by the door and never wore them again. My hardworking husband was taking on the biggest job of his life—trying to live. He died 159 days later. 

We often think back to the anniversary party, how our children put it together, and the friends and family that celebrated. It was a “meant to be” event. No person attending that party ever thought that less than a week later that we would be gathered in a room for surgery and that John, a larger-than-life teddy bear, would be fighting for his well-being. 

That weekend we spent at home included the last meal John would ever eat again, since his surgery resulted in a tracheotomy and feeding tube. I quickly became a bad-ass caregiver, health care manager, and advocate. John took his declining quality of life graciously. He only once questioned, "Why me and not some jerk?” (we knew there was no answer). One time in a painful moment of reflection we sat at the kitchen table with our heads touching and pondered, “Why? What will happen to us, to our children, to the life that is now ceasing to exist?” John looked at me, got up from the chair, and said, "We won't be bitter, we will be better people because of this,” grabbed a napkin, wiped a tear, and walked away. That is the gift he gave us—he died and we were lost, scared, and sad, but never bitter. 

February 1, 2012, he woke up after a painful night and said, "Call the kids, I am ready to go to hospice.” He looked out our living room window and told me he wanted to be cremated and the ashes spread in the backyard. He asked me if I had been satisfied all these years and I cried and said, "How could I not have been?” As we were leaving the house, I asked him, “John, is there anything you want to see or look at before we leave?” and he said “No, I will be back.”

I drove him to hospice and he walked to the bed in room 75 and died 15 days later.

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

The first week after John died all I did was sleep. The second week after he died all I did was look out the windows and sigh. Where was he? His washcloth and toothbrush were still here, but where was he? I was paralyzed with grief and often could not physically move. The despair resonated so deep within my being that I cannot even name where inside my body felt the darkest. I leaned into every emotion of pain and fear–it was like I was existing in another realm. I couldn't hear people talk but only saw faces. Noises were blurred. I don't even think my eyes were visually processing. I took many deep breaths during the day and I could hear myself breathe out so loudly. I prayed over and over that God would help me get through this.

I knew deep down in my soul that I would "graduate" from this thing, grief, and my plan was to lean into everything and work like a bitch to be better. So my first step was "faking it to make it.” I went to events but cried and screamed on the way home. I couldn't believe all the losses involved in one big package–my husband, my friend, my driver, my repair guy, the one person who loved our children like I did, the one person who knew exactly what I was thinking.

After John died I reached out to a friend with whom I hadn't spoken in ten years, a young widow. She said, “Berta, you have an adaptable personality and you will adapt to this,” and that was a mantra that helped with my healing. Grief is ugly and messy and I just did it naturally. I cried when I cried, I laughed a lot, I loved a lot and I made an effort to record what I was grateful for every day. I also read and educated myself about loss and grief. The book that helped me most was George Bonanno’s The Other Side of Sadness. It told me that I will survive because I am hardwired for grief. I was also able to recognize that my story is a very sad story but there are other sadder stories out there.

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?

I think of my grief as a road, blacktopped and narrow, curvy and lit in a manner so that you have to wonder if it is dusk or dawn. There are hints of the shadows of trees, and the grass is just about the length where it needs to be cut. The trunks of the trees are dark and the leaves are deep shades of green because the light is producing a variety of hues.

At the end of this narrow path is a large tree with a tire swing. The tree is in an open pasture and sits alone. The tire swing feels safe and with each movement the gentle breeze sways the swing like a predictable pendulum, neither scary nor unsteady. I sit on the swing, moving back and forth, with just enough breeze on my face that it tickles and makes me smile. The tire swing is large and I need to concentrate to hold on but I like the way it feels: big. I feel subtle joy and peace.

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

A deer with antlers. On a June morning after John died, a big deer with pointers (lots) walked through our backyard ever so slowly, and looked in the direction of the screen porch where I was sitting. In the 27 years I have lived in this house,  I have never seen deer in our fenced backyard, and deer do not have a huge rack of antlers in June. I got up to get my camera and the deer was gone. When we built this house, John set a ceramic deer in our yard and loved pictures of deer. It was one of the many signs he sent—John checking on us as he said he would.

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

The people in my life, especially our friends, as I like to say, "carried me and my children.” I was constantly checked in on and invited places. I grew closer to my brother and to John’s brother, Mike. I embraced relationships, help, and support. I didn't try to fight it. I came to understand that if I allowed people to help in whatever way they were comfortable then everything would turn out ok. 

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

Everyone who loved John missed him. I think friends observed my grief but spared me their sadness and were reluctant to share their tears. I guess it was enough to be in the same space with each other and hold the sorrow that came with remembering.

I wish I could have better witnessed my children’s grief in those first few months, but physically I could not see them, and the tones of their words didn’t have any variation. I am not sure if I could even feel what they were feeling—despair took up a residence in me that was all encompassing. They wanted hugs and embraces and I was robotic; I didn’t respond properly. But they kept watching me and waiting, wondering when I would return, and I did slowly, with their help and persistence. 

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?: 

Grief crippled me in many ways; I was fearful, anxious, scared, and unsure. I didn't realize at the time that grief was those emotions, and that the ability to be rational is stunted.

After John died trying to be and act normal was exhausting. To go to the deli and order meat, to pay for gas, without telling people over and over that my husband died. I was also taken aback by how much you think of the dead person all day every day. I knew I was getting better in my grief process when I didn't think about John every waking minute, and it made me feel good that I was doing better. Now when I think about John it doesn't make me smile like the stupid cliché you read about; it still makes me sad but not as sad as I used to be.

Also I never anticipated the overwhelming feeling of homesickness and yearning for my husband. It was almost crazy how to sort through those emotions. The yearning would make me weak. Grief also made me immobile. I would sit and stare out my window, which I eventually called my “meditation window,” for what seemed like small eternities. There I would work on myself, listen to sad music, read, and pray.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning? 

Privately I screamed, laid on the floor of his closet crying, banged my head against the wall, walked around outside and cried, drove and cried, got on bended knee and prayed to the moon, the stars, and God to save me and help me grow and learn and move forward. I embraced and honored every single tear.

Publicly, I put on makeup, went to work, and cried. I talked openly about John, shared stories, and told people my life would never be the same but I was going to make it—and I faked it and I am still making it. I appreciated that my children and I never lost our sense of humor. In public I like laughing and having fun. Being busy was vital and helpful.

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

I believe in God and I put my healing trust in him. Without the grace of the Holy Spirit and daily affirmations I would have been stuck. My view of heaven changed after John died. It’s more concrete now, inhabiting a nearby dimension in which time is irrelevant. Heaven is so close but we can't see it or touch it because we live in our realm. I think in heaven they are busy doing what they do—not sitting on clouds playing harps in a golden city! Heaven is great and they are happy but they have the ability to visit us through many different channels.

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

His friends organized a golf outing for three years that kept alive his love of family, friends, and golf. It was good for us to remember him and salute his life through stories and laughter. I miss his guy friends. His buddies would come over for football, cookouts after golf, and hanging out. I liked that part of our marriage and I miss the guys.

When we did last rites and blessing of the sick he was fully awake and conscious. He sat up in bed and held his hand up and said, "Now I don’t want any crying,” and the priest blessed him and everyone went around and shared stories of his life and gave testimony to the great man and his loving influence on all present.

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

I am a different person and I am ok with that. I miss the person I was before the loss. After John died I would look in the mirror and not recognize myself. Slowly I started to see myself, the person in the mirror, and she was changed but I started to acknowledge her. Parts of me came back, but with different eyes now, and my smile is a little crooked where I don't think it was before. I hold my head slightly off center now.

I hope that I am calmer now and that no problem is bigger than a life. I think I don't get disappointed anymore. I mean really, I suffered one of life’s biggest disappointments: I lost the father to my children, my beloved husband, my expected future, way too early.

Everyone liked John and we felt special because he was ours. For me and my children, not having him made us feel ordinary for the first time in our lives, because John was not an ordinary dad and husband he was extraordinary.

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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.

Cowboy Boots

Name: Kerry Anne

Age: 66

Tell me about the person who died: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has anything surprised you about your experience with grief?

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

How has your private grieving related to your public mourning? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baseball

Name:  Adi Wyner

Age: 49

Tell me about the person who died: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did your loss and your grief change you?

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

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

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

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

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

The Toronto Sun

The Toronto Sun 

Name: Lisa P.

Age: 43

Tell me about the person who died:

Jose was my father. We called him Joe. Some of his nicknames were Joey, the Dalai Lama, and Jack, because people thought he looked like a Spanish version of Jack Nicholson. In 2003 while I was away in Mexico, my dad was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma and given 3 months to live. He died on August 10, 2013. I was with him when he died, and saw him breathe his last breath. 

My dad was a very genuine and real person. His laugh was large and he always helped others. My dad had big hands and when he died they were arthritic and twisted up a bit. He was someone who understood me more than anyone I knew. He helped anyone he could. I miss him like crazy. My dad and I talked on the phone a few times a day as he didn't have much to do.

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

My father was a coffee truck driver. And as a coffee truck driver he sold copies of the Toronto Sun newspaper. I remember him picking up a huge stack in the morning and as he drove from factory to factory the stack would quickly disappear. But he always kept the top copy for himself.  A tattered and torn copy, he would read it every day when he had a break, although he only had a few breaks during his 12 hour days. For the most part this was the only time I saw my dad read, but it was a ritual that he enjoyed daily while drinking his coffee. My father was a very practical man, and whenever I see this paper, I immediately think of him.  

What was your experience of grief like after your loss?

Even though I had a lot of time to prepare for his loss, I felt numb. And as I write this, I realize that I still feel numb. And angry. Angry that one of the best people in the world was taken away early. Along with my grief came an understanding of injustice. Couldn't the bad people of the world die instead of the nicest guy ever? Because his sickness lasted so long, I was not quite prepared for the finality of death. I cry a lot and sadness is closer to the surface. I also talk to people about it a lot because, well, I think we should. Everyone has lost something.

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

Some people think that there is a due date on grief and that you should feel better about it. But the helpful bits were when people just understand that the sadness will never really go away, it will just dull a bit.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief? 

Just that it lasts so long.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

I have always been very public about my mourning. I have also had two miscarriages in the past six years and feel that my community and the world at large shouldn't be shielded by my mourning. I think of cultures where people mourn out loud, and that is what I did. At first I tried to be more calm, and then when I felt tears and anger, I just told people that was how I was and if they couldn't deal, to leave. Which really, no one ever did.

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

I think that being Spanish and open with my feelings made it easer for me to grieve.

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

I wrote a lot. I drew photos of my father. I touched things that were his and for a while I wore a few of his shirts, which sounds creepy. I am in the process of making a quilt out of my dad's old shirts for my son. It won't look like much but it will be the Grandpa Joe quilt.

How did your loss and your grief change you?

I am a bit more serious and quiet. And have a bit more of a fuck you attitude. If you don't like it, don't look. I also realize that I am very aware of how short life really is. It sucks.

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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

Totem Pole

Name: Sandra Pate

Age: 58

Tell me about the person who died:

My brother, Kevin, died on May 19th, 2014. He was diagnosed with late stage, inoperable, metastatic kidney cancer at the beginning of March of that year and was told that he had just a few weeks to live. Ten weeks later, at the age of 62, he died peacefully, with my partner and myself present, in the palliative care unit at Toronto's Grace Hospital.

Since Kevin was five years older than I was, we weren’t very close when we were children, but I know that he adored me when we were little; in fact, he named me. He was a brilliant child, an Ontario Scholar, although severely lacking in confidence. In high school he became derailed, perhaps mixing with the wrong crowd. Today I believe that he most likely suffered from mental health issues that he never got any help or support for. Our mother kicked him out of our house when he was just sixteen. 

Four years later my parents and I moved to Montreal and Kevin stayed in Toronto, and we lived in separate cities for many years. For decades, he struggled with drug and alcohol abuse and as a result, he had trouble keeping a job. He moved from rooming house to rooming house, struggling to find his place in the world, although he did manage to hold down two jobs for several years. About twenty-five years ago, Kevin became disabled at work, and he was fortunate to find a subsidized apartment, in City Home, with rent geared to his minimal disability income. With his now very limited proceeds, he was unable to drink excessively and our relationship improved dramatically. Our friendship grew as we talked weekly, finally getting to know each other. At the end we had a deep and affectionate friendship.

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

My favourite objects that will always make me think of Kevin are two small hand-carved totem poles that he made when he was eleven. I was only six at the time and I thought they were wonderful. I still do. They’re both quite small, about 8” high, made from wood with various screws, tacks and beads affixed. One has been painted with several colours – red, black and yellow. The other is just natural wood. On the back, in his childish writing: “Made by Kevin, 1963”.

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

My other brother, Kim, came from Nova Scotia to visit with his wife and son shortly after Kevin’s diagnosis. Kim was in disbelief, but I am a former R.N. and I was quite sure that the prognosis was accurate. We had a busy, emotional, but somewhat harried time together. It was a crazy time of year at work, and I tried my best to navigate the required tasks while my business partner was out of town. After my brother Kim returned home, I began to feel overwhelmed with sadness and the pressure of all of the responsibility on my shoulders - to visit my brother daily and spend as many of his remaining hours together as possible, to clear out his apartment (25 years of hoarding piled high), and to continue to live my own life. After a few weeks, I sought out a grief counselor, who was very helpful. I only saw her once, but the timing was remarkable. I met with her on Friday May 16th, three days before Kevin died. Unbelievably she sent me an email just an hour before he died, telling me that she was thinking about me and that she was sending me strength and love.

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

The most helpful for me was visiting Kevin with a few friends who volunteered to come with me. Visiting, day after day, is tough and yet felt essential. Today could be the last, today could be the last. But when you aren't used to visiting with somebody every day, it can become difficult to know what to talk about. Another person brings different conversations to the visit. Refreshing! 

Other friends who hadn’t seen him for years also came to spend time with him and he loved it. His friends visited regularly and had great times with him, playing music and games. He kept a diary until the very end. It was terrific reading about his visits and the events of each day. 

On several other occasions friends came to Kevin's apartment and helped me with the huge task of clearing it out. I knew that once Kevin died, I really wouldn't want to go to his apartment anymore, so it was important to me to get it done as quickly as possible. We finished it two days before he died.

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

My father was his typical stoic self. He's quite elderly and unable to drive anymore. Every other Sunday, his wife, who was never one of Kevin’s fans, dropped off my father while she sat in the parking lot and waited for him. She never visited Kevin once. I found it incredibly disrespectful and hurtful and it is hard to spend time with her now. 

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

I was surprised at how overwhelmed I became and how alone in my grief I felt. My brother, Kim, was in denial most of the time and so it was hard to connect deeply with him. I didn't know very many of Kevin's friends and most of my friends did not know Kevin. Since we were not close as children, and we lived in different cities for several years, we really only connected deeply over the past twenty-five years. We had little in common but Kevin often needed help with things and so I became his go-to for help and emotional support. We finally bonded, and it was too bad that we couldn't have enjoyed our friendship through more of our mature years.

After Kevin’s death I felt a huge gap in my world. We had a gathering to celebrate his life, and it was surreal to look at all of the collected and assembled pictures of us with Kevin. Memories come, unexpectedly, in waves and short bursts. Fun times, difficult years, challenging events. I was glad to hear one of his high school friends say he thought that Kevin had a good life.

Sandra Pate lives in downtown Toronto with her wife and their six pound poodle, who is firmly in charge. She has been a real estate Broker ‎since 1981 and in her spare time she enjoys time with her friends, volunteering, traveling, games, great food and wine, and the outdoors. She is currently a volunteer at Emily's House, Toronto's first hospice for children.

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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