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. 

Guitar

Name: Ashley Taylor

Age: 30

Tell me about the person who died:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief? 

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

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

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shandy and Vodka and Coke

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Shandy and Vodka and Coke, 2016

Name: Leigh H.

Age: 21

Tell me about the person who died:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did your loss and your grief change you?

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

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

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. 

Crescent Wrench

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Crescent Wrench, 2016

Name: Mark K.

Age: 63

Tell me about the person who died:

My father was a family practice doctor who retired early, at the age of 60. He continued to consider himself a doctor, though, until his recent death in January at the age of 93. He had many health issues and after his retirement he spent much of his time diagnosing his own infirmities and felt that he and the doctors were working as a team—and I think he considered himself to be the lead doctor. 

My dad was born on a farm in Iowa and lived in small towns his whole life. His father owned a John Deere tractor dealership and my dad learned early on to fix things, build things and grow things. He defined himself as a doctor, a father, a husband—someone who made decisions, worked hard and got things done. When he could no longer work, and later as his other hobbies and his role as a provider became more difficult, he became depressed, feeling that he was no longer useful, as if he was losing his identity. At the same time, he became more philosophical and spiritual and, at times, less authoritative and judgmental. We could have “meaning of life” conversations and he enjoyed some of the quirky stories that I would write. He even tried his hand at poetry—this from a man who didn’t really see the point of reading fiction or watching movies, perhaps because it meant paying attention to a “made up” story.

In his last years he could barely walk, even with the help of a walker. He loved it when I would take him on drives, though. He had a special fondness for Fairfax, California, a small town near our home. It amused me that he liked it so much, being that he was such a straight-laced Midwesterner at heart—Fairfax is sometimes known locally as “Mayberry on acid.” He would see little cottages on small lots on narrow lanes and observe mountain bikers and joggers coming and going and exclaim, “I like this place—these people know how to live, how to get outside and enjoy nature and live in homes that are just the right size.” In fact, he told me once that as he started to get a bit of dementia and have trouble remembering things and distinguishing between reality and imagination, “Fairfax” became a special word for him. If he could still remember “Fairfax,” he knew that he was still thinking clearly.

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

There’s a lumber yard in Fairfax that has an area in the back with used tools, lumber, doors, windows, fixtures and the like. It’s called “The Away Station,” maybe because that’s the place you take things that you would normally throw away. When I first took my dad there, he said that he thought he had died and gone to heaven. He wasn’t able to make it upstairs to the rooms with used tools, but he would have enjoyed that. He had quite a collection of tools and cried the day that he gave them up and moved them to my brother’s house. The one item that might represent his passion for building, fixing and being useful would be a crescent wrench. It couldn’t be just any old adjustable wrench, though. My dad always told me that the Crescent brand was really the only kind of adjustable wrench that was worth owning.

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

My dad was in pretty good shape up until about a week before he died, when he must have had a small stroke which made it harder for him to communicate. His eyesight was almost gone and he started to hallucinate. He expressed his fear about dying and described being transported up a hill on a train, moving toward a door. This really bothered him and I worked and talked with him a lot, trying to make the end easier or at least less fearful. I even tried to give him metaphorical tools to make the train stop if he wasn’t ready. I spoke of things he was familiar with from his lifetime of fixing and building—brakes, welding, chains, locks, a roadblock. We slowed the train a bit and it even went back downhill for a while. Eventually, after two days of this restlessness, he became unconscious and then finally the end came.

My mother and sister and I were with him at the end. It was at the same time the most difficult thing I have ever done and the most natural. I’m glad that I was there with him, and I hope we helped make the transition though that gate he feared a little easier.

My grief started with a profound tiredness, and images of his last days that were hard to get out of my mind. The tears still come from time to time and I catch myself saying, “Oh, I need to ask my dad about this,” or “Dad will get a big kick out of this,” and then I remember that I can’t share things with him anymore.

Has anything surprised you about your experience with grief?

Maybe I’m surprised at how I was able to be present and calm at the time of passing. I’m a little surprised that I suggested that we break out some brandy moments after my father’s body was taken away, and also that my mom and sister agreed that it was a good idea. 

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

It’s been very comforting to me when people say kind things to me about the passing of my father. I wrote a little something and posted it on Facebook and it was nice to hear from people in my life today as well as students from long ago, relatives from Europe, and friends with whom I had lost touch. Some people apologize for taking so long to say something, but I actually like that—it’s like the support is spread out over a period of time. 

Some reactions are a little odd, though. Sometimes I’ll tell someone that my dad passed away and they don’t really say anything—they talk about other things, almost like they haven’t heard me. Maybe they feel that they are saying it without saying it, but are too uncomfortable to come right out and address the issue. A couple of people who were once close to me haven’t responded at all—and that makes me sad.

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

My mother is experiencing a fair amount of regret along with her grief. I have felt some of that, but mostly I feel pretty good about how my relationship with my dad was at the end. I don’t think there were any unsaid “I love you’s” or apologies. He wanted to end his days at home under hospice care, around his family, and that’s exactly what we did.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

I wouldn’t say that it’s too different. I thought that I might be breaking down in front of people, but that tends to happen only when I’m alone. I’ve learned, too, that there are some tender personal things that I can’t share with everyone, so I only talk about those things with people who I trust and I think will understand. I’m coming to realize, though, that there are more of those people in my life than I thought.

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

My dad was Lutheran and the rest of the family is Catholic. He seemed to become more religious as time went on, and said that he was spiritually comfortable with his death and confident he would go to a better place. As much as I want to believe in the same way, I am not as certain of all of these things. It was ironic, then, that I found myself reassuring him of his faith during his final days.

I do find the rituals and prayers of my Catholic religion comforting during the grieving process. I have long put off deciding what, exactly, my faith and religious practice is all about, but my father’s passing will probably lead me to examine this more carefully. 

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

We decided to have a small prayer service just for immediate family right after my father passed. To my surprise, my brothers, who both live quite far away, decided to come as well. We set up a table with photos and mementos from my dad’s past—there were tools, his old doctor’s bag, a microscope, a John Deere hat, a picture of a street car that he had rebuilt, and a carpenter’s apron. Someone said that looking at that table gave you a good picture of what my dad was all about. It turned out that that ritual was very beneficial to all of us—we put it together very quickly, but it helped us to process what had happened and support each other.

I had planned a trip to Yosemite with a couple of childhood friends and we went ahead with the trip just a few days after the memorial. That was the perfect thing for me at the time—good friends who knew my dad, lots of laughs and stories. We played music and spent time in nature. It definitely helped with the healing.

How did your loss and your grief change you?

There is something profound about being with my dad when he died—talking with him and comforting him and talking about his faith, even when he wavered and was fearful at the end. It made me feel like I could be present with something that uncomfortable and unsettling without being afraid. It confirmed something that I hoped was true about me, but I wasn’t sure about. It made me want to be present to comfort others when they are fearful or hurting, and it made me hopeful that I can face my own difficulties and the end of my life in a peaceful way.

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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

Crib Rail

Last week, I posted the story that inspired Grief Landscapes—my friend Lindsay's account of losing her young son. This week, her husband Adam shares his perspective.

Name: Adam J. Fleischhacker

Age: 40

Tell me about the person who died:

Miles was my boy. He was exactly sixteen months old when he died. He went to sleep at day care, and basically never woke up. I’m so thankful that his passing was peaceful. He spent about 24 hours on life support but we believe he was already gone. When we turned off the machines, I held his little body in my arms until his heart stopped. It was the most painful thing I’ve ever done, but so very important to me to have done it.

Miles was a joy. My favorite thing to do was to hold him face-to-face while we just shouted with each other. A joyous, life-affirming shout-off. He had crazy good dance moves, the most charming smile, and the brightest eyes you could imagine. Of course he could be a real crab too. He loved his bottles, and demanded them all night long. He didn’t have very many words but he said “Dada.” He was just starting to walk. Miles was a colicky little guy in the first six to eight months or so, and I always believed it was because he wanted to move. He wanted to get up and go, crawl around, explore, do stuff! So when he first started standing on his own and taking steps, he would get this amazing delighted look on his face like “Holy shit, I am walking! Can you believe this?!” It was magical to witness. That was Miles.

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

Miles used to stand at the foot of his crib and bite the rail, then shift his weight and rock side to side, sliding his bottom teeth back and forth. He left these nice big scratches in the white finish. People assume it’s sad to talk about your lost loved ones, but I love to talk about Miles. However, one of the things that’s hard about losing him at only sixteen months is that not very many people knew him, so there are fewer opportunities to recollect him with others. What I love about these scratches in the crib rail is that he quite literally left his mark. He really was a guy that wanted to take a bite out of life (distinct from his brother who was more cautious and laid back), and along the way he added some nice texture to his crib rail. 

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

At first I felt shock and numbness. That sort of became a fog that lasted probably a year. At the same time, I felt mentally clear and focused as far as what needed to be done for our surviving son, Miles’ twin brother Reed. I was open to accepting help, even ready to ask for it, which is normally very difficult for me. I didn’t want to be alone. I was so grateful for the family and friends who descended on us and I was scared for them to leave, so I spaced out the visits from all the people who offered to travel to see us.

Then there was the anger. There was no one to blame but I was (and sometimes still am) just furious at the world. If life were a game, I didn’t want to play anymore. I wanted to quit. Not hurt myself, I wasn’t suicidal. I just didn’t want to do anything or be anywhere. I wanted not to exist. I was tired, and slept a lot. Found it hard to focus or do any kind of work. But slowly I became more and more focused on what I wanted my life to look like moving forward. 

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

It’s empty and dark. Endless, yet also impossibly confining.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

I was surprised to be able to communicate and share. I didn’t feel the need to protect others from my grief. The profound darkness was surprising in a way—I guess that I could have the will to continue in the face of such horror was surprising. Also it’s surprising that it can open you up in a way. Open you up to accepting the love that you feel pouring in from others. Open you up to be more patient with your fellow human beings—especially strangers you encounter who might otherwise have frustrated you with bad driving or inconsiderate grocery store etiquette for example.

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

Just being there is the number one thing people can do. Be with you. Then of course there’s helping with the logistics and all the administrative BS. People from work were bringing food constantly. That was amazing, the volume of support and the number of people who wanted to pitch in. It was frustrating when people shied away. Or worse, when they tried to bring up their grief as a way to relate. I think my number one pet peeve is anyone who tries to talk about a miscarriage as a way to relate. It’s apples and oranges. I can’t comment on or judge anyone else’s pain, but losing a child that you knew and spent time with who had a personality is much worse than a miscarriage. It just is. 

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 took it very hard, of course. She spent the first three days or so sleeping almost the entire day. She couldn’t eat at all. She just shut down completely. We were both just devastated obviously. But we were also grateful, right from the beginning, that he did not suffer, that no one missed anything, or was neglectful. That we truly felt nothing could have been done. My parents and siblings were devastated but I didn’t notice much beyond that, I was too consumed by my own grief. I didn’t feel much obligation to notice anything about what they were going through.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

They were pretty closely linked I think. I probably tried to keep the public mourning more shiny than the private mourning. Show my resolve to go on. Be strong and all that stuff. But I have many close friends that I was very comfortable being open with; and I knew, maybe instinctively, that it would ultimately be good for me and for them if I tried to be as open as possible.

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

Culturally I think we have a completely warped view of death and grief. We try to ignore or bury it. I did that too before this happened. It’s ridiculous. We are all going to the same place, so why do we pretend that something’s gone wrong when someone dies? We all die, we are supposed to die. I’m not saying it’s not tragic, and that loss is not painful. But the idea that life should be free of pain and grief seems to be a cornerstone of our culture; the idea that loss and death are an aberration - it just makes no sense.

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

We held a super small memorial service with just close family a few days after he died, and it felt essential to set aside that time to gather and commemorate. At the one-year anniversary of his death we travelled to New York and had a memorial with our closest friends, most of whom we had not seen since he died. That was extremely helpful to me. To have everyone come together, acknowledge his life, acknowledge our loss, and have our friends stand by us and say “Your loss is our loss too. We carry this burden with you.” To pass the one-year mark, to face all those people, to accept their support, and to remember Miles in that way, I felt as though I’d been through a portal on my grief journey.

How did your loss and your grief change you?

Losing Miles broke my heart, permanently. But it also broke my heart open. I think I’m more sensitive, more patient. I feel stronger (some of the time – there are still times when I am completely crushed, devastated beyond all reason). I feel more focused. I think the little worries in life bother me less. I’m no longer afraid of death. I want to be around to raise my other son, and there’s a lot of things I’d like to do in this lifetime, but I’ll be glad for the relief from this grief when I shuffle off. And although I don’t believe in heaven or any kind of afterlife that we can possibly understand—maybe I’ll be with Miles again, even if it’s just in oblivion. I guess the simple version of that is: either I’m wrong and there is an afterlife and we’ll be together, or I’m right and I’ll be gone so it won’t really matter. 

Adam Fleischhacker is a director, editor, writer and producer of film, television and video. He spent twenty years in New York producing and editing television, making independent films, and creating and hosting a web series for Food Network. He recently returned to his hometown, Cleveland OH, where he continues his work, karaokes with his wife, and plays with his son.

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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

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

Ladder

Name: Jordana Jacobs

Age: 43

Tell me about the person who died:

My father, Armin Jacobs, was both far from me and close. He and I were from entirely different cultures—I was raised in a well-to-do suburb of Manhattan, and the wrong brand of juice or what-have-you thrown into the grocery cart was cause for pouting. My father was a Hungarian peasant whose family of eight, before being scattered or killed during the Holocaust, hunched around the kitchen table in their one-room shack, knitting caps for sale. He survived Bergen Belsen because of timing, adolescent strength, the will to live, and the protective love of an older brother. I frequently had to explain to him that I was still earning a salary at work, even when I took vacation or got sick. He called computers “confusers” and fancied the remark witty every single time. He thought nothing of bringing other diners’ leftovers home.

There was a wedge between us because he saw the world in simple, binary ways. Good and evil. Honest and dishonest. Any time I approached an issue with healthy skepticism, he seemed sorely disappointed. He would not hold different truths at the same time.  When I wanted out of my abusive relationship with my mother, who divorced and sued him after having him arrested on a made-up claim of domestic violence, he pushed me to be a good daughter to the woman. Light and dark. Dutiful and neglectful.

But we were also close. He knew, innately and without any of the parenting books I depend on to raise my child, how to love. He accepted and delighted in me, he pushed me past my comfort zone in ways that engendered more gratitude than resentment, he always let me choose the radio station, even as he made fun of my music with exaggerated “oooh baby”s, and there was never any doubt that he would do and sacrifice anything for me.

He survived the camps, he survived a ceiling in a big Manhattan hotel collapsing on his head, he survived my mother, and he survived a stroke. He died in 2013 at age 85, with severe dementia and a cluster of problems, from diabetes to urinary tract infections, that dominoed into major organ failure. When he died, it was time to go. More of his time was spent suffering than living.

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

My dad was a roofer, and I was proud of the ladder affixed to the top of his station wagon. Parked in our driveway, it broadcast that a working-class man lived in that large colonial house on that affluent block in that affluent neighborhood. I am pretty sure that some of our neighbors considered it a blight. I delighted in that idea. To complicate things, my father’s blue-collar work did not pay the bulk of the bills that secured us in the upper middle class, and that was, to put it much too politely, a point of contention between my parents.

Sometimes, my dad would take me to roofing jobs in the lower parts of Manhattan and in Brooklyn. This was the seventies and early eighties so that world is largely gone now. It was mustier, more elderly, and the cityscape was washed over in graffiti. I loved entering those homes: my dad would introduce me, his eight-year-old daughter with two braids, as his assistant, and we’d go to the top of the roof where I would hold one end of a tape measure for him while he marked the other end with a special roofer’s yellow crayon.

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

Years before he died, I would cry at a whiff of a thought of losing my father. However, my father’s dementia prepared me for his death. I lost him years before his body shut down. And the loss did not have the clarity or finality of death. 

Dementia crept up on him for years, undetected. As this insidious disease took hold, I mistakenly thought he was simple minded, unhygienic, and maddeningly stubborn. It was easy to be misguided: all of these traits, to a lesser extent, were present in the prime of his life, so I did not realize that he had dementia until it was very advanced. I insisted on reasoning with him; I argued with the poor man. I lost my temper. Once it was unmistakable that he had dementia, I could get along with him more easily while simultaneously letting him go. When he died, connected to a bag filled with his urine and in constant pain, it was a release.

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

I was completely at peace with my father’s death. Nothing was left unsaid. No hug or kiss or declaration of love was withheld. Others, however, seemed to insist that I needed to mourn him differently and that added a murkiness to something that was really quite simple. 

Near the end of my father’s life, my sister called me and told me that it was time for me to fly out to California to say goodbye to Dad. I did not understand her reasoning—my father had full-blown dementia and was so sick, he did not even notice who was or was not in the room.  Also, I had seen my father a few months earlier, when he was cognizant of my visit, and I told him, to his song-bursting delight, that I was pregnant. I had said goodbye and it was joyful. I was sad to lose him before he could meet his grandson, but I was so happy and grateful that I was able to have shared the news with him. When my son Arno was born on my father’s birthday, it felt like a way of sharing the joy with my father beyond the grave.

At my father’s funeral, we were offered the opportunity to see my father’s body one last time as it lay in the coffin, but I had no desire to see it. My sisters insisted I go in to see him and I demurred, telling their incredulous faces that I really, truly, had closure. When my sister finished visiting with our father’s body, she said he looked good and that she’d hate to see me regret not taking this opportunity to say one final goodbye. I capitulated. I never reached the coffin. What I saw as I approached made me run away. His body was alarmingly bloated and was stained a deep yellow. His nose had a different shape. It was an exhibit of the cruelty of his passage to death. Here and there I find myself vigorously trying to shake this image off like a dog shakes water off its fur. It haunts me. It has nothing to do with my feelings about my father and our goodbye. It is the equivalent of tasting the blood my father shed in his last days or worse.

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

Sitting shiva and sitting in a circle with my relatives, talking about my father, was wonderful. The stories were so consistent. He was a mensch. He’d give you the shirt off his back. Every story had the same theme.

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

In the year after his death I would take out my cellphone every once in a while and pretend to talk to my father and imagine how the conversation would go. This was particularly poignant after Arno was born and I wanted to call my father and tell him about his baby grandson. It hurts that I cannot share this with my father, who, of everyone I have ever known, was unbridled and uninhibited in his expression of joy. He so loved children. I remember someone complaining about the noise of children and my father responded, “To me, it sounds like music.” I can only imagine how he would have been with Arno.

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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