Mug

Name: Angela Osborne

Tell me about the person who died:

I met my husband Bernie at work in 1964, and although he asked me to have dinner with him I turned him down. I was still mourning the end of a nine-year relationship with a much older man who had been my mentor and lover, and who had recently died. Bernie finally convinced me to go to the last day of the World's Fair in Queens, NY, so we made a date for the following Sunday. I always went home for the weekend and decided I would stand him up. As sometimes happens in storybooks though, I was in a cab when I spotted him walking away from my apartment. We saw each other at the same moment. He got into the cab and we headed for the World's Fair. Five months later we were married. 

People we worked with warned me that my future husband and I had nothing in common and that the marriage was doomed, but Bernie was the right person for me. He was the most gentle, the most loving, the kindest person I ever met. Bernie left me a great legacy. He taught me that things don't always go the way we plan. He told me every day that he loved me. He adored his children and was an amazing father and grandfather. He loved his two girls with all his heart.

Bernie loved to drive so we drove everywhere; to all family events, and twice across the country. We had been married for a few years when I underwent a ten hour surgery to correct a congenital scoliosis. The operation didn't go well and I ended up paralyzed from the waist down and was told it was permanent. I was fitted with a six pound brace and consigned to a wheel chair. However, Bernie had other ideas. He compiled a book that outlined a cross-country automobile trip and announced that within the year we would make that trip. I didn't believe him. But we did it five months after I left the hospital. He made detailed travel plans that allowed for only four hours a day of driving with a stop every two hours for me to get out of the car to walk a bit to prevent blood clots in my legs.

The only real argument we ever had was after he retired. He wanted to move out of the city, and I can't live anyplace except in New York City. When he became ill with cancer we put off the idea. Cancer is known as the bankruptcy disease for a reason. After two and a half years of treatment we had gone through our insurance, 401K and IRA funds, and our savings. We had to sell our apartment and move into a rental on the West Side—far away from friends and family. Still, Bernie never lost faith that the chemo would either cure his cancer or put it into remission. But I noticed the daily changes in him. He used to take a bus to the hospital for chemo, then he started taking cabs. Then he needed a cane to walk. He fell twice when walking outside the house, but never told me; I learned about it from a neighbor. Eventually the day came when I confronted his doctors and was told there was nothing more they could do as the cancer had spread and the chemo was no longer working. The doctor told me he had several months to live. By that time we had already sold our house and moved.

As in every marriage of that length we had our ups and downs. But mostly we loved each other. Bernie told me he wanted to die at home, not attached to tubes, not to extend his life by mechanical means. He died in my arms with his children holding his hands.

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

When my husband died in 2013 I was introduced to the American way of death. There were mountains of paperwork—thank you notes, pension documents, social security forms, insurance claims, wills, bills from the funeral home, bills for car rentals and much more. My daughters took care of most of the details.

At first my home was crowded with people and food. Co-workers, neighbors, and relatives came from all over; some left after the funeral and others stayed on to be with me. I met with a grief counselor at my children's insistence, but she didn't help me. She kept telling me I couldn't move on until I got over the anger of his dying on me. But I was never angry at my husband; I was angry at the American health system that involved tons of paper work to help pay for his care while he was dying.

For whatever reason I didn't mourn right away. I was told that I was in denial. Four months later when everyone had gone home I realized that it wasn't a dream, that Bernie was never coming back. I felt as if I had fallen off a cliff. I didn't cry and moan, but I isolated myself. I stopped seeing friends, stopped going out, was alone for the first time in my life, and simply didn't know what I was doing in a rental far from the East Side neighborhood I had lived in for 38 years. I was lonely, scared, and unable to cope.

I had also been totally naive about one thing: from that moment on everything that needs to be done to get through life now had to be done by me. Some were small things: taking in the mail, taking out the garbage, getting into my boots, hooking the latch on a necklace. Some were the hard things: paying the bills, dealing with the bank, and most of all getting places. I do not drive. Gone were our frequent auto trips, and I suddenly had no way to get places out of New York City. I now needed to rent a car and driver or ask my daughter to drive me.

I also realized that we live in a couple society. We used to regularly give and attend dinner parties, but those stopped. And then there was what I called the “ticket” problem. As New Yorkers we subscribed to more than one theater series. No problem, I thought. I’ll just ask a friend to join me. But it didn’t work out that way. My married friends were reluctant to go to events that didn’t include their husbands and my single friends were “busy” with their single lives. I discussed this with an older friend who lost her husband years ago. She told me she hasn’t stopped going to the theater or concerts; she goes alone. I haven’t reached that ability. I still have friends, but I have to do the work of keeping those friendships–I initiate lunch dates, for example. Socially, I'm still learning how to meet new people.

One of the hardest things for me to do was to visit the gravesite.  On the day when we had the unveiling of his tombstone the realization that Bernie was really gone finally hit me. I broke down and cried for the first time since his death. It was the saddest day of my life.

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

Living as a widow is like living on a foreign planet. There are lots of social opportunities for single people, but few for older widows. There are websites for singles wanting to meet potential mates such as Match.com, Christian Mingle, and J-Date, but no organizations where older widows can meet someone without marriage in mind. Not all widows want marriage; we want companionship. I did try a senior center in my neighborhood, but it was 99% women (who weren't happy to see another widow join their club) and the main activity at the center was playing bingo. I never went back.

I began having chest pains, but tests showed no physical ailment. My doctor told me my grief was the physical manifestation of the heartache I was experiencing. Loneliness is a dark place. I do delight in colors though. A pair of cardinals that has taken up residence in my courtyard brings red color into my life.

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

Bernie was director of special events for ABC-TV News. In that capacity he attended every political convention for years, and he always brought home a mug from each event. Each of the mugs has the convention year written on it; some are Democratic, some are Republican, and they are in a prominent place in my bookcase. 

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

The most helpful are those who offer to drive me places. Also, at first one of my daughters took care of the bills, a job Bernie always did. One day she announced that I had to take on that responsibility myself. I was very hurt until my older daughter explained that her sister was trying to get me to be more independent. I now have finally learned to handle the finances, and have done well. When I put my mind to something I usually can do it.

I had to have surgery a few weeks ago. It was minor surgery but I reacted badly to the anesthetic. When I got home my doorman was very concerned. He stopped in to check on me, my next door neighbor offered to food shop for me, and one of my daughters stayed with me for a few nights.

The most frustrating thing was having people say "He's in a better place." I don't know what that means. Was he not living in a good place with me? To me, he is not in a better place. He's alone in a cold cemetery. 

One of my daughters attended a series of group grief support sessions and apparently was helped to get through her grief. It didn’t work out that way for me. It was not unlike sessions at an AA meeting. Each person stood, introduced herself, and briefly talked about her loss. Within minutes most attendees were in tears. It was very depressing.

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

I haven't seen my older daughter grieve as she lives in another state. She sends me lovely cards on our anniversary, or just cards saying "Thinking of you,” or will display paintings Bernie loved which I gave to her after his death. But my younger daughter is still grieving after two years. She was a "daddy's girl." I recently mentioned I was getting rid of Bernie's medical records and she got very upset. She doesn't want me to get rid of anything of his, but she doesn't understand that I have to downsize and move into a smaller space within the year. I can't keep everything. 

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

I was told over and over again that "it will get easier." It doesn't ever get easier; it only gets harder. As I am getting older and have creaky bones and arthritic hands I wish I had someone here to help me get through the day. However, in some ways I've become stronger. I now have come to the realization that I am much more capable that I thought I was. I still miss my husband every minute of every day. But sometimes it is a relief to be alone and not have to explain myself to anyone. As a writer I always had to explain over and over again that although I was working from home I was still working. Bernie would interrupt me with a stupid question such as "Are we out of coffee?" (Answer: If there is no more in the coffee container, yes we are out of coffee.)

My father was killed in an auto accident when I was young, and I thought that was the worst thing in the world that could ever happen to me. But losing my husband was another kind of loss. The grief was entirely different.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

I do not grieve in public. I was former president of the professional organization Women in the Arts & Media, and at the first meeting I attended after my husband's death, no one mentioned it. They simply said, "Glad to have you back." That was enough. Shortly after my husband died my grocer sent me a tray of food. When I thanked him a few days later he simply said, "We all miss him." That was enough.

I mostly grieve at dinnertime—he loved to eat and he loved my cooking. Now I seldom cook; I order in or eat out. And of course, I miss him at night. And I miss sex. It was more than the act of sex, it was having someone tell me I was loved that I miss the most.

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

After the unveiling of Bernie's gravestone we went to a special event that my sister organized for members of her church who had lost a loved one during the previous year. I was surprised that she managed to get films of me and my husband, pictures of my husband from our wedding, and pictures of him with our children when they were small. Those films were shown during the reception that followed the Mass said for those who had recently died. It was a great surprise to me to see those films, and a joy that he was remembered in such a special way.

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

It made me realize that my expiration date is a lot closer than I thought. The unthinkable had already happened to me. I lost my husband, my father and eventually my mother. One of my many cousins reminded me that "we are now the older generation." That has made me aware that holding resentments and grudges is a waste of valuable time. I am much more forgiving of those who have done me harm. I don't reach for the unreachable. 

Angela Osborne is a graduate of New York University, a widowed mother of two adult daughters, and a published author of two books: Miss America, the Dream Lives On (Taylor Publishing), and Abigail Adams, Women's Rights Advocate (Chelsea Publishing). In addition, she has written dozens of articles for the online Christian organization Education Spot.com.

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an evolving art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants share an experience with bereavement, and I then photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. I’m accepting submissions until June 15th, 2016. Learn more about the project, share widely, and submit your story. 

Purple Cardigan

Name: Carly-Jay Metcalfe

Age: 39

Tell me about the person who died:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an evolving art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants share an experience with bereavement, and I then photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. I’m accepting submissions until June 15th, 2016. Learn more about the project, share widely, and submit your story. - Mindy Stricke

How to Support a Stranger

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

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

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

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

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

Some other things of note:

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

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

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

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

Diamond Earring

Name: Katherine Cousins

Age: 43

Tell me about the person who died:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

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

How did your loss and your grief change you? 

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

Katherine Cousins lives on the north shore of Massachusetts with her husband and two sons. She works at Timberland, a global outdoor lifestyle brand that has a long heritage of environmental stewardship, responsible sourcing and social justice. She also serves as the Board chair for the Global Development Incubator, a non-profit focused on scaling social enterprises around the world. When not working or volunteering, Katherine loves discovering new places with her friends and family.

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

Irish Cape

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Irish Cape, 2016

Name: Merri-Lee Agar

Age: 43

Tell me about the person who died:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did your loss and your grief change you?

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

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

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