Of Loss & Grief by mkwan

issue no.1

Of Loss & Grief A collection of stories of loss and grief told through what still remains.

Share your grief: OfLossAndGrief.co

01271963 12102015

Spring 2017 Volume One

It is for the grief that goes unspoken

issue no.1

Of Loss & Grief A collection of stories of loss and grief told through what still remains.

Table of Contents

The Woman who Inspired it All.

Introduction

page 03

figure 1

The Fine Young Cannibals

page 07

Michelle E. Steinke

Stifled Grief

page 12

figure 2

141 Sympathy Cards

page 19

Written Submission

Untitled

page 21

Consumed/Isolated/Submerged

Grief Study no.1

page 25

figure 3

Excerpts from a Diary

page 29

hazy/force/numb

Grief Study no.2

page 35

figure 3

Excerpts from a Sketchbook

page 39

Written Submission

Who Knows What Will Happen Next?

page 43

Written Submission

I Dreamt of Her

page 48

figure 5

Journal Entry

page 49

Min Moon

Promise. Promise Kept.

page 51

figure 6

The Empty Jar

page 59

A Poem by R.

The Sky is Everywhere

page 61

GSnow

Waves and Shipwrecks

page 63

Call for Submissions

Share Your Grief

page 67

My Heart is Full

Final Note

page 69

Of Loss & Grief

issue no.

Editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Letter

Megan Kwan, Founder

Introduction

Meet the Woman Who Inspired it All. The Story and Importance Of Loss and Grief.

Of Loss & Grief

By Megan Kwan

i f t h e r e i s a n y c e r ta i n t y i n l i f e —it

is death. Even knowing it’s inevitability, the topic of death and grief is often taboo in Western society. Diagnosed with ovarian cancer at the age of 52, I had just over six months to say goodbye to my mom. The news was sudden and unexpected. We didn’t know how much time she had with us, the doctors said anywhere between a couple days to a couple months. With such uncertainty, life as I knew it was completely flipped on its head—she was the closest and most influential person in my life. Even in her last days, she was selfless to her core—she comforted the living in the face of her own mortality. During those last six months we had together, my mom still managed (and continues) to teach me her life wisdoms. I had experienced loss before with my grandparents, but never like this. After my mom passed away, my sister, father and I had to prepare for the service and everything else that was expected to follow. I found myself conflicted between traditions and pleasing others with what my mom would have valued. I was in a state of numbness, getting everything sorted and organized, all while trying to process what just happened. When the news broke out about my mom's death, our home was flooded with flowers and sympathy cards—every surface was covered with an assortment of colourful arrangements and poignant condolences. We were overwhelmed and so grateful by the outpouring of support, but, eventually, that all went away. Within a matter of months, everyone reverted back to their daily routines, and as a result, the cards stopped coming, the flowers wilted, and my mom was rarely brought up in conversation anymore. It was clear that although I may not have been ready to move on, life already had. While everyone had settled back into "normalcy," I was furthest from it—my grief had finally hit me with all of its overwhelming force. The support I had became increasingly hard to reach just when I needed it the most. I felt like there was no place to put my grief without causing discomfort—support groups and counselling had to be scheduled in advance, and I had no control over when my grief would be triggered next. And it’s not to say it was or is anyones fault; it is a result of Western society’s limited understanding of the process—grief simply outlasts sympathy. All I ever wanted was for someone to understand me at a time when I couldn’t understand myself.

Death, however, has allowed me to connect on a deeper and more empathetic level with others who have, or are currently experiencing loss. It is a connection where you never have to ask or answer the question of “what’s wrong?” because it is implied—it is understood. This unspoken understanding among grievers is what Of Loss & Grief aims to cultivate; a place of empathy, expression and shared understanding. Inspired by the unstructured and unpredictable qualities of grief, Of Loss & Grief is a safe space, accessible at all points of the grieving process. It is not about finding answers or solutions to grief, instead it is about creating the space for dialogue around this inevitable part of life. Beyond the flowers and sympathy cards is a complicated and emotional process where everyone’s experience is completely unique and individual. In acknowledging that not everyone expresses, grieves, and is comforted in the same way, Of Loss & Grief is a space for various forms of expression, access and support— meeting the needs of the griever throughout their process. Here, grief is put on the table (rather through the Of Loss & Grief exhibition, publication and website) for the griever to access when and how they need. As a result, the collections Of Loss & Grief showcases the diversity of the grieving process. Of Loss & Grief aims to encourage expressive and reflective practices that can contribute to fostering a space of understanding, support and validation—not only for oneself, but for others as well.

Of Loss & Grief

While there is no way to escape the inevitability of death and the pain that follows, there is a lot that can be learned through experiencing the loss of someone close and its confronting ability to put life into perspective. Through expressive and contemplative practices we can find a deeper appreciation for life—honouring what we have lost, but also acknowledging what still remains.

1963

2015

fig.1

The Fine Young Cannibals: The Raw & The Cooked Album (1988) 4 o’clock am, captain’s log: First things off, I’d like to take this time to thank my insanely low tolerance for caffeine for making this late-night/early-morning sleepless escapade possible. Thanks to you, my friend, that ginger ale I drank at 1:30pm is still very much existent in my bloodstream. Or my spleen or whatever—There’s a reason I’m not in science. On the bright side, I guess this puts an end to my four-day writer’s block which has possessed me ever since mum passed away last Friday. If mum can hear me right now or whatever—I’m not religious—I know she would never want to be the cause of my writer’s block. Cus’ if anything, she was one of my biggest—if not the biggest supporter.

Of Loss & Grief

The Fine Young Cannibals

It kinda sucks that it had to take all of this to truly appreciate all that she was. For example, just the other night, I watched Wes Anderson’s Moonrise Kingdom with the cousins. Backstory: Mum always urged me to watch some Wes Anderson because I’m a film nut but I never found the time to do so—end of backstory. Where do I even start? Well on top of his perfect balance of close-up, medium, and long distance shots, he had a sick controlled colour palette that really encapsulated the time period. The composition? Impeccable. The cross-cutting shots? Quintessential. Point being, I’m probably boring the hell out of whoever is reading this, but never mum, no, she never complained. After every movie I watched, I would boast about the brilliance of the film. And after every bad movie I watched, I would rant to her about the stupidity of the film. The best part? She actually listened to me and discussed the jargon that I learned from the three film-making video lessons I found online. And when she was done with listening, she gave the best advice. For example: "No skateboarding in the house! Get a hobby! Sarah*, take your damn volleyball out of the salad bowl"—(True story!) *Names have been changed to protect the identity

12/15/2015

'She Drives Me Crazy' by The Fine Young Cannibals I can’t stop the way I feel Things you do don’t seem real. Tell me what you’ve got in mind, ‘Cause we’re running out of time.

Mum didn’t stop smiling the entire duration of The Fine She drives me crazy like no one else. SheYoung drive me Cannibals crazy, and I can’t album— help myself. which just I can’t get any rest,made me dance People say I’m obsessed. harder and crazier. Everything you say is lies, Won’t you ever set me free?

This waiting ‘round’s killing me.

But to me that’s no surprise. What I had for you was true. Things go wrong, they always do. She drives me crazy like no one else. She drive me crazy, and I can’t help myself. Tell me what you’ve got in mind, ‘Cause we’re running out of time. Won’t you ever set me free?

The Fine Young Cannibals

This waiting ‘round’s killing me. She drives me crazy like no one else. She drive me crazy, and I can’t help myself. I won’t make it on my own. No one likes to be alone. She drives me crazy like no one else. She drives me crazy, and I can’t help myself.

Of Loss & Grief

She drives me crazy like no one else.

No but seriously, if “Sarah 101” was a college course, she’d definitely be the professor; she knew me better then myself. Frick, I wrote the wrong “than.” See, this is just another reason I miss her, she was the best dictionary/peer-editor/thesaurus; she always knew what word I was thinking of. When we had our weekly book-reading sessions, I’d always make sure she was within reaching distance so I could ask her about words I didn’t understand. I swear, she could define each word, its synonyms, as well as use it in a sentence (maybe that’s why she was such a good study buddy for the spelling bees I used to do). Most people stopped when they were kids, reading books with their mum, but we never did. It was our bonding time, our chance to go on adventures with our favourite characters like Junie B. Jones and Lennie Walker, from the safety of my twin bed. We were so compatible, mum and me (and not just because we’re huge English nerds). Just a couple months ago, we discovered that we had similar taste in music; It ranged from Johann Bach to Black Sabbath, classical to classic rock, and we both played the ukulele. The only difference in taste is when I wanted to listen to “sad” songs; she always used her veto for “happy” ones. I liked to show her new songs that I thought she’d love, and in return, she showed me old songs she thought I’d like. I’ll never forget the day we spent playing all of her favourite cd’s. It was just the two of us and I needed music to “study” for my English lit final. Disclaimer: I say “study” with “quotation marks” because I was really just skimming, pretending that Elton John’s ballads weren’t interrupting my train of thought.

When I did finally finish studying, I was feeling pretty “bleh” from the heavy content. She suggested I hula-hoop my worries away. I asked if she knew any good hula-hooping songs. She had me read out her entire cd and vinyl collection to her—which she alphabetized, of course. I was on the last row and losing my talking stamina fast when she told me to stop on The Fine Young Cannibals. I pressed play and recognized track one, “She Drives Me Crazy,” immediately. And just like that, our dancing bodies were taken over by the characters in The Breakfast Club. Heads banging, hands flailing, we were having a time and a half together. See, I’d been hooked on that makes-you-dance kinda music ever since mum told my sister and me about the musical she choreographed in Elementary school (she had the entire class dance to “Gimme Shelter” by The Rolling Stones, it was legendary). Mum didn’t stop smiling the entire duration of The Fine Young Cannibals album—which just made me dance harder and crazier. It’s funny, she has this saying she always said, “Dance like nobody’s watching.” But after that impromptu dance party for two, I’m changing it to “Dance like only mum’s watching.” Oh, and I almost forgot to mention, mum was sick at sports. Not only was she short but speedy, but she also obliterated the stereotype of “playing like a girl.” She could always anticipate where the ball was going—a key reason why my friends always wanted her and dad to play volleyball in the backfield with us teens. Whether it was baseball, volleyball, basketball, or hockey, mum excelled at them all (no wonder she was the captain of so many of her high school sports teams). That and the fact that she was always so positive and encouraging, no matter the situation.

She had the best outlook on life, all the philosophers I learned about in school never stood a chance. Among a family of perfectionists, she revealed the cons of that mindset, the centre of my anxieties. Finally, I get it: there is no such thing as perfect. But for the record, if there was, she’d be the closest thing to it. Long before my diagnosis, we visited dozens of counsellors together in hopes of finding the right fit for me. She never gave up on me, even when I gave up on myself. And in the fall of my senior year, when the doctor told me I had major depressive disorder, she worked even harder for me to relocate the happiness I had lost. She helped me be happy again, it just took me a while to realize it.

Of Loss & Grief

The Fine Young Cannibals

She helped me find joy in the ordinary which sounds cliché but is nevertheless true. When I was unable to leave my bed due to sheer exhaustion, she would lie on my bed with me for hours or however long it took. At school, when my social anxiety got the better of me, I’d call her crying from the bathroom stall and she’d stay on the phone with me until I calmed down from my panic attacks. She was the most selfless person I’ve ever met, and I get to call her mum. How cool is that. Better yet, how cool was she? Answer: super. Cus’ that was what she was like to me, and continues to be: Super-mum. My dad? Super-dad. Sister? Super-sis. And my cat? Super-moo. We’re like the Incredibles except less white and more Asian. Throughout this whole ordeal, we’ve become closer than ever before. The members of my family are my best friends. Dad’s really stepped up his game, and my sister has become my adult goals. Heck,

even the cat has stopped pooping on our furniture (I hope I didn’t just jinx that). Even though she wouldn’t want to take credit, she never liked the spotlight, mum made this happen. She taught us that, like us, life is short, and we better make the most of it. And hey, congrats mum, you did it; you’re still managing to teach us life lessons in the after-life. Guess that’s cus’ you never left. I feel you with me when I read. I feel you with me when I write. I feel you with me when I sing. I feel you with me when I dance. I feel you with me when I’m happy. I feel you with me when I’m sad. Basically, I feel like you’re with me all the time. Cus’ it’s true, you’re in all of our hearts forever. I’m gonna read all of your favourite books, watch all of your favourite movies, and learn the lyrics of all of your favourite songs...Just not now, it’s getting late—or is it early? It’s like 6:00am as I write this. Ugh, I should really listen to you and stop drinking caffeine in the afternoon. Like you always said, mum knows best. Goodnight mum, I love you.

Written by Michelle E. Steinke

Stifled Grief: How the West Has It Wrong

Michelle E. Steinke-Baumgard is the founder,ceo of One Fit Widow (ofw), a nonprofit public benefit charitable organization to empower bereaved widows and widowers.

hose who have walked the horrific road of loss will shake their collective heads “Yes” at many of my points below and share with pleads for the rest of the Western World to read, learn, evolve and embrace these concepts. Unfortunately, my words will fall short for my intended audience because the premise does not yet apply to their lives...yet. In time, my words will resonate with every human on the face of this earth, but until a personal journey with loss takes place, my words will be passed over in exchange for articles about gorillas and fights over public bathroom usage.

There is nothing sexy or exciting about grief. There is nothing that grabs a reader with no personal interest to open my words and take heed to my writing. I’m here to say that the West has the concept of grieving all wrong.

Of Loss & Grief

Stifled Grief

I’d like to point out that we are a culture of emotionally stunted individuals who are scared of our mortality and have mastered the concept of stuffing our pain. Western society has created a neat little “grief box” where we place the grieving and wait for them to emerge fixed and whole again. The grief box is small and compact, and it comes full of expectations that range from time frames to physical appearance. Everyone who has been pushed into the grief box understands it’s confining limitations, but all of our collective voices together can’t seem to change the intense indignation of a society too emotionally stifled to speak the truth. It has become easier to hide our emotional depth than to reveal our vulnerability and risk harsh judgment. When asked if we are alright, it’s simpler to say yes and fake a smile then, to be honest, and show genuine human emotion. Let me share a few of the expectations and realities that surround grief for those who are open to listening. None of my concepts fit into societies grief box and despite the resounding amount of mutual support by the grieving for what I write below, many will discount my words and label us as ‘stuck’ or ‘in need of good therapy.’ I’m here to say those who are honest with the emotions that surround loss are the ones who are the least ‘stuck’ and have received the best therapy around. You see, getting in touch with our true feelings, embracing the honest emotions of death only serve to expand the heart and allow us to move forward in a genuine and honest way. Death happens to us all so let’s turn the corner and embrace the truth behind life after loss.

Expectation: Grief looks a certain way in the early days. Tears, intense sadness, and hopelessness. Reality: Grief looks different for every single person. Some people cry intensely, and some don’t cry at all. Some people break down, and others stand firm. There is no way to label what raw grief looks like as we all handle our loss in different ways due to different circumstances and various life backgrounds that shape who we are. Expectation: The grieving need about a year to heal. Reality: Sometimes grief does not even get started till after the first year. I’ve heard countless grieving people say year two is harder than year one. There is the shock, end of life arrangements and other business matters that often consume the first year and the grieving do not have the time actually to sit back and take the time to grieve. The reality is there is no acceptable time frame associated with grief. Expectation: The grieving will need you most the first few weeks. Reality: The grieving are flooded with offers of help the first few weeks. In many cases, helping the grieving six months or a year down the line can be far more helpful because everyone has returned to their lives and the grief stricken are left to figure it out alone. Expectation: The grieving should bury the dead forever. After a year, it is uncomfortable for the grieving to speak of their lost loved one. If they continue to talk about them, they are stuck in their grief and need to “move on.” Reality: The grieving should speak of the dead forever if that’s what they wish to do. When someone dies, that does not erase the memories you made, the love you shared and their place in your heart. It is not only okay to speak of the dead after they are gone, but it’s also a healthy and peaceful way to move forward. Expectation: For the widowed - If you remarry you shouldn’t speak of your lost loved one otherwise you take away from your new spouse. Reality: You never stop loving what came before, and that does not in any way lessen the love you have for what comes after. When you lose a friend—you don’t stop having friends, and you love them all uniquely. If you lose a child and have another, the next child does not replace or diminish the love you had for the first. If you lose a spouse, you are capable of loving what was and loving what is...one does not cancel out or minimize the next. Love expands the heart, and it’s okay to honor the past and embrace the future.

Of Loss & Grief

Stifled Grief

The grief box is small and compact, and it comes full of expectations that range from time frames to physical appearance.

Expectation: Time heals all wounds. Reality: Time softens the impact of the pain, but you are never completely healed. Rather than setting up false expectations of healing let’s talk about realistic expectations of growth and forward movement. Grief changes who you are at the deepest levels and while you may not forever be in an active mode of grief you will forever be shaped by the loss you have endured. Expectation: If you reflect on loss beyond a year you are “stuck.” Reality: Not a day goes by where I am not personally affected by my loss. Seeing my children play sports, looking at my son who is the carbon copy of his Dad or hearing a song on the radio or smell in the air. Loss because part of who you are and even though I don’t choose to dwell on grief it has a way of sneaking in now and again even when I’m most in love with life at the current moment. It’s not because we dwell or focus, and it’s not because we don’t make daily choices to move forward. It’s because we loved and we lost, and it touches us for the remainder of our days in the most profound ways. Expectation: When you speak of the dead you make the griever sad, so it’s best not to bring them up. Reality: When we talk about our lost loved one we are often happy and filled with joy. My loss was six and a half years ago and to this day, my late husband is one of my favorite people to talk and hear about. Hearing his name makes me smile and floods my mind with happy memories of a life well lived. It makes the grieving sadder when everyone around them refuses to say their name. Forgetting they existed is cruel and a perfect example of our stifled need to fix the unfixable. Expectation: If you move forward you never loved them or conversely if you don’t move forward you never loved them. Reality: The grieving need to do what is right for them, and nobody knows what that is except the person going through it. Expectation: It’s time to “move on.” Reality: There is no moving on—there is only moving forward. From the time death touches our lives we move forward, in fact, we are not given a choice but to move forward. However, we never get to a place where the words move on resonate. The words “move on” have a negative connotation to the grieving. They suggest a closure that is nonexistent and a fictitious door we pass through.

1 17

Expectation: Grief is a linear process and a series of steps to be taken. Each level is neatly defined and the order predetermined. Reality: Grief is an ugly mess full of pitfalls, missteps, sinking, and swimming. Like a game of shoots and ladders, you never know when the board might pull you back and send you down the ladder screaming at the top of your lungs. Just when you think you’ve arrived at the finish, you draw a card that sends you back to start and just when it appears you’ve lost the game you jump ahead and come one step closer to the front of the line. Expectation: The grieving should seek professional forms of counseling exclusively. Reality: The grieving should seek professional forms of counseling but also the grieving should look strongly towards alternative modes of therapy like fitness, art, music, meditation, journaling and animal therapy. The grieving should take an “active” part in their grief process and understand that coping comes in many different forms for all the different people who walk this earth. Expectation: The grieving either live in the past or the present. It is not possible to have a multitude of emotions. Reality: The grieving live their lives with intense moments of duality. Moments of incredible happiness mixed with feelings of deep sadness. There is a depth of emotion that forever accompany those who have lived with a loss. That duality can cause constant reflection, and a deeper appreciation of all life has to offer.

Of Loss & Grief

Stifled Grief

Expectation: The grieving should be able to handle business as usual within a few weeks. Reality: The brain of a grieving person can be in a thick fog, especially for those who have experienced extreme shock, for more than a year. Expect forgetfulness, a reduced ability to handle stress and grayness to be commonplace after a loss.

I’ve just scratched the surface above on the many areas where grief is misunderstood in our society. One hundred percent of the people who walk this earth will deal with death. Each of us will experience the passing of someone close that we love or our personal morality. It is about time we open up the discussion around death, dying and grief and stop the stigma that surrounds our common bond. Judgment, time frames, and neat little grief boxes have no place in the reality that surrounds loss. Western culture asks us to suppress our pain, stuff our emotions and restrain our cries. Social media has given many who grieve the opportunity to open up dialogue, be vulnerable on a large scale level and take the combined heat that comes with that honesty. As a whole, society does not want to hear or accept that grief stays with us in some capacity for the rest of our lives. Just like so many other aspects of our culture, we want to hear there is a quick fix, a cure-all, a pill or a healthy dose of “get over it” to be handed out discreetly and dealt with quietly. The reality is you will grieve in some capacity for the rest of your life. Once loss touches you-you are forever changed despite what society tells you. Stop looking at the expectations of an emotionally numbed society as your threshold and measuring stick for success. Instead, turn inward and look at the vulnerable reality of a heart that knows the truth about loss. With your firsthand knowledge escape the grief box and run out screaming truth as you go. If we make enough noise maybe someday societies warped expectation will shift to align with reality.

11/21/2016

fig.2

141 Sympathy Cards a stack of sympathy collected at the end of it all. One week after she passed to get all the preparations in order. The funeral director showed me pamphlet after pamphlet of my 'options.' I don't want to have to choose which wood stained casket and finishings work best when at the end of it all it's just for show. I don't know how many people are coming and I don't know what time or date works best for everyone. I don't want to have to decide what outfit people will see her last in. I don't want to have to discuss price. I am numb. I do everything I know I should do. Signature here, initial there. Then the time comes. We see her one last time, we cry, we hug, we sit. I already said goodbye a week ago but I realize this is for everyone else who hasn't gotten the chance. The card count starts. They started on our mantle, then took over the shelves, then soon the covered the entire dining room table. Deepest Condolences. With Sympathy. Sorry for your Loss. We hold a celebration of life later that week, we provide a basket for cards. We are overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and support. I am amazed at how many people she's touched in her lifetime. I'm still numb, and in that moment, I feel like I'm okay. Two months pass...the flowers wilt, people stop knocking on our door with hot meals, but the cards remainâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;141 cards of sympathy. People went back to their lives, and I feel everything crashing down on me, the weight of loss and grief has finally caught up. Floods of sympathy cards and perceived support at one moment to nothing at all, even though the grief has hit so much harder. A stack of sympathy collected at the end of it all.

11/25/2016

Untitled she was alive one day, and gone the next. I had absolutely no understanding of how to cope, as well as how to gain understanding on why this had to happen to her. I never felt sorry for myself. I never once had thoughts about why this had happened to me. The only things that would constantly run through my mind were why did this have to happen to the most amazing, smart, and strong female figure in my life. My best friend.

Of Loss & Grief

Untitled

My heart had never been broken, and I was feeling the devastation all day, everyday. The only word I can use to describe it is paralyzing, both physically and mentally. The guilt is also mentally consuming. You wish you could have changed every single thing about your life for the past 10 years. Unfortunately, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think this is something that will ever change for me. My grief was different from my fathers, my sisters, and my brothers. We reached out in different ways, and it would affect our everyday lives in different ways. I learned that you need to be very understanding of others grief and the different forms it can take. You need to go easy on yourself and others who are experiencing the pain because it is so different, and takes all shapes and forms. I learned that you cant go back and change things, and unfortunately, many things in this life are out of your control. Through understanding this, you come to the conclusion that grief has no timeline. People around you tell you that you will begin to feel better in six months or a year. In my case, I was numb for the first three months, and began experiencing the worst of my grief nine months after the death of my mother. You can only experience your grief in your own personal way, so take others advice but understand that yours will be unique. I find My grief hits most when I am around my family because her place in the room can never be filled. I will constantly look for her at the table, and I will probably never stop reaching for my phone to call her. Overall, grief to this extent is something we never imagined, but by building networks to share experiences and stories of our processes honours the ones we have lost. We need to talk about it, because we can and will get through it, together.

You need to go easy on yourself and others who are experiencing the pain because it is so different, and takes all shapes and forms

Of Loss & Grief

The pain and suffering found in this world can be absol

utely overwhelming â&#x20AC;&#x201D; but then again so can its beauty.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;M.M.

[Grief St udy no.1]

/consumed (of a feeling) absorb all of the attention and energy of (someone)/isolated far away from other places, buildings, or people; remote. having minimal contact or little in common with others./submerged descend below the surface. completely cover or obscure.

Of Loss & Grief

Grief Study no.1

[Grief St udy no.1]

consumed isolated submerged

Photographer: Megan Kwan / Model: Karim Kadi / Stylist: Dol Imnamkhao

Of Loss & Grief

09/15/2015

fig.3

Excerpts from a Diary

Of Loss & Grief

Excerpts From a Diary

Of Loss & Grief

Grief is

Grief is deafening then quiet. Unexpected but certain. Dark and consuming, Numbing and serene. Destructive, yet beautiful. Grief is everything all at once, to nothing at all. But thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just for me.

[Grief St udy no. 2]

/hazy is something that is clouded over or covered by mist or haze, or something that is unclear, vague or not well-defined./force an impinging or striking especially of one body against another. The force of impression of one thing on another./numb depriving one of feeling or responsiveness.

Of Loss & Grief

Grief Study no.2

[Grief St udy no. 2] hazy force numb

fig.4

Excerpts from a Sketchbook

Of Loss & Grief

Excerpts From a Sketchbook

Who Knows What Will Happen Next?

Of Loss & Grief

Who Knows What Will Happen Next?

I realize, now, that no amount of precaution from my parents or my self preparation would have equipped me for what I was about to face. And compared to what was going to happen, those childhood days were indeed precious.

my naive eight-year-old self was so very wrong when I believed my world was untainted by flaws. I grant that it seems a bit hyperbolic to call my world perfect when sometimes my parents argued, when there were tough swimming practices to attend in the winter time, when there was the occasional mean girl at school. I only wish that I could have made more sense of my parents’ consistent admonitions to my sisters and I, “live every minute of your life right now to its fullest, who knows what will happen next?” I arrogantly brushed off those words they used to “scare me”, or I thought, for my life was perfect and it could not get too much worse. At the very most, I mentally prepared myself that some problems will arise here and there, but none of them will be large enough to strike me down. I realize, now, that no amount of precaution from my parents or my self preparation would have equipped me for what I was about to face. And compared to what was going to happen, those childhood days were indeed precious. I remember very clearly on that January night of 2010 when my twin sister and I stepped out of our ballet class, sweat-covered and relieved that the boot camp of the day was over. We shimmied our blister-covered feet out of our pointe shoes and sat inside the nearly empty lobby. We were waiting unusually long that day. The familiar honk beckoned us to hurry out and into the heated Mazda. It must have been below five degrees outside.

11/04/2015

We bursted into the car, “Hi guys! What’s for dinner?” There was silence. We were taken aback, “is everything okay?” After a pause, our mom spoke, “do you know what cancer is?” We could sense the angst she attached to the c-word. Immediately I thought to myself that someone in our non-immediate family was diagnosed with this illness. We were quiet. I wanted to say that the only time I have ever heard of the c-word was when we learned in school that Terry Fox had cancer in his leg. It was a very rare disease that only affected a tiny population. There was dead air while our dad drove. For the rest of the ride home, the awkwardness was relieved by the annoying and petty conversations of the radio hosts. The “obstacles of dating” was so trivial—why can’t they just shut up? It was the moment we hit the salt covered driveway when my perfect world shattered. And it was that moment when I wish I could have reversed time and did something to prevent these seven ominous words from entering my fourteen-year-old ears.

Of Loss & Grief

Who Knows What Will Happen Next?

“Your father has stage three colon cancer,” my mom blurted and it broke into a cry. My heart dropped, and it’s not that feeling you get when you sit in a Splash Mountain roller coaster in Disneyland and plummet vertically down a slope that is basically y=0. The difference between the ride and this is that my life will forever be changed with finding out about my dad’s diagnosis. We felt like our world came to a complete halt. I was angry that the world kept spinning. At school, people smiled, joked about “just wanting to die”, and complained about their pathetic little problems. How could they go on like that? Everyone would not understand what my sister and I were so occupied with—we were consistently late for school and we could not make time for our friends. “You don’t reciprocate our friendship,” they would complain. But how can I even bring myself to frighten them with the c-word? How do I break it to them that “my dad has cancer?” It was terrifying to even hear myself say it. I was strangled between my own ego—of appearing put together to everyone—and my own in-

ability to reconcile the truth. As much as I wanted to dismiss this all as one traumatizing nightmare, I had to come to terms with the awful reality. Our dad had no intention of letting this cancer destroy our family or to let us witness his weakness or pain. He put up a strong front and he participated in our lives as normal. We knew that the battle against cancer could be won. But we also knew that the odds were little, especially for a person with a diabetic history of our dad’s. We remained hopeful that our dad could defy all odds. I believe he thought so too, and he was determined to keep the world spinning for us. We all knew that my dad was the biggest foodie. He thinks, talks, dreams of food in the most reverential way. There was no possibility that cancer was going to rob him of this fetish. The chemotherapy cycle was a brutal one: he went in for treatment, he came out weaker, he rested for a few days, he finally became slightly stronger and re-gained some appetite, then it was time for treatment again. It was a wretched and ruthless clockwork of excruciating pain. With the tiny window in the cycle where he managed to gather some strength and appetite, we would check in at his favourite spots. I remember going to one, just the two of us. The lady came over to pencil our order when my dad whispered softly to me, “order whatever you want, I’ll just have what you can’t finish, I can’t eat that much anyway.” “But…” I started. “No, as long as you’re happy, I’m happy,” he insisted. He smiled and patted my shoulder. I ordered his favourite slow-cooked chicken noodle soup in the largest size possible. I gulped back tears when it occurred to me that even though he was a cancer patient, my dad still put me before him. Pretending I had itchy eyes, I quickly wiped my tears away. I knew he didn’t allow me to feel sad. He was the oddest of dads. He would never get mad at us. Actually he would occasionally get mad at us, that is, when we were hurt. When we got a bruise here or a scrape there, he would be very upset. “Why didn’t you take better care of yourself?” he would demand, “when you hurt yourself, I feel like I am

hurt.” Our emotional well being had a tremendous amount of impact on his. He derived his happiness from our happiness, his sadness from our sadness, his excitement from our excitement, his anger from our anger, his pain from our pain. Our hearts were connected. During his eight months of treatment, it was more important than ever that we tried to appear as happy as we could be. We had to suppress our pain. The cancer was growing and the chemotherapy was ceasing to run its course through my dad’s fragile body. The endless treatments were taking more of him away—his zest for life, his clownish persona, his quirky little ways. But I still recognized him and not even the ruthless spreading of cancer could distance us.

were so little. I remember fondly that he insisted I be the one to pick the numbers, so I did. Just before we handed in our lotto ticket, he whispered “you never know if you don’t try!” The machine swallowed the ticket as we anticipated the results. The ticket flew out of the machine and my father read the bubble pink ink while I crossed my fingers and toes. Shooting a big smile at me, he told me that we won the biggest jackpot of all—enough money to treat ourselves to ice cream. I was ecstatic and in that moment, while indulging in fresh mango sorbet, the six dollars was the best jackpot an eight-year-old could ever ask for. On November 25 th 2010, I said farewell to my dad. It was snowy and peaceful that Thursday. I held his hand to the very last moment and watched him draw his last breaths. He even attempted to make a sound in the very end. My uncle told us he was trying to say “goodbye.” I planted my face into the sterile hospital blankets of the palliative wing. I couldn’t believe he was still trying to use his last breaths to squeeze out a goodbye. But then again, it was in his nature to do such a thing. My uncle pointed to a butterfly wall sticker in the lobby and told me that my father is that ravishing butterfly and he is finally stretching his beautiful wings. He has shed his cocoon that cancer has taken hold of. This gave me comfort but I knew that I would never be ready to say good bye to him.

"I am always trapped in an illusion that I am saying good bye to him as if I am bidding farewell to a distant relative who lives half way across the world."

I wondered every day, what I could have done to prevent all of this from happening. Why couldn’t I have been a better daughter? Why did I cause him to have so much stress? I wished with all my might that I could have bore some of his pain myself. I wished that I could stop the cancer with continuous prayers to God like they taught us at church, with a magic wand, with some transformative medicine. My heart ached to watch our strong, goofy, kind panda-bear of a father become weak, reserved, and thin. It broke my heart to watch him try to be strong and tell us that he is okay when clearly the chemotherapy was merciless and the tumor was winning. I hope he realized that it was not in the battle with chemotherapy that he could model his resilience, it was his strength of character throughout the past fourteen years where he showed us how to be selfless, kind, and appreciate the little things. One of these things that always lifts up the corners of my mouth and makes my heart full is when I think about that one summer day when I went to work with my dad. He took out a lottery ticket. I wondered if it was even worth buying lottery tickets if our odds

Where did the time go? Everything happened within one year. I was and still remain in shock. I am always trapped in an illusion that I am saying good bye to him as if I am bidding farewell to a distant relative who lives half way across the world. The illusion breaks when we sit at a table of four instead of five, when we downsize from our Hankin home, when I go from saying ‘my parents’ to ‘my parent’, when I cross

the stage to receive my high school diploma, and when I check mark “deceased” when asked about my father on my university application. The reminder of his permanent separation from us becomes all too apparent in these subtlest of moments. He isn’t coming back.

Of Loss & Grief

Who Knows What Will Happen Next?

My naive eight-year-old self was so very wrong when I believed my world was untainted by flaws. I think this is what my parents meant when they told me to seize every moment. Those fourteen years I had with my dad were precious indeed. He left me with little doses of lessons scattered throughout. He filled us all with warmth and love and he most definitely modelled a strength and limitless courage that continues to inspire me. The butterfly flew to a better place, the world is still spinning at its steady pace, and I have hit the biggest jackpot. I am determined to seize all of life’s goodness, because who knows what will happen next? I don’t intend to live in fear, I intend to live happily and fulfilled—that’s what my dad would have wanted for all of us.

02/15/2017

I dreamt of her i just had a dream that was so real. I saw my mom right there, I was talking to her. I was getting mad at her. I woke up and now I can't stop shaking or crying. I haven't seen her in my dreams before, but this was so realistic. I honestly am starting to forget what her voice sounds like. It's so scary. I woke up wanting to tell someone or anyone but I can't, I feel as if I'm so emotionally drained that I can't connect with people the way I used to. I am tired with people asking things of me without ever really caring how I'm doing. I'm tired of over analyzing everything I do, instead of just doing it. I'm tired of icing my swollen eyes so people can't tell I've spent all night crying. I'm just tired.

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Journal Entry i miss you everyday I miss your voice and your hugs I miss holding your hand and I miss you telling me itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s going to be okay. I never thought youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be gone this soon for me to miss you from now

Of Loss & Grief

Journal Entry

until forever.

10/25/2016

Written by Min Moon

12/01/2014

Promise My Father. This was the heartfelt conversation that my father and I shared shortly before he passed away from stomach cancer on May 11th, 2013: Honey, what is your dream? Papa, I just want to spread kindness, beauty, and inspiration. And how will you do that? In every way I can, in honor of you and Mama. That will be my life purpose. Could you be more specific? Performing art events. I will create them to reflect your contribution to the world. There are 29 years worth of stories and memories of you inside of me that made me certain – really certain, like an instinct – that I should. I love you, Papa. The world is so much better with you in it. Please don’t go…please?

Of Loss & Grief

Promise

If that’s your dream, Honey, I want you to start humbly from the bottom even if you’re paid in peanuts. Learn as much as you can and don’t give up. There won’t be security in your dreams, so prepare yourself for that. Your dreams may never be respected, understood, nor fully realized – I don’t quite understand it myself, but I want you to make your dream a verb. Live an honest life, Little Min, even if you fail. I see the ocean in your eyes.

02/13/2017

Promise Kept. Making art personal in memory of my father.

Min Moon is a designer and artist from South Korea who moved to the United States to pursue her passions in performing arts. She uses this medium as a way to share and express her grief after losing her father.

Of Loss & Grief

Promise Kept.

t’s been nearly four years since my father’s passing, but I still burn with tears behind closed doors indulging in his memory. I have to remind myself over and over again that people aren’t ours to keep. And that it’s natural for us to miss and love those more who leave us. Numerous people have assured me that unrelenting heartaches would fade over time but for me, it has only intensified. As a hopeful person, I can get through the rough days. It’s the way they accumulate—the weight of his absence—that crushes me. I am always missing him and hoping that he misses me too. In celebration of my father’s life and to keep a promise that I had made with him, I organized a crowd-funding campaign in 2016 to invite a nine-member theater troupe called maro from the Jeju Island of South Korea to Seattle to perform a cathartic production that would resonate with people who have ever lost something or someone dear in their lives. More than anything else, I wanted to create beauty out of sadness and instill hope. Grief will always be a part of me, but it has given me a greater life purpose to create more joy, light, and inspiration in my little sphere. Thank you to all who have shown me care and love when I downward-spiraled into sadness and lost my way. Also, I send my deepest love and gratitude to all who believed in my vision of transforming grief into resilience through an artistic production. I couldn’t have done it without your support and for that, I’ll eternally be grateful.

“If we lived forever, there would be no such things as courage.” —Native American saying I miss you, Papa.

Of Loss Of Loss & Grief & Grief

Promise Kept.

When youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re in a garden, which flowers do you pick?

Mama, Why do the best people die?

Of Loss & Grief

The most beautiful ones.

Of Loss & Grief

02/08/2017

fig.6

The Empty Jar my bobba (gr andma) would have been 93 this week. She left us on a sunny, yet brisk autumn day towards the beginning of the Fall 2016 semester. I was biking on the riverbank in Richmond when my mom called. I will never forget the aggressiveness of my phone’s vibration, or that bike ride. My Bobba passed away in the comfort of her home, in bed, surrounded by our immediate family. Till this day her home has helped me grieve. My Bobba’s home is a sanctuary of memorabilia collected over decades. It serves as an art gallery of collectible pieces from around the globe. Her closets are filled with years of tailored pieces that have been worn to various events—if only they could speak. There is one room in my Bobba’s house that I cherish the most, her pantry. Not because I have an obsession with food (though I do), but because it reminds me of all the memories I have of her. Every time I visited my Bobba’s house she had the pantry stocked with all of the treats imaginable. The most iconic candy was the miniature packets of Chiclet gum. The clear plastic containers that were once filled with these sweet treats are now left empty. The emptiness of these containers reminds me of her passing, but they also symbolize the way I feel about not having her in my life—empty. Time and time again I’ve confronted the emptiness of these containers and my feelings towards death. It has helped me realize that all I have left are the memories of my Bobba. The pantry might seem empty now, but it’s still a place filled with love and the dedication she had to making us (her grandchildren) happy every time we came over. After her death I was like the empty containers in her pantry. But now I realize that I am no longer empty because I am fueled by our memories. These containers brought me to a place where I no longer feel unfilled, but instead filled with all the times we shared together.

02/22/2017

The Sky is Everywhere I remember the day after mum told us she had cancer Wildfires had broke out The sky was red, the air, pure smoke It was as if the world had erupted And the apocalypse had started Me and Ryan kicked the ball back and forth, not talking Our eyes stinging from the smog While I couldn’t run from what was happening I could insist on staying out The day before she died the skies were white The streets were deserted And the drive to the hospital pure silence I had seen her eyes wide with fear Gasping for air

The Sky is Everywhere

Like a deer caught in headlights And was hoping Just hoping That wouldn’t be the last time I’d get to see them The next few months, the sky was black And nowhere was safe

Of Loss & Grief

My body lay slack on my bedroom floor Laying to waste My sister begging me to hold on

While the rest of the world kept on keeping on I dropped out of school Dropped out of life Father crying why can’t you just get up But Dad I don’t have legs anymore My arms do not work The daughter you have raised Was no longer herself She is broken In a world, that promised so much Instead she was given barely enough It’s been a year and I now live in a place where the sky is always blue And though I have lost, I have grown something anew The sun still shines And it will continue to shine on My mum is the sun And the sun you cannot lose Its rays hug the ground and kiss every sea And while sometimes it rains The sun never leaves Sure there are clouds but the world is stripped bare Because my mum is the sun And the sky is everywhere. —R.

Waves and Shipwrecks

Of Loss & Grief: Waves and Shipwrecks Originally posted on reddit.com /r/assistance 11/11/2012.

Of Loss & Grief

By GSnow

[–] GSnow 1777 points 5 years ago* Alright, here goes. I’m old. What that means is that I’ve survived (so far) and a lot of people I’ve known and loved did not. I’ve lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can’t imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here’s my two cents. I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to “not matter.” I don’t want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see. As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive. (continued next page)

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life. Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out. Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.

Of Loss & Grief

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Share Your Grief The Importance of Expression: When faced with the loss of someone close to you, many people do not know how to grieve or how to cope with their grief. Grief has no pattern. It’s complicated, emotional, and can be triggered at random. This makes accessing support difficult when grief hits, which only contributes to our limited perceptions and understanding of loss and grief. We treat it all the same, when in fact, everyone’s experience with loss is unique and individual. What is grief? What is your grief? Of Loss & Grief is about your experience with grief—Your stories, experiences, thoughts, sentiments, scribblings and objects. It is anything and everything that allows you to reflect or helps to express your experiences of grief (or even just for a moment within the process). Share your grief as a way to healthily express your emotions that will contribute to fuelling a community of understanding, support, and validation—for yourself and for others.

Of Loss & Grief

Share Your Grief

Approval Process Submissions will undergo a multi-level approval process to ensure the safety and security of you and viewers. Curators will contact the approved submissions and notify the author of more information. The result is a thoughtfully curated space of experiences with the ability to connect with others, building a space of (un) spoken understanding—to feel connected in times of isolation. Select submissions have the opportunity to exist in a quarterly publication, on our website and/or at several ongoing exhibitions.

For more info and to share your grief visit OfLossAndGrief.co

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Contributed by youâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;your stories, memories and experiences. Submissions are proposed through the online form and must go through an approval process.

OfLossAndGrief.co is an accessible place to address and express, to contribute and explore your grief. Resources and proposal forms can be found here.

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A place where grief is always present. A way to address your grief in a collective space of belonging. The Exhibition Of Loss and Grief showcases the diverse nature of grief through a series of permanent and localized collections.

An intimate and curated experience t o feel comforted through other grieverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stories. A place of validation and contemplation.

my heart is so full. Of Loss & Grief

Final Note

The grieving process has not been easy, and it is equally as difficult to begin to know how to support someone experiencing the pain of loss. But the fact that you (and I think and hope you all know who you are) have tried and stood by me makes all of this worth it. Little did I know that when I initially began Of Loss & Grief, that through loss, I would find and connect with so many genuinely remarkable people. I would like to take a moment to thank the ones who have supported, cried, held, laughed, encouraged, inspired, influenced and believed in this project (and me). Thank you to those who shared their grief and allowed me to share it with others. I cannot express enough how much this and you truly mean to me. Thank you. This project is for you.

& it is here where it is understood.

Of Loss & Grief

Of Loss & Grief is a physical and virtual collection of crowd-sourced objects and stories. It is a place where grief is always present—a place where grief can be safely addressed, explored and shared. This is a space to honour the ones that are no longer with us and reflect on what is left behind; the emotions, the objects and the people. It’s for the grief that goes unspoken—and it is here, where it is understood.

Spring 2017 • issue no.1