The Time We Spent
Prologue In the ongoing struggle with chronic illness in my family, photographs are often the only pieces of lost family members I have left. In the wake of the death of both my dad and grandpa, I revelled in curating the photo boards and slideshows to be displayed at their funerals. The act of collecting photographs and creating a compendium of their lives through images gave me temporary relief amid all the grief I was experiencing. These old photographs served as clues to memories and stories of the past that were previously unknown to me. I found comfort in this role and appreciated its ability to bring my grieving family together in order to collectively reflect on the lives of my dad and grandpa by way of storytelling photographs. My dad died on August 10, 2011. It was a Wednesday in Flushing, MI. It must have been around five in the morning; my mom woke me up, brought me to my sister’s bed. We all sat there in the twilight and she told us the dreadful news. The sun hadn’t risen and it would be the longest day of my life. I was only twelve years old. Middle school was coming in less than a month. His death was sudden, but it is always looming. While the passing years allowed this grief to fester, more was added without my consent. My grandpa died on February 20, 2019. Also on a Wednesday. Grief has a cruelly funny way of severing my weeks into two separate entities from which that moment on I will remember as the time before the death, and the time after. My grandpa had the same genetic disorder my dad died of, MEN 1. My grandpa was the one to pass the genetic mutation from his mom, to my dad, and ultimately from my dad to my older sister. I remember photographing my grandpa the last time I saw him, in January 2019. He seemed to not mind or not notice the presence of my camera. His hair had turned white in a matter of months, he was using a walker to get around, he had lost so much weight his pants were falling off, only clinging to his frail body by his suspenders. He was sleepy and not talkative. But he always used to be talkative. He would always tell me a story. Until he couldn’t. He couldn’t that day. He died less than a month later. The grief I felt following his death was all too familiar. It was my dad’s father. The same illness, claiming another one of my dear family members. Meanwhile I am able to sit idly by because I do not have the genetic mutation they did. It was a 50/50 chance and my sister was the unlucky one. I am left riddled with survivor’s guilt and the strange phenomena of experiencing so much chronic illness, albeit by proxy.
My dad’s and grandpa’s lives are now suspended in images. Photographs allow me to continue to cultivate a relationship with them, even after they have died. They act as containers of memories, of time, of places, of experiences; they are living. Despite my fondness and fascination, I sometimes can’t bring myself to look. They often bring me too close to reality; they feel too raw. These photographs remain frozen in my mind. Death and grief are unavoidable, but photographs and stories of the dead creates a castle of memories to go to in waves of grief. They preserve life and allow it to be reviewed and reflected upon; they hold the potential for healing. Photography, for me, is a way of feeling, of touching, of loving those who have died. What was captured is captured forever. Photography remembers everything, even if you have forgotten. When people die, their whole compendium of stories are gone. I cannot bear losing my grandparents’ compendium of stories as I watch my dad’s wither away from my own mind. What follows is an exploration of the relationships between photography, grief, and memory. Narrated by my grandma’s own words, I use photographs to construct a trace of my grandparents’ lives from both the past and present. I curate archival photographs, new photographs I’ve captured, handwriting, stories, and physical memorabilia in order to highlight their increased social value and fragility in a time of personal grief. Through multiple interviews with my grandma, I’ve strived to cultivate a culture of listening and storytelling in the wake of my grandpa’s absence. Activating photography as a form of social practice has allowed me to engage with and understand my grandparents’ lives and memories both photographically and orally. My hope for this book is to allow others to re-experience a past that is not their own. I welcome viewers to seek out reflections of themselves, their own families, and stories in my book. The pandemic restrictions called my social habits and sense of familial bonds into question. It stirred in me an urgency to archive the past and document the present. I found both healing in the observation of the past and catharsis in the creation of the new.
Are you comfortable talking about Frank’s death? I lived it. For 30 days before he passed, he was in and out of logical thinking, part of the time and then most of the time. The last three or four days, I was getting extremely nervous. Am I doing the right thing? Am I taking care of him as best I can?
His doctor, which hadn’t been his doctor for too long because they switched and switched and switched, had a person on call for any questions. So I called that nurse and she said call an ambulance, get him into the hospital. And I said, I’m not ready to do that. I just wanted to get her opinion on what I was doing. And was it right? She and I did not agree. So I finally hung up and about that time, the ambulance is at our back door.
They came in and checked his vitals, everything was absolutely perfect. He was lucid at that point and talking with them. And so they said, Frank do you want to go to the hospital? Of course not, you know, I don't want to go to the hospital. He was barely eating, but drinking, so I knew he was staying hydrated. Again, I was very concerned that I didn't want him not to be home, but I didn't want to be contributing to his condition or lack of comfort. What else could I do?
The ambulance guys left. And they did reassure me I was doing the right thing and if I wanted to call about an hour from then, they would be back out and check on him. I mean, they were scrumptious. Absolutely scrumptious. Then by nine o'clock he was vomiting. He would be ok to drink, but then sleep. In the night, he became really, really sick and was doing more vomiting than anything else. I can vividly remember this part, he had vomited on the sheets and on his pajamas, so I cut the sheets out from under him, don't ask me how I got his pajama top off. He never wore pajamas, but why he had them on that night, I don't know.
He just kind of relaxed and went to sleep. So I came out here and went to sleep. I went back in there and his breathing was extremely shallow. Very, very shallow and I thought, go Frank, just, just go, because I don't want to put you in a rest home. I don't want to do that. It's over Frank, you fought the fight. I called nine one one. And by the time they got here, he had passed.
I remember two, three weeks ago I'm sitting out next to the garage in a chair and it's sunset and it was beautiful coming down across the trees. And I've always enjoyed that. And I'm thinking, “Frank, where in the world are you?” Cause we would have enjoyed it together. He suffered, a lot with his health. And I can’t blame him for saying, “Mary. I know I’m dying. And I’m ready.”
Everything was super with his blood pressure and pulse, the day before. It was the same crew. And they stayed with me till the funeral home people came, stayed a little longer. Everybody stayed a little longer and pretty soon my family started showing up. So I was not alone for any of that time period. But my biggest worry as he got weaker and weaker was that I wouldn't be able to care for him or couldn't take care of what his needs might become. But I did, and he did, and he did good.
Most people, other than me, had no clue how hard he tried to live a normal life. I can remember Anthony had something going on at school. Frank was working, so he got up every day and went to work, but he didn’t think he could possibly go to Central Michigan on Saturday. He worked very hard to get himself up and ready and talk himself into the fact that he could make it. Talked all the way to Mount Pleasant from, in that case, Bay City. We were there for three or four hours, and then he went back in the car and crashed, and he did a lot of things like that. Just the fact that he worked through what he did, but it was very important for him to work, provide money, a home and sanctuary, and love for everybody. And as best he could, that they not know how sick he was.
He's not there to talk to anymore. He's not there to hold my hand anymore. He's not there in bed to roll over and feel he's there. All the comforting things. He's not there to piss me off. No one to get angry at in this house. Nobody to scream at. He went way too soon. We had lots of years left.
He went to six different schools in five years. When he was in the sixth grade, they lived in Bay City and his parents, Ross and Naomi, managed an apartment complex. His dad had a heart attack and the doctors said to him, Ross, you can’t work anymore. And so they came up here, to West Branch. They had that little cabin that wasn’t winterized. So the three of them lived in there.
Yeah, it was tiny. The first winter they were here, they came at Christmas time and they didn’t have any wood cut. Ross didn’t have any power tools. Frank had to saw the wood down, cut it up, split it up. He worked every night after school till it was dark to keep enough wood for the next day in their little wood stove and then all weekend to try to get ahead.
They went to a very different way of living. Ross’s Social Security did kick in with disability, but it wasn't much. His mother went to work dishwashing at one of the restaurants in town. But that wasn't much. So every dollar counted.
He moved to my one room schoolhouse school that I was attending. And when he was in the sixth grade, I was in the seventh grade. Didn’t much care about him, didn’t much care about boys. He was pursuing me and I had absolutely no patience for that. And one day he said, I’d like to go steady with you. ”
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And I said, My father said I couldn’t. ”
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My father didn’t know there was any Frank in the picture. I still didn’t have any reason to have a particular boyfriend. He and I both went to the alumni banquet. Came home together. That was the beginning of our non relationship that turned into a relationship. And I was interested then.
What did Frank mean to you? Everything, absolutely everything. Soulmate. Best friend. Little did I know when I took care of him through all his illnesses that he would be my caretaker, my caregiver. When I had hip surgery and the doctors didn’t know enough to figure out why I was hallucinating, he was my biggest advocate. But I didn’t know it at the time. In fact, I guess I chewed him up one side and out the other because I thought he hadn’t been at the hospital until the doctors told me that he’d been there every day, all day long, and half the night. I certainly didn’t remember anything about it.
Richard when he was a younger guy, hunted with his dad, Frank. And then he wemt to college, and then after college, he was too busy to hunt. Frank thought he'd lost his hunting partner forever. Then they spent more time talking about hunting and hunting after that than they did when Richard was a kid. Frank did not go to the woods to hunt after Richard passed. He would get ready. He would work on his blind, he would cultivate deer plots. He would shoot his rifle to sight it in. Get everything ready the night before. And just not be able to walk out that door. He just didn't go. And Richard would say, if he knew, Dad, get out there and hunt. It was, it was just devastating.
How do you think you're different now that you've lost both your son and your husband? I hadn't thought about that one. I don't think you ever get over losing a child that dies before you do. You're just never prepared for that. You never. . . It's not logical. Frank was absolutely positive from the time we were 25 that he would pass away ahead of me. He wouldn’t be diaganosed with MEN 1 for another ten years. But he was absolutely sure. We did everything with that expectation because I wasn’t going to argue with him. I tried a good many times.
I was older than he was. I should have died first. But here we are.
Is there an image of Frank that persist in your mind? I remember him and I can see him, you know, in the last week of his life when he was so sick. But mostly I remember that he passed without being that sick for months on end. I sometimes remember him when he had hair. And sometimes not. I remember lots of good times. I can think of him and just revel in the thoughts and not have it tear me apart.
is dedicated to the memory of my grandpa, Frank Fox (1944-2019), and my dad, Richard Fox (1966-2011).
The Time We Spent
Special thanks to my grandma, Mary Fox, for spending many hours sharing her memories and grieving process, answering my ambitious questions, welcoming me for many visits to document her home and land, and for lending her photographic archive. When I discovered this collection of photographs, I was overcome with a need to preserve them. What started as a personal documentary effort, grew to a greater story about family, time, and the sadness of loss. I’m forever grateful. It was designed, printed, and bound for my Senior Integrative Project at the Stamps School of Art and Design in the spring of 2021. This book is hard cover drumleaf bound, injet printed on Epson Ultra Premium Matte Presentation paper, applies vellum and butcher paper, and uses the typefaces Skolar Sans Latin, my grandma’s handwriting, and my own handwriting.
-Maddie Fox