Loss, Grief & Photography
A cold, contemplative walk the weekend my uncle died.
Taking Photos Through Tears
Death is uncomfortable. I hesitated to even share this, as it’s both quite personal and thinking about our mortality, or that of our loved ones, is difficult topic for many to swallow with their morning coffee.
That said, I’ve always strived to maintain a level of sincerity and peak-behind-the-curtains of being a working photographer, and experiencing a loss is a part of that. And I’ve been photographing more personal projects over the last year, and I’ll be sharing more of that soon as well.
My uncle Ralph, my father’s brother, was living with dementia when he had a stroke in mid-February. I rushed to Montreal to be with my cousins and spend time with him in his final days. I documented our time at the hospital, IV tubes and hospital blankets, my final moments with him over the week, the bitter cold of Montreal, and later, the quiet solitude I felt while taking a walk my father, gazing at the melting icicles a few hours after my uncle passed away.
It felt strange to take photos during this time, yet it felt stranger not to. I wanted to create a collection of photos that closed the story of his life, and his role in my own. I have many more I won’t share for some time, as they are my cousins’ story.
Throughout the week of his hospitalization, we also poured over old family photo albums that belonged to him. This brought much laughter and levity to the week, and reminded me how necessary photography is to our family stories. I was able to visit his life before he was my uncle, to learn about his travels and adventures, and then to witness his journey into fatherhood and moving to Florida.
I learned a whole new side of my uncle in those albums. It made me ache with nostalgia as I flipped through the heavy books of plastic-sheeted pages, holding 4x6 memories between silver three-ring clasps. My mother has a heavy stack of albums of my childhood that I’m so grateful for. I know where my own gene came from, and I have an upcoming newsletter brewing on the topic of family photo albums and their disappearance in our modern lives. It mattered a lot that week that we were able to revisit them so often.
Celebrating Life
Exactly a month after his death, the family gathered to celebrate his life in Siesta Key Florida, according to my uncle’s wishes, to honor memorial plan that he had come up with many years ago.
First, an intimate ceremony at my uncle’s place, led by a progressive Rabbi, who had us all in tears the moment she began singing, and listening to her wise and tender words. After the family shared our eulogies and memories, we moved outside to listen to a deeply moving rendition of Amazing Grace by a local bagpipe musician. The song on such a haunting instrument sent goosebumps up my arms, and there wasn’t a dry eye to be seen. We toasted with the very best Scotch after the song was over, as Ralph had outlined.
Finally, we took a boat ride later that afternoon to scatter his ashes, to say our final goodbyes and to share him back with the Earth.
When I first heard his plan, I had to laugh. A rabbi and scattering ashes and Amazing Grace on bagpipes and Scotch and a boat ride to scatter ashes?
It wasn’t somber, serious or traditional. But it was so Ralph. In retrospect, I don’t think I’ll ever want to go to a regular funeral again after having experienced such a personal and thoughtful way to say goodbye to someone I love.
It was a beautiful day. It was a heavy day. It was a day that honored my uncle in the best possible way. And of course, I’m so glad I have the photos to remember it by.
His death made me remorseful I hadn’t been able to spend more post-pandemic time with him, but fortunately when I did, I was able to capture some really special family moments and memories. While his cognitive decline is somewhat evident in the photos, they memorialize a version of him we’ll always hold dear; how much joy his kids and grandkids brought him, especially in his final years. We looked at these photos together the day before he died. I’m so glad I have all the versions of him.
I miss my dear uncle, and I know I’ll miss him for years to come; his laugh, his generosity, his kindness, and the many ways he showed people how much he really cared and loved you.
From my words that day, '‘The best parts of him are now living on through his kids. Not only are those parts living on, they’re growing, expanding and becoming boundless in the next generation; as they become incredible parents to their kids, through the love their show their partners, and the support they offer each other as siblings. I know he’s so proud of you.”
Give the people you love a big hug this week. And take their photos.