One thing I forgot to share in my earlier response, that was comforting, rather than overwhelming, was using a favorite head shot of my husband, Eric, as a “wallpaper” on my iMac, so a large computer screen, 27″. After his death, I made a small office space in the corner of our living room, where my husband’s final weeks had been spent in a hospital bed. It overlooked a bay window into our backyard, and provided TV access to favorite sports channels (our other smart TVs don’t have cable). The bed was also in the area that healthy Eric would sit and watch TV each day. Using the photo as wallpaper, which was a great memory of a trip to Carmel Beach, California, beautiful sunny day, I could see Eric’s eyes looking at me through his sunglasses. It ended up having the effect of feeling like Eric was there, in his usual spot after work watching TV, always with a smile for me.
I agree with heartbroken artist. Both my husband and I were hobby photographers, best and sole/soul friends. For the first month, I removed photos and mutually selected artwork from the walls and made a dedicated altar on now my fireplace mantel. Eric insisted on keeping his 2-year illness and death private, never one to be in the spotlight or burden another, especially with all that families faced in the time of COVID19. The altar became a manageable container for photos.
After he died (cancer), there was one person he wanted me to inform, a colleague in Eric’s profession of disability rights advocacy. That man, without responding to me about it then or since, shocked a huge listserv, many of the people for whom Eric was a beloved, protective and committed advocate and/or colleague. Poof! Now that Facebook has finally memorialized his account, I’m considering pulling together photos for the one-year anniversary in 8 days, to give voice to so many robbed of a good-bye. I think this is why I’ve been unable to make progress, though, exactly what your question asks, Mary. So many photos; moreso, going it alone.
On the altar, I had placed the few sympathy cards received by previous co-workers (Eric had retired just months before an irreverent cancer started calling the shots), pictures of the grandson we co-raised who was not allowed to say good-bye, a thumbnail chronology of my husband’s life in pictures and a few items sentimental to Eric. The altar was meaningful to me. There was no memorial, no visitors during illness or after death, no family to hug. I needed to take it down after a month, though, when it started feeling a bit morbid. I needed to start reorganizing Eric’s home-hospice back into a livable, breathable space for the part of me that has to live without his dedicated smiles and hugs.
Losing Eric was like losing a part of my body, with Phantom Limb Pain. I did make a “Hall of Honor,” with meaningful photos Eric had taken and framed, of both landscapes and people in the world. I hung his myriad certificates of appreciation and awards, from the state Governor, to clients with disabilities whose artwork was meaningful to Eric. Shortly before death, Eric said he only cared about two of the awards, which I did find and hang. They are “Advocacy Achievement Awards” from 1999 and 2002, from Protection and Advocacy, the non-profit for whom he served for nearly most of his working life.
I’m not sure “overwhelmed” is a strong enough word.
Over the 40+ years together, my wife and I shared so many magic moments and grand adventures that it is so overwhelming to look at old photos and videos. They not only remind me how things were, but what might have been had one of my wife’s relatives had the love, brains, and courage to speak up about her family’s genetic mutation and cancer risk.
Donna, my wife, was a world-class master educator. As a teacher she touched so many lives as she inspired countless children to find their true selves. Some of which have made their way to the national spotlight.
She was also my muse, creative partner, adventure companion, dedicated and loving co-parent, and best friend. But above all, she was my true love. Looking at old photos just reminds me of what was stolen from me, from my daughter, from the world.
ViolaF says
Posted on October 3, 2022 1
Yes. My eyes leak seeing m
My Other Song says
Posted on October 5, 2022 0
I read your profile, Viola. I’m so sorry for your loss of Tony, especially under those circumstances.
Susan Gelber says
Posted on October 2, 2022 1
One thing I forgot to share in my earlier response, that was comforting, rather than overwhelming, was using a favorite head shot of my husband, Eric, as a “wallpaper” on my iMac, so a large computer screen, 27″. After his death, I made a small office space in the corner of our living room, where my husband’s final weeks had been spent in a hospital bed. It overlooked a bay window into our backyard, and provided TV access to favorite sports channels (our other smart TVs don’t have cable). The bed was also in the area that healthy Eric would sit and watch TV each day. Using the photo as wallpaper, which was a great memory of a trip to Carmel Beach, California, beautiful sunny day, I could see Eric’s eyes looking at me through his sunglasses. It ended up having the effect of feeling like Eric was there, in his usual spot after work watching TV, always with a smile for me.
Susan Gelber says
Posted on October 1, 2022 0
I agree with heartbroken artist. Both my husband and I were hobby photographers, best and sole/soul friends. For the first month, I removed photos and mutually selected artwork from the walls and made a dedicated altar on now my fireplace mantel. Eric insisted on keeping his 2-year illness and death private, never one to be in the spotlight or burden another, especially with all that families faced in the time of COVID19. The altar became a manageable container for photos.
After he died (cancer), there was one person he wanted me to inform, a colleague in Eric’s profession of disability rights advocacy. That man, without responding to me about it then or since, shocked a huge listserv, many of the people for whom Eric was a beloved, protective and committed advocate and/or colleague. Poof! Now that Facebook has finally memorialized his account, I’m considering pulling together photos for the one-year anniversary in 8 days, to give voice to so many robbed of a good-bye. I think this is why I’ve been unable to make progress, though, exactly what your question asks, Mary. So many photos; moreso, going it alone.
On the altar, I had placed the few sympathy cards received by previous co-workers (Eric had retired just months before an irreverent cancer started calling the shots), pictures of the grandson we co-raised who was not allowed to say good-bye, a thumbnail chronology of my husband’s life in pictures and a few items sentimental to Eric. The altar was meaningful to me. There was no memorial, no visitors during illness or after death, no family to hug. I needed to take it down after a month, though, when it started feeling a bit morbid. I needed to start reorganizing Eric’s home-hospice back into a livable, breathable space for the part of me that has to live without his dedicated smiles and hugs.
Losing Eric was like losing a part of my body, with Phantom Limb Pain. I did make a “Hall of Honor,” with meaningful photos Eric had taken and framed, of both landscapes and people in the world. I hung his myriad certificates of appreciation and awards, from the state Governor, to clients with disabilities whose artwork was meaningful to Eric. Shortly before death, Eric said he only cared about two of the awards, which I did find and hang. They are “Advocacy Achievement Awards” from 1999 and 2002, from Protection and Advocacy, the non-profit for whom he served for nearly most of his working life.
heartbroken artist says
Posted on September 30, 2022 1
I’m not sure “overwhelmed” is a strong enough word.
Over the 40+ years together, my wife and I shared so many magic moments and grand adventures that it is so overwhelming to look at old photos and videos. They not only remind me how things were, but what might have been had one of my wife’s relatives had the love, brains, and courage to speak up about her family’s genetic mutation and cancer risk.
Donna, my wife, was a world-class master educator. As a teacher she touched so many lives as she inspired countless children to find their true selves. Some of which have made their way to the national spotlight.
She was also my muse, creative partner, adventure companion, dedicated and loving co-parent, and best friend. But above all, she was my true love. Looking at old photos just reminds me of what was stolen from me, from my daughter, from the world.