My Norwegian Grandmother died last year, and although I didn't spend as much time with her as I should have in her last years, she was a very important part of my life and I felt very close to her. I used to live with her as a teenager and for brief periods as an adult as well. When she started to become frail I was there for her, and listened to her the way she used to listen to me. I recorded her stories before the dementia took completely hold of what was left of her memory.
The view from my Grandmother's bed, pictures of her family on the wall.
The final days of her life, and her death touched me deeply, and triggered a trauma and a depression in me that was indeed long-coming for many other reasons, and unfortunately still has not quite let go of me. I was perhaps not the strongest, but arguably the one with the least fear to face the pain. From a Filipino perspective, as the oldest, I felt compelled to be there, when for different reasons several of her own children could not. So a few of my siblings, a cousin and I spent day and night by her side, trying to feed her and soak her lips and tongue with a sponge of water to stop her from dehydration. Every time she reached out her arms in the air as if she was trying to embrace us, we took her hands and held them to let her know that we were there, even if she did not know who we were anymore, she would know that we were close - we were family.
Immediately, the sadness was so overwhelming that I felt as though the only way I could put distance between the grief of her slow, painful departing and myself was through my lens. Perhaps that is why my father (her son) gave me permission to photograph before I could even ask: "take some pictures", he said. I believe that in some strange way documenting her last days, was therapeutic for him as much as it was for me. And so I photographed her - at her deathbed with her family. I do understand that some may find this rather morbid and even repulsive, and that the death of a loved one is a very private matter to many people. Let us not forget though, that once upon a time, before death became institutionalised, it was a very natural part of everyday life, just as much as giving birth. Today, death is shut behind closed doors, it is confrontational and sometimes controversial. Yet, when a loved one dies, it may put your whole life into perspective and give it a different meaning, simply, because it brings you closer to your own mortality.
My father and my Grandmother at her deathbed.
For our family, there were many mixed feelings about how my Grandmother more or less starved to death at the very end, and unfortunately it drove a wedge particularly between her sons that were left behind. She simply lost her appetite and will to live and her body could no longer make use of the nutrients she was given. Her kidneys began to fail, her body was bloated and puffy and she was too weak to speak. Sometimes she muttered help, but what did that mean? Help me die or help me live? It was excruciating to hear... Medically, there was every reason to believe that her time had come, and the only thing that could be done was to relieve the pain with morphine and stop giving her water because this only prolonged the process. Euthanasia is illegal in Norway, but some might question, like my family did, how is this different?
In Norway, the choice to let life end its course naturally when in the health care of the government may seem controversial to those who feel as though life should be held sacred to the very last minute - letting them die seems all too easy. Yet, this all depends on how one defines the value of life when old and frail, and last, but not least if you are ready to let go. Sometimes it is hard to accept that the end has come; that it is time to say goodbye and that your loved one no longer wishes to be there. Many find themselves in conflict not just with the health care system for the elderly, but with their own guilt for not having been there enough before it was too late, and last but not least with mortality itself.
One of my four year old daughters, crying at her Great Grandmother's funeral.
For me, the process of shooting these photographs were therapeutical, as well as the images themselves. Although they bring back a sadness in me, they also help me feel that sadness and with time I feel it less and less. I believe that photography, when used in the right way, can heal and be cathartic. My Grandmother's passing forced me to confront my own struggles, and I am now slowly finding my own way back to recovery, and resetting my own path. Her death has brought more meaning to my life, though I am not quite sure where it is headed, and how much of it is within my control. The images however deserve respect - and therein lies a responsibility to show and tell the story in an honorable way. Until I can decide how to do this decently, the main series of images remain on my harddisk. I have tried to choose the few that were the least revealing and confronting here.
This untold story of my Grandmother's death raises many issues such as euthanasia, how death is treated in different societies, how we treat the elderly, the significant job that the health personell do in such a process that is hardly ever acknowledged - and simply understanding the process of dying as it is no longer a part of our everyday here. There are so many angles, particularly the personal one. Death as a new beginning. How would you approach this story? How do you feel about art as therapy? How do you feel about photographing the departed?
