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gusto (leche con oregano para los resfriados)

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vista (sus joyas)

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Tacto

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Navidad y sus mejores joyas

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Auditivo (su llamada diaria)

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Navidad y sus mejores joyas

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Tacto

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Auditivo (su llamada diaria)

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gusto (leche con oregano para los resfriados)

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vista (sus joyas)

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Retratar la ausencia
En este ensayo voy a retratar aquellas cosas o situaciones que muestran la ausencia de mi abuela Haydeé, pero que a su vez me muestran la enorme presencia y huella que ella dejó en mí cuando murió hace 2 meses.

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El gusto y el olor son algo más especiales. Este último está más relacionado con la memoria que los otros sentidos ya que el bulbo olfatorio y la corteza olfatoria, donde se procesan las sensaciones olfativas, están funcionalmente muy cerca del hipocampo y la amígdala, separadas por solo dos o tres sinapsis. El hipocampo y la amígdala están implicados en los procesos de memoria, lo que hace que los olores puedan asociarse más rápida e intensamente con los recuerdos y las emociones.
https://jralonso.es/2020/01/11/estudiar-con-los-33-sentidos/

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CUÁNTO, CÓMO Y POR QUÉ LO RECORDAMOS: (II) LOS SENTIDOS

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CUÁNTO, CÓMO Y POR QUÉ LO RECORDAMOS: (II) LOS SENTIDOS

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https://difevents.com/sentidos/

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El duelo es el precio que pagamos por el amor.
E.A Bucchianeri

“Puedes llorar porque se ha ido

o puedes sonreír porque ha vivido;

puedes cerrar los ojos y orar para que vuelva

o puedes abrirlos y ver todo lo que ha dejado;

tu corazón puede estar vacío porque no lo puedes ver

o puede estar lleno del amor que compartes;

puedes llorar, cerrar tu mente, sentir el vacío,

dar la espalda o puedes hacer

lo que le gustaría:

sonreír, abrir los ojos, amar y seguir”.

(Poema escocés)

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El olfato es el sentido que se encuentra más cerca del hipocampo, una de las estructuras cerebrales responsable de nuestra memoria. A su vez está conectado con el sistema límbico, que es el centro emotivo del cerebro.

El resto de los sentidos (la vista, el olfato, el gusto o el tacto) tienen que recorrer un largo camino para alcanzar las partes del cerebro encargadas de la memoria y de las emociones.

https://lamenteesmaravillosa.com/los-recuerdos-que-evocan-nuestros-cinco-sentidos/

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SENTIDOS LAS DIFERENTES MANERAS DE INTERPRETAR EL RECUERDO

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olfato ( El pollo en salsa)

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AUSENCIA
El legado de mi abuelita
Un matrimonio de 77 años
La casa donde vivieron 45 años
Alzheimer
Mi abuelo Antonio
La música de trios y boleros
Las recetas de su comida

RECUERDOS con mis 5 sentidos:

Olfato
El olor de su pelo
El olor de su comida
Gusto
El sabor de su pollo en salsa
Los conos de Helado combinados para mi cumpleanos
Tacto
La textura de su budin
La suavidad de sus manos
Oido
El sonido del ave maria a las 6 am
Cuando cantaba el padre nuestro de teletica
Vista
Su pelo blanco como la nieve
Los dias soleados y calientes como le gustaban

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Mike Moats

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Non Nature Macro Photography by Mike Moats | Sterling, MI

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Portfolio of macro images by photographer Mike Moats featuring watches, keys, cd's, Harley Davidson motor cycles, classic cars, and other items.

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Patrick Scott

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Alan Shapiro

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It's easier to judge than to listen. A friend called Margaret A., still grieves for her deceased son twenty years following his death. It's not a passive grief, quiet in its knowledge of the irrevocable. It's an active grief quickly turning to a stream of tears, as though death just occurred.

A mother longs for her son. Her longing is a raw pain to know that his life meant something. Her son's choices led to paths and people who used drugs, until he too used drugs. Early memories of her son decorate her home in framed photographs hanging on the wall and sitting atop end tables. The scenes depict a gentler time of his childhood and family life.

When questioning why drug use takes someone you love there's never one definitive answer. Do parents cling to the 'straight' persona of their child, or does the loss of their innocence to drug addiction become an unanswerable source of pain?

If attempts at rehabilitation failed, parents are left with defeat knowing they lost their child twice, once to the hope of recovery and secondly to their actual death. Anyone who has loved an addict knows this pain.

What is a normal timeline of grief? How does someone grief stricken find a way to join the living?

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It's easier to judge than to listen. A friend called Margaret A., still grieves for her deceased son twenty years following his death. It's not a passive grief, quiet in its knowledge of the irrevocable. It's an active grief quickly turning to a stream of tears, as though death just occurred.

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"Get down here as soon as you can," she says. "The sooner, the better."

I book my flight that night.

"But he looks fine on Facebook," says my mother.

"That's not the real story," I tell her. "Pictures lie."

When I arrive, my uncle Don is pale but upright. He is whistling like a tea kettle, but he can't hear himself. I start to hyperventilate. He sounds like me, the noises I make when an asthma attack is beginning. Except this is not asthma. This is end-stage cancer, metastasized to his lungs.

"There are more dark spots on his lungs than clear spots," my cousin tells me. The cancer is everywhere.

It could be a month. It could be a week.

"It's a cliff, really," the hospice nurse tells my uncle. "One day you'll be out to lunch with a friend. The next day, you just won't be able to anymore. You'll need more morphine. You'll sleep more. We'll keep you comfortable. And then, you'll just be gone. We might need to have someone come to turn off your pacemaker. Because it can be painful when your heart is ready to go, but your pacemaker won't let it."

My uncle appreciates his nurse's matter-of-factness. He is a Navy man, a brilliant defense strategist, a no-nonsense guy who worked for the Pentagon during the Reagan years. He's testified before Congress innumerable times. He's smart and forthright, and he doesn't like fuss. Death doesn't scare him. He's had a full and happy life, with the one painful exception of the loss of his daughter, Jill, who died young in a car accident, and the recent loss of his beloved wife, Peggy.

"If I thought Peggy and Jill would be there, that I would see them again...," he trails off. He does not believe in an afterlife. He shakes his head.

"I think you're going to owe me a fruit basket on this one," I reply.

"I sure hope so," he says.

My uncle likes to keep journals and lists: of great meals he's had, of trips he's taken, of movies he's seen. Once, on one of my many visits to Virginia to see him, he and I had gotten into a splendid and lively argument about who had starred in a certain movie he'd quite liked.

"It was Julia Roberts," I remember him saying, with great authority.

"Nope," I had said. "It was most definitely Kyra Sedgwick."

"I'll bet you anything it was Julia Roberts," he had countered.

"You're on," I had said.

A week after that debate, a gorgeous fruit basket full of pears and apples had arrived on my doorstep with a note: "You were right. Love, Don."

This is what I have always loved so much about my uncle: he has no trouble being proven wrong from time to time. His ego is not attached to a need to be right-a rare virtue these days. In fact, he often seems to enjoy being proven wrong, perhaps because it means he's learning something new.

I have four days to spend with him. My cousins and I read the newspaper together in companionable silence at the kitchen table, then hold our breath as Don wobbles in the kitchen, determined to make us pancakes for breakfast as he has always loved to do. We all watch the birds outside the bay windows or golf on TV. We make fires in the fireplace. We set up an old projector and watch slides of family vacations, which pleases him greatly.

One night, my cousins and I take him out to eat to his favorite Italian restaurant.

For years, he has jokingly pleaded with me-his messy jeans-and-tees niece-to wear more dresses. He likes his ladies in proper dresses and heels. His generation of men came home to wives in A-line dresses and shiny pumps. So, I surprise him by wearing a purple rockabilly halter dress and 40s-style peep-toe heels for our restaurant outing.

I twirl for him like a toddler playing dress-up. "What do you think? You always say I never wear enough dresses. I wore this just for you."

"Huh," he says, squinting. "You're really something." His expression is inscrutable.

I am not sure if "something" means I look nice. I suddenly feel ridiculous, a 44-year-old woman twirling in a polka-dotted purple dress for her dying uncle.

At the restaurant, my two cousins, my uncle, and I have the meal of our lives. They know him there. He is an A-lister. The manager greets him by name and pumps our hands vigorously before seating us at a round table in the heart of the room.

My finest meals have, not coincidentally, been with my uncle and my cousins, all of whom are foodies. My cousin Marci dosed my uncle with extra morphine before we left so he would breathe easier for the meal.

He seems to enjoy his food, but he can't eat very much. His appetite is waning by the day.

Halfway through the meal, emboldened by the wine, I reach for his hand.

"You realize I'm never going to be able to explain to you how important you've been to me," I say. "I'm not sure who I've been to you, but I know who you've been to me. I'm not your daughter, I'm not even exactly your niece-I don't know who I am to you. But you've been a second father to me. And you've given me hope when I didn't have any left. I don't think you'll ever realize it."

His eyes mist over, and he rubs them under his eyeglasses. "Well," he says, "thank you. I don't...thank you."

"You're welcome," I say. I kiss him on the cheek and return to my fancy ravioli. No words will be enough. I am angry, suddenly: at the English language, at cancer, at my own messy overflowing emotions.

He is becoming more withdrawn. It's strange to see him like this, my normally extroverted uncle. He says he is not in pain. But there is a quiet, barely perceptible struggle in play. I can see it in his eyes. Conversation is becoming difficult for him. His lungs are not cooperating.

Then it comes: the morning when I will hug him and wish him the goodbye that is the last goodbye. We look at each other across the kitchen table in the morning light.

We stay quiet. There is more I could say; there is more he could say. But we don't say it.

He must leave the house before I do. He has an appointment, and my cousin Mike is taking him.

Fifteen minutes. Ten minutes. Five. Two. He is putting on his shoes in the living room.

I am glued to my seat in the kitchen, willing this goodbye not to happen, tears rolling down my face. My cousin Marci smiles kindly at me.

My uncle returns to the kitchen.

"Well," he says.

"Well," I say.

I hug him as hard as I can without hurting him. His shoulders are sharp, his abdomen distended from the toxins building up in his body.

"I love you," I tell him.

He doesn't say it back. I don't know why. Maybe he hasn't heard me. Maybe he has.

He says something, but I can't quite hear what it is. I just remember his frail back turning away.

I cry at the kitchen table.

"I know," Marci says.

Two weeks later, he is gone. He passes away as we hoped he would: he simply does not wake up.

My heart breaks, reading the text from Marci. There was no pain for him. The pain is ours.

I like to think he is pleased right now, pleased that his odd, introverted niece-the one who couldn't get life right, the one who still hadn't gotten it together by her forties, the one who forgot to send thank-you notes and couldn't find a proper job and wore terrible clunky shoes and old jeans-was right again, just like she was about Kyra Sedgwick. I like to think that Peggy and Jill were waiting for him, just as I'd argued they'd be.

My cousin Mike sends me the memorial service details. My cousin Marci tells me to feel free to write something for the occasion.

That night, I wash the dishes and wonder what I will say. I take out the trash. I pause to stand on my rotting front porch, careful to avoid the place where the wood is the thinnest.

The stars are showy tonight. I look up and hope he is there. I get the feeling he is.

"I think you owe me a fruit basket," I whisper.

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Death, Grief, and Letting Go: A Photo Essay

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"Get down here as soon as you can," she says. "The sooner, the better." I book my flight that night. "But he looks fine on Facebook," says my mother. "That's not the real story," I tell her. "Pictures lie." When I arrive, my uncle Don is pale but upright.

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Death has a stigma and the burden of grief can hold us captive if we let it. May this be a process through which a loved one can be remembered and through which memories can be relived. Even though the pain of the loss may remain, may this go some way in relieving the hurt and the stigma of death and act as a public declaration that death has lost its sting.

I ask each participant to find a photograph of themselves with their lost loved one. We then return to the location of the original photograph to replicate the image.

It is a chance to think back and remember, to tell the story of that day and of the person that they have lost. Imagery allows for expression beyond what we can speak of. I hope it is an experience that contributes to the restorative process in overcoming the painful impact of loss.

The serene view north from Anglesey, out over the Irish Sea towards the Isle of Man

We all have a different experience of loss that can reveal itself in many ways. Sometimes it's a response that is quite clear for those around you to see. Perhaps there are lots of emotions that they just don't know how to let out, they're not sure how they should be feeling or whether it's right to be having certain angry or complicated thoughts.

It's not about having the best photo, saying the right thing or having the answers, I just want to give people a chance to speak about their experience of loss.

My aim was that the combination of the photos we took and the conversations we had, we would be able to portray a deep personal story. This allows other people who are struggling and going through similar experiences to look through and find strength and comfort in the story, knowing that other people have been through it and are confident enough to share their story.

I lost my father to prostate cancer in December 2009. When my dad died, it wounded me in the deepest part of my being. The loss shaped the following few years of my life and will continue to do so, but I don't have to let it define who I am. Through this time, it was really helpful to be able to talk about my dad. I wanted to share with others about the person he was, the emotions I was feeling as I processed the grief, and talk about the influence he had - and continues to have - on my life. Those conversations were often hard and few and far between, mainly because people just didn't quite know how to respond.

Alistair and his father

Alistair's dad holds his son's hand while paddling in the sea at Swanage on a family holiday. Right: Alistair returns to Swanage to restage the original photograph after losing his father to Covid-19

Alistair

I'm Alistair, and my dad was James. The original picture was from the beach at Swanage in Dorset. I'm not sure how old I was there, but it was a family holiday. We loved to go down there and find a pitch for the day, Mum and Dad would soak up the sun and me and Tim, my brother, would build sandcastles and splash around, and repeat until we had to go home.

He was a very loving father, he provided for his family, looked after us. He taught me a lot of principles about always doing the best, always trying to be the nicest person and to make sure that others were looked after and cared for. When you look back you realise you've been prepared by your parents to live your life. Dad always just wanted to treat others how he'd want to be treated.

Taken on a family holiday in Swanage, Alistair (right), sits on a bench by the beach with his father and brother Tim

When we got the dementia diagnosis, several years ago, we had noticed over time that he was getting more forgetful. He wouldn't use my name, he was losing his hearing, his vision wasn't great and I lost him as a dad over those years. I still loved him as my dad, but I knew I wasn't necessarily going to get that reciprocated, which was tough. He still offered to help when I mentioned to him about moving flat; he'd say "well let me know if you need a hand". I think that's just his character through and through and I always just try to emulate that.

He was a very loving father, he provided for his family, looked after us. He taught me a lot of principles about always doing the best, always trying to be the nicest person and to make sure that others were looked after and cared for. When you look back you realise you've been prepared by your parents to live your life

I went to see him in the care home and I said to the staff that I'd like to volunteer in the garden if possible, even if he wasn't aware of me being there, I could just help out and spend some time with him, but then we went into lockdown and that was the last time I saw him when he was awake and alert.

When the Covid thing came along, it was like losing him for a second time, but this time, obviously, for the last time. It was difficult because I had kind of processed losing him in a mental sense, and now I was losing him in a physical sense.

I did get to see him before he passed away and it was just a completely different experience because I had to wear all the PPE. In the past, I'd just always assumed he'd be there for years to come and you don't think about it ever being the last time, whereas I went there, got dressed up and they said you've got 15 minutes. It was horrible having this countdown clock, where you have this time limit on how long you have left with someone. I just set it on my watch and it's just counting down. I was thinking, I've got 30 seconds left with my dad, 20 seconds left, 10 seconds left. What do I do? What do I say? And I just panicked.

Alistair takes a selfie with his dad in South Wonston park, near to where they lived. One of the benches in the park is dedicated to Alistair's brother Tim, and will soon also have a plaque for his dad

It made me reflect on how many times I've seen or called my parents and thought that maybe I'm quite busy and I haven't really got time for this, but I'll see them next week. I've gone away thinking that it's OK that I didn't see them for very long today because I'll see them in the future.

It's given me a real appreciation for just taking a second to appreciate that when you're with family or a friend, that you don't know necessarily when you might see them again and that's why you have to make the most of the time you have with them. I'm trying to act on it in a positive way, rather than just thinking about why I feel that way because of Dad.

Posing for a portrait, Alistair remembers his dad

It's absolutely OK to cry and be a blubbering mess sometimes. If you try to stop it, you'll feel a lot worse. I know that particularly for men there's this societal pressure to be a strong support and a rock for people, but for your own sake, for men and women, to let your body do what it needs to do. You want to cry because your brain is telling you that you need to process this, to not fight it but to let it happen, then you'll feel that pressure is unloaded.

Johnathan and his father

Jonathan and his father on Christmas Eve 2019 with his new pair of Air Max

Jonathan

My name is Jonathan. The picture of myself and dad was taken on Christmas Eve 2019. We'd had Christmas together for the previous 54 years and it was a tradition we never broke. It was a fabulous event, we went out for a meal and then came back and exchanged gifts here.

My dad was 88 and he was getting old, things were failing. As a son it's really upsetting when parents get older. I would do anything to try and make his life easier. I saw that he was walking badly and he said that the flesh on his feet was getting thinner and thinner and it was painful to walk. He'd never been into a Nike store, but he hobbled in, and then pretty soon we were having him trying on lots of pairs and we fitted him up with a pair of Nike Air Max. He was virtually running around the store, which was really lovely, really heartening. I felt as though I'd knocked off 10 or 15 years!

Jonathan took his dad to the Nike store to buy these Air Max trainers, which dramatically improved his mobility for the last few months of his life

He was so busy, I couldn't keep up with him. I'm half his age, but he was out every night of the week. He would attend choirs, he was in the Greater Manchester Police Choir, the church choir, he was in Probus. I just don't think he liked being at home.

He was the person I'd known longest in my life, he was always there. He was a bit like Switzerland, he never really offered a view, but he was always there to support me and catch me if I fell or tripped. It's three months since he died and I've spent the last three months going to call him every day. So it's been difficult.

He was the 12th coronavirus victim in the UK, so it was right at the very start. The health service and society as a whole didn't know what to do. They didn't know how to process and deal with the virus at that stage. So that was really difficult, because we couldn't go to see him. We were only allowed to see him at the very end with lots of protective equipment, but if he hadn't have had the coronavirus he probably would have been here today, because they would have treated his underlying health issues. It's really, really difficult.

The quiet kitchen. Jonathan's dad died on 13th March, well before lockdown was introduced

He died on Friday 13th, which I just couldn't believe. The last time I saw him, we'd had a chat and I'd said what a cool dad he was, that he'd done a really good job, and he said, "No, I don't think I was that good", which I thought was really sweet. I said goodbye to him and went into the anteroom, where I had to take off all the protective equipment. I was halfway through taking it off and he called me back, but I couldn't go back because the room had a positive air pressure, so I'll never know what he wanted me for. That went with him to the grave.

It sounds really strange, but it'll be very odd when the pandemic ends, because it has felt like a very intimate time, in that we went into shutdown and I could think about my dad's experience, but it was like a shared experience with the whole of the world. I dread to think of other families going through the same thing that we went through. When someone dies of cancer or a heart attack, it's dreadful, but that's the moment. Whereas my dad died on the 13 March and from that point on, coronavirus has been on the news every minute of every hour of every day. It was like someone sticking a knife into the wound all the time, there was no escaping from it. As a family we felt properly battered.

Jonathan reflects on losing someone amid a global pandemic. Seeing it on the news every day has felt like, 'someone sticking a knife into the wound'

Normally if you suffer a bereavement you have the support of family and friends, and we couldn't go and see anyone. We were in lockdown before the country, in our own lockdown, so it's been a very lonely time. Every step along the way was difficult, it felt as though we were unfortunate pioneers. The first funeral director that we went to wouldn't deal with us. It's been unusual.

At his funeral, we only had 10 people there and I liked it because it was nice and quiet. I'd discovered tapes of him singing so we actually played him singing a song on the way out and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. That was really magical.

Philip and his parents

Philip stands with his parents on a summer evening on the balcony of his caravan, located on the north coast of Anglesey. Second image: Philip returns to the caravan to restage the photograph after losing both of his parents within 48 hours to Covid-19

Philip

My name is Philip and the photograph is of me and my parents. We bought this caravan in 2016, and they were very much part of our lives, so they would come for a weekend. We are in the very north of Anglesey. If you think of the island as a clock, then we're at 1 o'clock, overlooking the most northerly lighthouse, Point Lynas.

My dad was a travelling salesman for James Stewart and Co in Ardwick, opposite Manchester Apollo. His turf was Moss Side. He used to sell from a catalogue going door to door and he was well known in the area. He did that for 30-odd years.

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Loved and Lost: grief in the time of coronavirus - a photo essay

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Photographer Simon Bray's project Loved and Lost deals with the loss of loved ones in extraordinary times. He asked each participant to find a photograph of themselves with their lost loved one, and they returned to the location to replicate the image