Finding photography ... again

Pauline died on August 15th. It is difficult for me to think about and I think about it every day. I miss Pauline every day. She was so young and the way she died was beyond tragic. We were on vacation in Montana. The details of what happened are not relevant. I try not to think about the details. We returned to Columbus, our home. All of it was horrible. After the funeral, I went from complete shock to less complete shock and to one of the darkest places I’ve been in my life. I’m not a dark person. I began intensive therapy and I did all that I could to stay breathing. I got myself back into the gym. I started tai chi classes, Pilates and yoga. I tried to eat healthy, and I stayed totally away from alcohol. I declined anti-depressants and medication to help me sleep. I wanted to tackle where I was with as clear a head as I could muster. I said Kaddish three times a day looking at one of my favorite photographs of Pauline.

I’m a pretty neurotic person. I think most people who hold doctorates share this quality. We’re not necessarily the smartest of people; we are the most tenacious and particularly about achieving our life goals. When I have a passion, I’m all in. I can be singularly focused on what I love. I had developed a passion for photography. It had become one of the most enjoyable aspects of my life. I brought this passion with me wherever I went, and I magnified my other passions in life by finding creative ways to capture them with my camera. My photography became a part of my life with my family, with my organization, the Siegel Rare Neuroimmune Association, with my travel adventures with Pauline.

I began a grief journey after Pauline’s death. Grieving, sadness, regret became my singular focus. Doing something I enjoyed seemed out of place with my thoughts and with my mood. I couldn’t think about picking up my camera, let alone taking a photograph. My camera had been in the fire. I had no idea whether heat or smoke had damaged any of the electronic components or the sensor. I finally decided to take it to the camera shop. I told them my story. They did a thorough check of the camera, and miraculously, the camera was fine. The memory cards which held the thousands of photographs I had taken in Montana were also fine. I shoot with a Canon 5D Mark III. I returned from the shop and put the camera back in the bag.

My family and friends surrounded me and sheltered me after Pauline died. I received calls every day. My friends, including those who live overseas, sent me cards, letters, books, and music. I had friends asking me to join them for breakfast, lunch and dinner … regularly. Friends and family texted me and sent me emails daily to check on me. My rabbis checked in with me regularly. And I was in therapy twice a week with a wonderful clinical psychologist. I was surrounded by the most caring and compassionate people, and I had never felt more alone in my life.

I went to temple every Friday night to say Kaddish. I had started going to temple regularly when my father had passed away. Pauline was Catholic. She enjoyed going to temple with me when I asked her to join me. I didn’t often ask. Pauline was an elementary school teacher. After a long week of teaching, she didn’t have the energy to attend a Friday night service. I sat with a man and a woman who also came to services alone. Over time, the three of us became good friends. I would meet Bruce for breakfast, and we would take long walks along the river. My time with Bruce became a good distraction.

When I was in my darkest place, Nancy would meet me and listen. I had known Nancy for years, but we weren’t friends. Our friendship began on Yom Kippur at Yizkor services. It was my first Yizkor service after my father died. The seat next to me was open and she came over and sat down; and started handing me Kleenex. Nancy and I became close friends, and she also got to meet Pauline, and Pauline’s service dog, Kazu. The last time Nancy had seen Pauline was in the spring before Pauline died. It was Nancy’s birthday, and Pauline and I had her over for dinner.

Nancy has a gift. There is a sensitivity and nurturing about her that is unique. She is compassionate and caring and kind in a very special way. The most special part of her is that she doesn’t see anything special about herself. Nancy has worked in hospice. She currently works at a senior center. She brought her remarkable gifts to both jobs. People love Nancy. She never tried to fix me or to help me feel better. She respected my journey and she allowed me to travel it in my way.

Nancy has a ‘thing’ about the moon. Experiencing a full moon rise borders on a spiritual experience for her. On one of our walks, we talked about a full moon that was going to occur, and we discussed finding a good place to watch it. And we talked about my taking photographs of the moon rise. We decided to watch it from a boardwalk over a dam out in the middle of the water. It was early December. I got my camera and tripod ready and met Nancy out in Galena. We stood together on the boardwalk and watched a beautiful sunset and then patiently waited for the moon to appear above the trees in the eastern sky. I found my camera again.

It felt good to use my camera and then to go through my process of working the photographs on my computer. It was like meeting up again with an old friend. Since that day in December, I’ve been on many hikes with Nancy, with my camera.

My passion for photography was reawakened. In some ways, my hikes in the woods and my time capturing photographs has saved me. It has taken my mind off the sadness and the hurt. I live with a hole in my heart. I’m not trying to fill the hole. Losing Pauline and missing Pauline is my life, as much as all my experiences with Pauline are a part of my life. Nancy helped me to find life again in my life. She encouraged me and she helped me to feel normal about finding passion back in my life.