It’s hard to not be profoundly changed by what has happened in my life over the last couple of years. My mom had breast cancer and my dad had pancreatic cancer — both were metastatic and found at stage 4. How could this be? This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Nothing about our circumstances made sense, but these were the cards that had been dealt. So, as a family, we tried to continue living in the face of our parents’ mortality. There was a lot of joy and light in a time of struggle and darkness, and I look back on that time with great appreciation for the strength and courage my parents showed and the lessons they taught us along the way.
As a photographer, I needed to find a way to process what we were going through as a family. Naturally, my camera and photography became therapeutic and gave me a context within which I could understand what we were going through. It allowed me a safe distance from the reality of what was unfolding in front of me — I was losing my parents and there was nothing I could do about it. My camera became my lifeline, and documenting our story brought a different kind of healing to our pain.
I captured every moment because I needed to hold onto every memory. I wanted to hold onto the essence of who my parents were and who my family was before the moments passed and they were gone.
His and hers
Dad called these “his and hers” chairs. He would sit beside Mom, his partner and wife of 34 years, as they got their weekly chemotherapy treatments at the oncologist’s office. He had just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and she was in treatment for breast cancer, which she had been dealing with for more than 16 years.
Photography put my experience — and this situation — in a context I could understand. I wasn’t thinking, “These are my parents having poison pumped through their bodies.” I was thinking, “Wow, look at that symmetry and light!”
The embrace
I was always doing a dance and wearing multiple hats as both photographer and daughter, trying to be there and support my parents but also observe and thoughtfully tell their story.
As a photographer, you hope your subjects are comfortable with you and ultimately trust you, and here I was with total access to my parents. It was truly amazing but scary at the same time. I asked for transparency so I could be there to help them — but these were my parents, after all, and knowing as much as I did was sometimes too much.
The getaway
My parents weren’t perfect. They had their ups and downs like all couples do, but through it all, there was always a lot of love. I remember this moment very clearly because my dad had just gotten his first round of chemotherapy. Here they were, a moment to themselves, and he had to be silly with her. What you don’t see is the next moment, when my mom smacked his hand away playfully and dove into the water.
They could have hidden away from the world and wallowed in their sadness and fears, but they didn’t. They chose to keep living and loving and experiencing what it meant to be alive.
The wig fitting
Mom was no stranger to losing her hair. She had already lost it twice before, during previous cancer treatments, but that doesn’t make the situation any easier. She also happened to have some of the most gorgeous hair anyone had ever seen. Now she was getting fitted for her third wig at the Rodolfo Valentin salon in New York City. She had given all her older ones away after each cancer diagnosis, not thinking she might need them again.
I showed her this photograph and she commented on how terrible she felt she looked. I had to disagree with her because I thought she looked more beautiful than ever.
Hair humor
We used humor to get through the three years our parents were in treatment for cancer. Of course, there was sadness and anger and confusion, but humor seemed to be the go-to reaction to anything that we went through because our circumstances were unique and we weren’t quite sure how to come to terms with them.
Also, when you have lost your hair as many times as my mom had, using her discarded dreadlocked hair as eyebrows made sense at the time because nothing really made sense anyway.
The kitchen dance
Dad always knew how to make Mom laugh. Even when they both felt terrible after long days of treatment, he found joy in bringing joy to Mom, who was his rock.
His biggest fear was dying before her, leaving her, but he was also scared of outliving her because he felt like he couldn’t survive without her by his side.
On the bathroom floor
When the doctor calls to tell you about your scan results, who takes such an important phone call in the bathroom? My parents did.
As I waited for reactions and information, I saw my mom beginning to wipe tears from her eyes. It turned out to be good news for both of them — the tumors were shrinking. But what if one had good news and the other had bad news? Do you celebrate for yourself and mourn for the other?
The dishes
It was business as usual for Mom, playfully wearing a blond wig and washing the dishes after a family dinner.
What you can’t see in this photograph is that I put the camera down afterward and demanded that she relax, and I took over the washing. She wanted life to be like it was before cancer, even if our lives now were a new “normal.”
The calorie-dense diet
Dad was losing weight fast and needed his caloric intake to increase dramatically, so our family started what we called a calorie-dense diet.
We were in it together. If he was going to gain weight, so were the rest of us, and that meant lots of fried chicken, pizza and anything greasy.
In sickness and in health
Newly engaged, I asked my parents’ doctor if he thought they would be around for an October wedding. His response: “Plan it as soon as possible.” I decided that while October was five months away, they were going to make it there. And they did. Mustering all of their strength, they walked me arm-in-arm down the aisle.
To get this picture, with help from my brother and some of my friends, we rigged a camera in a tree above the chuppah and connected it to a wireless remote. I planned on burying the remote in my bouquet and triggering the shutter as I walked down the aisle, but I made the executive decision to pass that task off to my colleague and focus on being in the moment. I thought my husband would appreciate it. It was such a good feeling, however, to hear the faint tap of the shutter opening and closing above the chuppah during the ceremony. We got the shot.
Do not resuscitate
The air felt strange at the hospital that day. This photograph was taken moments after the nurse attached a “do not resuscitate” bracelet to my father’s left wrist. The decision had been made; if the time were to come, Dad wanted to be left alone so he could die quickly and peacefully.
This also brought a strange sense of relief to him and to the family because he was no longer living life. He was living for treatment and hospital stays, and what kind of life is that? By making this decision for himself, he gave us the gift of not having to decide for him.
The to-do list
Mom’s to-do lists exemplified the simultaneity of life: Order Howie’s headstone, decide regarding radiation, join the gym and start going, and what happened to our Girl Scout cookies?
She tried to maintain a normal way of life the best she could. One task that dragged out for weeks was deciding what would go on my father’s footstone. I think this dragged on so long in part because not only was she grieving the loss of my father but she was also, in a sense, mourning her own death, which was becoming more and more real.
The moment I put the camera down
I’ve spoken a lot about the camera being a therapeutic tool that helped me process what they — what we — were going through and how it also allowed me to be by my parents’ sides and have the strength to support and advocate for them.
There was only one moment when I stopped taking photographs. Dad was having an IV put into his arm and I thought, “I’ve shot this a million times before. Maybe this one time, I’ll put my camera down.” The nurse struggled to find a vein strong enough, and all I remember is that the next moment, I was being escorted into another room and laid onto a bed. I think I started to faint. How odd, having been in that situation so many times before but realizing in that moment that by not having the camera physically in front of my face, distancing myself from the reality of what was in front of me, I truly felt what was happening and my body reacted.
Open after I die
Dad never expected to live as long as he did. His parents died when he was young, also of cancer, so he thought he also would not live very long. Because of this, he decided to write his own eulogy, which he left in an envelope and had given to me. He felt lucky to have had the life and the time that he had, and that perspective has played a significant role in how I have processed and grieved his death. Here are some of his words:
“So my philosophy of life is, it’s a gift, and any amount of years is a gift — and nobody promised me longevity. No one promised me success. Nobody promised me love. Nobody promised me good friends. Nobody promised me a great career. And yet I’ve had all these. So, I’m way ahead in the balloting and in accounting. So I have no regrets because without any guarantees of those things, I’ve been able to achieve them and I’ve been blessed with them for a long, long time.”
Center of attention
Dad was always the center of attention, and here he was, front and center, surrounded by everyone whom he loved and who loved him in his life. He would have loved to be at his own funeral, which is why I imagine he wrote his own eulogy, which was 14 pages long.
Dad left instructions for his funeral. He requested to be buried in his favorite Giants football jersey (Lawrence Taylor, No. 56), his favorite pair of jeans, and his HB baseball cap. Even in death, he was alive in a sense and brought a smile to Mom’s face.
First birthday without him
Birthdays carried new meaning when illness was a part of the equation. Mom turned 59, and not only was this her first birthday in more than 34 years without my dad, unbeknownst to all of us, it would be her last.
Each day was a gift, and we decided to spend this one eating cupcakes and decorating pottery. Mom did not like being in public because she felt she stood out with her bald head and greenish-yellow skin, so I thought, what if we both stood out together? I picked up colorful wigs and tried to make the day as silly and fun as possible for both of us, especially because she had a lot of pain after a recent radiation treatment.
Restoration
When treatment is over and you are left with pain and discomfort, where do you turn? Yes, there were pain meds, but Mom wanted to try other options, like yoga, which she did in the foyer of our home.
At this point, she was in home hospice care, and she was beginning to really struggle with day-to-day activities and tasks. It was difficult to see this because she was always the rock of our family and never let on how much pain she was really in. She was protecting us until the very end. That’s what mothers do.
The mail
Like clockwork, Mom would pick up the mail every afternoon. She did this my whole life.
I remember the day I took this photograph because I was frozen in place when I noticed the mailbox was full. It was clear she had not gotten the mail for at least a week, and this was a sign to me that something had drastically changed in her. She had not left the house in days.
The stories before they’re gone
Jewelry is not that important in the grand scheme of life; however, we decided to talk to Mom about some of her pieces because we wanted to know if any had significance to our family.
She was excited to go down memory lane with us, showing us earrings from our great-grandmother as well as old costume jewelry from her high school days. We knew that once she was gone, the stories would go with her, and we wanted to hold onto whatever we could.
The oxygen machine
The oxygen machine was like an alien in our home. It was large, had all sorts of buttons and cords and made sounds that reminded me of E.T.
We called it Wall-E, after the cartoon character, because personifying this foreign object made it less real and scary. Breathing became very labored for my mom, so extra oxygen provided relief.
Mother and daughter
It had been more than 40 years since Grandma had the opportunity to play the role of mother.
As Mom got weaker, she allowed Grandma to be part of the support network, whether it was by bringing over homemade chicken soup or simply reading a book out loud.
Moses, the therapy dog
There came a point when Mom didn’t want to be touched. She had become so fragile, so tired, so sick.
What didn’t bother her was Moses, a 4-year-old pug/Boston Terrier mix, who would stare into her eyes for hours and cuddle up beside her. He became our therapy dog, bringing calm and unconditional love and laughter into our home.
The fragility of life
As Mom became weaker and almost childlike with each passing day, her children became the parents and caregivers.
There were moments of uncertainty as she lost her ability to communicate. First it was speech, then nodding, and then there was no sign other than the occasional grimace of pain. Dying at home means there are no machines or charts masking the reality of those moments. With the help of an aide, Mom was gently lowered back onto her bed after she suddenly woke up early one morning in severe pain.
Her last breath
There comes a point in the process of watching your loved one die where you almost hope that the process will hurry up and be over. It sounds crazy to say out loud, but as I watched Mom’s chest rise and fall and heard her breathing become slower and more labored, I knew she was already gone.
I also knew she wasn’t afraid of death. It was dying that she feared; so, Universe, please let her suffer no more. For as long as she was sick, she deserved a quick and painless departure. And in a brief moment when we all happened to look up at each other, she took her last breath.
A quiet good-bye
Mom died on December 6, 2014, after battling breast cancer on and off for 18 years. That was exactly one day shy of the one-year anniversary of Dad’s death.
Coincidence? I don’t think so. It felt like déjà vu to be back in the temple, seeing the faces of those who loved Mom and our family and mourning the death of our last parent. While it was unbelievably difficult to be there, I looked around and realized how surrounded by love and support we were. We were not alone.
The shiva room
During shiva, all eyes were on the Borowick kids, and the community banded together to provide love and support for these “adult orphans,” as the rabbi phrased it.
The focus was also on Marion, center, Laurel’s 87-year-old mother, who had just buried her daughter. This is not the way things are supposed to go — but I can’t complain because I had 28 good years with my dad and 29 with my mom, and not everyone gets that lucky.
The footstone
How do you sum up a life in 20 words or less? This was the challenge as my siblings and I struggled to decide what would be carved on our mother’s footstone.
You get a list of adjectives from which to choose: beloved, devoted, loving, caring — but she was so much more in her 59 years than these simple, predetermined descriptions. She was generous, thoughtful, creative, selfless, curious. You can see why this task took us more than a year to complete. The hardest of all, of course, was the bookend the footstone represented, and maybe we weren’t ready to accept that.
Follow Nancy Borowick on Instagram @NancyBorowick.
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