Providing Support With A Camera
My experiences over the past two days working as a volunteer photographer for the organization Au-dèla Des Nuages here in Belgium, I feel, highlight succinctly my growth and the challenges that I have faced over during my third quarter as a Watson Fellow, which came to a close this week. I had planned to write a reflective blog about my time and experiences in Belgium much earlier in the month, but due to my schedule filling up faster than I could update my calendar for the past several weeks, I am just getting to writing this. I think there was some fate in that.
Both Monday and Tuesday morning, I had blocked off all hours of my day before lunch to accomplish many of the necessary tasks that had been falling to the bottom of my to-do lists - reconnecting with networks from earlier in the year, finalizing plans for my next quarter, preparing for a presentation I gave on Thursday to the research group that I am collaborating with during my time here, etc. But, on both days calls were put into the Facebook group for photographers volunteering in my region and I was the only one with availability to conduct the sessions.
The onboarding process for this organization typically includes a volunteer serving as a “backup” photographer for two sessions, in order to see the process and make sure they take high enough quality photos, before going out alone. Despite getting the okay to run my own sessions after the standard two shadow experiences, I asked for more time tagging along before setting out on my own. I was able to shadow two more before I was told that I could/should go alone at this point and was past needing to go with another photographer. Plus, my working as a full volunteer gave the organization the ability to serve more families more promptly, especially with my flexible schedule.
With this not-so-gentle nudging, I agreed, despite voices in my head telling me that I was not prepared to do this work by myself. The bizarre thing is what produced that anxiety for me. The organization really preps the volunteers for entering into a room with a bereaved family and deceased babies. And, that is not what I was worried about. I was worried about everything before, after, and in between that interaction. I was nervous about getting to the hospital on time, talking to the nurses, forgetting the word for teddy bear in French, making sure I followed the organizational procedure correctly, etc. The idea of navigating these aspects of a session alone was enough to make my heart jump up 120 beats per minute and for my mouth to go dry.
But, Monday morning, there I was on the tram to the hospital to take photos of twin girls born at 15 weeks’ gestation. From the moment I arrived at the hospital, my anxiety had to leave my body. Or at least appear to have left. I needed to be on-call, ready, and comfortable. In doing this work for the past 9 months, something that has been reiterated to me time and again is the powerful messages that body language convey to the bereaved about your ability to provide support. Thus, if I walked in as a shaking mess, any chance I had to make the parents feel at ease would be gone. Even though I felt like I had no idea what I was doing, when I arrived I talked through consent forms, how the session would run, and set up equipment without hesitation.
Then, on Tuesday morning I did it again. Despite lingering, maybe mounting, worries, I responded to another call for a new hospital to capture some of the only moments that will be spent together for a set of parents and their baby boy “born sleeping” at 31 weeks with a genetic abnormality.
I posed and complimented these babies that their parents were too scared to touch. Doing this work through a camera provides somewhat of a shield. I feel comfortable behind a camera. I know photography. I know aperture, shutter speed, ISO, and how to manipulate them just right to get the desired effects. In my bag, I had a camera body with three lens options, two backup batteries, and a stack of SD cards to be prepared for any and all eventualities. Doing work with this organization in Belgium actually has been part of my effort to weave my hobbies more into my project. My time in the room with the families was spent in complete focus. My anxious thoughts actually did quiet so that I could be fully present in the moment and do the task I was there to do. But, I did still occasionally feel my hands shaking and fingers tense up forgetting what usually can be done simply through muscle memory alone.
With all of the time that I have spent with my face pressed up against my camera, it is hard to think that something so fundamental about the apparatus had been lost on me until recently.
The camera acts as a barrier - it separates me from the subject on the other side of my lens. But it simultaneously illuminates what is opposite me. It brings me much closer to that moment than I would be without the camera. There is a lot of pain and suffering in a room where a mother and father hold the lifeless bodies of their firstborn children. There is beauty in being able to capture those memories. To be able to offer the families something to look back on so that they don’t forget the precious little nose of their daughter or the full lips of their son.
In these sessions, I didn’t question myself on what to say or how to act. I instinctively congratulated the couples on becoming parents - which acknowledges their child and their changed identity despite having no baby to bring home in a car seat. I told them how beautiful their child is, pointing out features, and cooing to the baby as one would do toward an infant that was simply asleep. I allowed moments for talking and felt comfortable when we stood in silence.
This description, though, makes it seem like I spent more time with these families and taking these photos than I did. For my session on Monday, I was in the patient room for 30 minutes. For the session on Tuesday, the parents said that they were done with photos after 13 minutes. Within that time, I had to build connection and rapport, but also do the job that I was tasked to do.
Being in the moment for 13-30 minutes is not necessarily challenging. The moment that I left the hospital space, I analyzed and reanalyzed the interaction. I questioned if I communicated properly. I worried that I was invasive. I was so preoccupied with thoughts that every image I took was blurry or otherwise imperfect that I, multiple times, pulled my camera out of my bag to scroll through the images again. Turns out that looking at them only made my fears worse. During both public transport rides home (which last close to an hour) I could do nothing besides stare into space. I sat thinking about how I potentially destroyed this memorial keepsake for these families, wondering why I put myself in the situation in the first place. I couldn’t even put in earbuds and turn on music because I was so paralyzed by the magnitude of the moment I just entered, and believed that I ruined.
I have a lot of work that I still need to do to be less hard on myself and to acknowledge that I am competent and capable. This organization obviously wouldn’t have allowed me nor encouraged me to do these photo sessions if they didn’t think that I was able to do it and do it well. But even getting external reassurance and validation that I had been able to capture nice and meaningful images hasn’t fully settled my concerns.
Now, looking at the images and reflecting on those interactions, I still find myself focusing a lot on the imperfectness of them. Maybe it is due to ego, being hypercritical of myself, or an idiosyncratic (potentially maladaptive) hang-up I have on the belief that you only live once means that those days should be perfect. (Side note: I wrote another blog post about this, in case you are interested in reading more.) But, it doesn’t matter how perfect, or imperfect, the photos I produced were. My mom reminded me that what these families really wanted were their babies - healthy and alive. These photos were naturally an imperfect substitute, making them all the more meaningful.
In the US, about 4 years ago now, I worked with an infant and family photographer. Some of the clients we met had saved up their money for a year to get photos done professionally. That felt like a lot of pressure at the time. I never physically or emotionally responded to those situations how I did to these shoots in Belgium, though. It simply is not the same pressure. Those families will have other moments, other memories, and other photos.
For the families that I am meeting here, the photos that I take will be the only ones they ever get. For me, what makes it difficult is not the act of taking photos but the feeling that no matter how many I take, or what I or others think of them, they are not good enough. In reality, they aren’t good enough. Good, as it means to be thorough, and as it means to be just. They aren’t good enough because these families get one shot at family photos and one day of images of a child who never took a breath.
I am still reckoning with how to feel satisfied, proud, or accomplished with any of the work that I do during this project. I’m glad that I can offer photos to these families. But learning about this field for the past 9 months, I know that there is so much more that could be done to help support families after child loss. Being here for the past month, I know that there are also a lot of amazing organizations that can offer help to them if they require it, and that it isn't on me to provide these services. I know that grief cannot be solved, nor is it often desired to be. But it is also hard to feel helpless in the face of it, knowing there is only so much that I can do, while also knowing the depth of the need.
In reflecting on my work over the past two days, I can see so much growth has allowed me to be able to enter into those situations in the first place. My other experiences in this quarter and before prepared me to navigate these moments and these challenges.
In New Zealand, the importance of memorials and legacy items was ingrained into me. Chile helped teach me about things that are often useful to say to the bereaved. Maybe more importantly, though, it showed me the power of silence and how to be comfortable with that. This was further reinforced during my time in Senegal. I was encouraged to do a “bereavement follow-up” by my team, which entailed calling and speaking with a mother 3 days after the death of her son. I learned to trust that those around me would not push me into these vulnerable situations if they did not think I was ready and capable. I have been working to trust that and internalize it more myself. But I have made sure to not let fear in those moments stop me from offering support. It is part of the culture in the US not to say anything when we don’t know what to say. That doesn’t work well for grief. Finally, contracting Covid less than a week after my arrival in Kuwait showed me, personally, the power of community, how quickly it can be formed, and how much support it can offer. Entering into the life of a family for less than 15 minutes is intimidating, but it has become clear to me that the quality of the interaction and not the quantity is what matters in making those connections and building a sense of trust, security, and support.
Due to confidentiality reasons, I am unable to share photos from my sessions. But, there are approved photos done by other members of the organization posted on the website, in case you want to see some for yourself.
The work done by the group is amazing and I am honored to be a part of it.
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