The fragility of life
expressed through photograms
One of the things we learn early on in life is how to walk. At first, we learn how to crawl on all fours, then we discover how to stand on two feet, and eventually, we try to make our first steps. In the beginning, it is a rather wobbly undertaking and more often than we want to we end up on all fours again. But with a helping hand from our mom or dad we - step by step - gain more confidence until walking and running around becomes the most natural thing in the world.
Walking is something we do several times a day without even thinking about it. We just do it. And while we walk, we often do a bunch of other things too: listening to music, scrolling on our phone, paying attention to the traffic around us, talking with someone, thinking about something, enjoying our surroundings and sometimes even taking photos…
But if we are thinking about it, walking is actually quite the task for our body. And a fascinating one too. It is so much more than just using our muscles to move our body.
The communication between our brain, eyes and ears plays a crucial role when we walk. We have a tiny apparatus in our ears - the vestibular system - which is responsible for our body’s posture and equilibrium. It maintains our balance and provides awareness of our body’s spatial orientation. It detects changes, when we move our head, and sends nerve impulses to the brain which then lets our system react accordingly to maintain focus, balance and stability.
All of it happens without us even noticing. It all runs in the background. All we have to do is to decide to get up and move. This decision to walk sets everything automatically in motion. Like the engine of a car when we turn the keys or the software on a computer when we push the on/off button.
It all runs smoothly until it doesn’t. And that is what happened to me a few weeks ago. I woke up one morning feeling a bit dizzy. At first I thought my blood pressure was a bit low and if I just lay down for a few more minutes with my legs up everything would be fine. But then I recognized other problems too: I couldn’t stop my eyes from moving. And every time I tried to get up I got even dizzier and I had to vomit. I felt terrible.
The only thing I was able to do was lie down with my eyes closed. I did that for seven hours, hoping it would all go away. But it didn’t. Instead, I started to get scared. And my husband - who was able to work from home that day - too. We decided to call an ambulance which came a few minutes later and they drove me to the hospital. The neurologist knew - after ruling out a brain hemorrhage and a stroke - what I had. The symptoms were all clear. The nerve of my equilibrium in my inner ear was infected and couldn’t communicate correctly with my eyes (hence the involuntary eye movement) and my brain anymore. This was what caused my symptoms. He started my treatment right away and after two days in the hospital, I was allowed to go home.
In the following days, walking would prove as hard work for me. My vision was still weird, I couldn’t turn my head without getting nauseous and I walked like a dead drunk person. My balance was off and I had to rely on crutches to avoid stumbling or falling. Every move I made, I had to do slowly. I constantly felt like I was walking onboard a ship on a high sea. Every step I made was a conscious decision and needed my full attention. Leisurely walking and looking for things to photograph - as I usually do on my daily walks - wasn’t possible. I was looking down on the sidewalk most of the time so I wouldn’t loose balance. Looking down also helped me narrow my field of vision what minimized the nausea.
It was so frustrating because I wanted to photograph. Nature just started to wake up and I wanted to work on my long-term project of photographing the changes in my local park. Or photographing anything at all.
Do you know the feeling if you really want to do something, but you can’t? The desire, the longing and the frustration of not being able to do it? I felt all that. During the first days of my recovery at home, I couldn’t do much. I wasn’t able to read, watch TV or look at any kind of screen. I couldn’t write or draw. I listened to podcasts and audiobooks, but I am more of a visible type and got bored pretty fast or I couldn’t concentrate long enough.
I called my Dad and told him what had happened to me and he sent me a bouquet of beautiful flowers because he knew that would cheer me up. And it did. I looked at it every day and enjoyed its beauty. As I felt a little better every day, the bouquet slowly started to whither. This was when I got the idea to make some photograms1 using the flowers. I couldn’t walk outside looking for motives, but I was confident to set up my little darkroom and make a few photograms of the withering flowers. And so I did. It was only ten days, but it felt like a lifetime not creating anything.
As I arranged these delicate flowers and petals on the photo paper in my improvised darkroom (aka the guest bathroom) still feeling slightly imbalanced, I once more was reminded of the fleetingness and fragility of life.
As I am writing this - almost four weeks after I got sick - I can happily say I am fully recovered. All the symptoms are gone and with them the limitations I experienced. My life is back to the way it was before. I go on my daily walks with my dog again. I read, I write and I can photograph again.
But the thought that we shouldn't take anything for granted still lingers…
That’s it from me today.
Thank you for being here and for reading this week’s newsletter. It means a lot to me!
X,
Susanne
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A photogram is created by placing objects (flowers in my case) directly onto the surface of a light-sensitive material (I used photo paper) which is then exposed to light. Afterward, the photo paper is developed and fixed in chemical solutions to make the image appear on the paper permanently.
That's a horrible condition to have and quite scary when it first happens - I'm glad to hear you're fully recovered Susanne. When we get floored by something like this it does make us appreciate this amazing body we live in and how fragile it is. Your photograms are beautiful - I particularly like the second one with the bottle and 'falling' petals, it's so delicate.
Glad to hear you are OK. Your words and photos speak to life's fragility and fleetingness. There are deep emotions attached to such moments and they can take a while to process. Be kind to yourself in the coming months. Personally, I had to relearn to walk all over again courtesy of post heart transplant nerve damage. I remember watching other patients in rehab walking up a mock flight of 3 stairs and for months that felt like Mt Everest. Thankfully we do sometimes recover somewhat over the course of time.