Tagged Photography

Covid Victims Remembered Through Their Objects

The special project “What Loss Looks Like” presents personal artifacts belonging to those who have left us and explores what they mean to those left behind.

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As the art director of the Well desk, I’ve spent the last year looking for images to reflect the devastation of the pandemic and the grief it has wrought. As the crisis has stretched on, I’ve thought of all the people who have lost loved ones to Covid-19 — not to mention those who have lost loved ones, period — and how they were cut off from the usual ways of gathering and grieving. Watching the numbers rise every day, it was easy to lose sight of the people behind the statistics. I wanted to find a way to humanize the death toll and re-establish the visibility of those who had died.

To help our readers honor the lives of those lost during the pandemic, we decided to ask them to submit photographs of objects that remind them of their loved ones. The responses were overwhelming, capturing love, heartache and remembrance. We heard from children, spouses, siblings, grandchildren and friends — people who had lost loved ones not only to Covid-19 but from all manner of causes. What united them was their inability to mourn together, in person.

Dani Blum, Well’s senior news assistant, spent hours speaking with each individual by phone. “It’s the hardest reporting I’ve ever done, but I feel really honored to be able to tell these stories,” she said. “What struck me the most about listening to all of these stories was how much joy there was in remembering the people who died, even amid so much tragedy. Many of these conversations would start in tears and end with people laughing as they told me a joke the person they lost would tell, or their favorite happy memory with them.”

The photographs and personal stories, published digitally as an interactive feature, was designed by Umi Syam and titled “What Loss Looks Like.” Among the stories we uncovered: A ceremonial wedding lasso acts as a symbol of the unbreakable bond between a mother and father, both lost to Covid-19 and mourned by their children. A ceramic zebra figurine reminds one woman of her best friend, who died after they said a final goodbye. A gold bracelet that belonged to a father never leaves his daughter’s wrist because she is desperate for any connection to his memory.

For those who are left behind, these items are tangible daily reminders of those who have departed. These possessions hold a space and tell a story. Spend time with them and you begin to feel the weight of their importance, the impact and memory of what they represent.

Museums have long showcased artifacts as a connection to the past. So has The New York Times, which published a photo essay in 2015 of objects collected from the World Trade Center and surrounding area on 9/11. As we launched this project, we heard from several artists who, in their own work, explored the connection between objects and loss.

Shortly after Hurricane Sandy, Elisabeth Smolarz, an artist in Queens, began working on “The Encyclopedia of Things,” which examines loss and trauma through personal objects. Kija Lucas, a San Francisco-based artist, has been photographing artifacts for the past seven years, displaying her work in her project “The Museum of Sentimental Taxonomy.”

Saved: Objects of the Dead” is a 12-year project by the artist Jody Servon and the poet Lorene Delany-Ullman, in which photographs of personal objects from deceased loved ones are paired with prose to explore the human experience of life, death and memory. And the authors Bill Shapiro and Naomi Wax spent years interviewing hundreds of people and asking them about the most meaningful single object in their lives, gathering their stories in the book “What We Keep.”

As the pandemic continues to grip the nation, the Well desk will continue to wrestle with the large-scale grief that it leaves in its wake. Other features on this topic include resources for those who are grieving, the grief that’s associated with smaller losses, and how grief affects physical and psychological health. As for “What Loss Looks Like,” we are keeping the callout open, inviting more readers to submit objects of importance, to expand and grow this virtual memorial and provide a communal grieving space.

In Mexico, Midwives Step in as Covid Overshadows Childbirth

Doctors released Alejandra Guevarra Villegas, 19, from the operating room after delivering her baby girl by emergency C-section in San Luis Acatlán, a small town in the Costa Chica zone in the Mexican state of Guerrero.
Doctors released Alejandra Guevarra Villegas, 19, from the operating room after delivering her baby girl by emergency C-section in San Luis Acatlán, a small town in the Costa Chica zone in the Mexican state of Guerrero.

In Mexico, Childbirth in Covid’s Shadow

Midwives and doctors struggle to help women give birth safely during the grim days of the pandemic.

Doctors released Alejandra Guevarra Villegas, 19, from the operating room after delivering her baby girl by emergency C-section in San Luis Acatlán, a small town in the Costa Chica zone in the Mexican state of Guerrero.Credit…

  • Dec. 22, 2020, 3:00 a.m. ET

Rafaela López Juárez was determined that if she ever had another child, she would try to give birth at home with a trusted midwife, surrounded by family. Her first birth at a hospital had been a traumatic ordeal, and her perspective changed drastically afterward, when she trained to become a professional midwife.

“What women want is a birth experience centered on respect and dignity,” she said. She believes that low-risk births should occur outside hospitals, in homes or in dedicated birth centers, where women can choose how they want to give birth.

In late February, Ms. López and her family were anticipating the arrival of her second child at their home in Xalapa, Mexico, while following the ominous news of the encroaching coronavirus pandemic. She gave birth to Joshua, a healthy baby boy, on Feb. 28, the same day that Mexico confirmed its first case of Covid-19. Ms. López wondered how the pandemic would affect her profession.


Rafaela López and her partner, José Hernández, awaiting the birth of their baby, with Rafaela’s daughter, Johana, 11, nearby.

Accompanied by midwife Pilar Victoria Rosique, Rafaela López Juárez tried to manage intensifying contractions when her labor started inside her home. Her partner José recorded the timing of the contractions.

Rafaela López examined Jessica Garcia Pérez, 32, while Ms. Garcia’s son took a photo during a prenatal home visit in Xalapa, Veracruz.

About 96 percent of births in Mexico take place in hospitals that are often overcrowded and ill-equipped, where many women describe receiving poor or disrespectful treatment. The onset of the pandemic prompted concern that pregnant women might be exposed to the virus in hospitals, and women’s health advocates in Mexico and globally expressed hope that the crisis might become a catalyst for lasting changes to the system.

A national movement has made determined but uneven progress toward integrating midwifery into Mexico’s public health system. Some authorities argue that well-trained midwives would be of great value, especially in rural areas but also in small nonsurgical clinics throughout the country. But so far, there has been insufficient political will to provide the regulation, infrastructure and budgets needed to employ enough midwives to make a significant difference.

During the first few months of the pandemic, anecdotal evidence suggested that midwifery was gaining traction in the country. Midwives all over Mexico were inundated with requests for home births. The government encouraged state authorities to set up alternative health centers that could exclusively focus on births and be staffed by nurses and midwives.

As Covid outbreaks spread, health authorities around the country started to see sharp declines in prenatal consultations and births in hospitals. At the Acapulco General Hospital in Mexico’s Guerrero state, Dr. Juan Carlos Luna, the maternal health director, noted a 50 percent decline in births. With skeletal staffs at times working double shifts, doctors and nurses pushed through under dire conditions. “Nearly everyone on my team has tested positive for the virus at some point,” Dr. Luna said.


Funeral workers remove the body of a patient who died from Covid-19 at the General Hospital in Acapulco, Guerrero, Mexico.

Employees of a German company, Sanieren, based in Mexico City, sanitized the Covid triage area of the Acapulco General Hospital.

Medical personnel assisted María de Jesús Maroquín Hernández, preparing her for discharge from the Covid-19 intensive care unit at the Acapulco General Hospital.

María de Jesús Maroquín Hernández contracted Covid when she was 36 weeks pregnant, and was hospitalized for five days at Acapulco General Hospital, four hours from her home near Ometepec, Guerrero, Mexico. Later, she gave birth to a baby girl, who she and her husband named Milagro, Spanish for miracle.

Inside the Covid-19 intensive care unit at Acapulco General, doctors treated María de Jesús Maroquín Hernández. She had developed breathing problems at 36 weeks pregnant, prompting her family to drive her four hours to the hospital. Doctors isolated Ms. Maroquín while her family waited outside, watching funeral workers carry away the dead Covid patients and worrying that she would be next. She was discharged after five days and soon gave birth, via emergency cesarean section, in a hospital near her home. She and her husband decided to name their baby girl Milagro — miracle.


A central hub for dozens of mostly indigenous communities, San Luis Acatlán, a small town in the Costa Chica area of Mexico’s Guerrero state, became a “zone of high contagion” during the pandemic. Signs warned residents to wear masks.

Soldiers guard the Ometepec General Hospital in Mexico’s Guerrero state. As the Covid pandemic intensified, the public sometimes stormed hospitals and threatened doctors.

Ometepec General Hospital was nearly empty at times, as the public shunned hospitals in fear. State health authorities had ordered the reconfiguration of many public hospitals to create separate Covid and non-Covid sections.

In Mexico’s Indigenous communities, women have long relied on traditional midwives, who have become even more important today. In Guerrero, some women have given birth with midwives at dedicated Indigenous women’s centers called CAMIs (Casas de la Mujer Indígena o Afromexicana), where women can also seek help for domestic violence, which CAMI workers say has increased. But austerity measures related to the pandemic have deprived the centers of essential funding from the federal government.

Other women have chosen to quarantine in their communities, seeking help from midwives like Isabel Vicario Natividad, 57, who keeps working though her own health conditions make her vulnerable to the virus.


Salustria Leonídez Constancia and her daughter in-law, Citlali Salvador de Jesús, examining Juliana Toribio Teodoro, 27, in Yoloxóchitl, a small Mixteco community located near San Luis Acatlán in Mexico’s Guerrero state.

Midwife Alma Delia Felipe Hidalgo attending a birth at Casa de la Mujer Indígena Nellys Palomo Sánchez, in San Luis Acatlán, a small town in the Costa Chica zone of Guerrero state.

In the remote community of Pueblo Hidalgo, in the Southern mountains of Guerrero state, Isabel Vicario Natividad, a midwife, approached the home of one of her clients, Guillermina Francisco Flores, 38, pregnant with her fifth child.

As Covid-19 cases surged in Guerrero, state health authorities reached out to women and midwives in remote areas with potentially high rates of maternal and infant mortality.

“If the women are too afraid to come to our hospitals, we should go find them where they are,” said Dr. Rodolfo Orozco, the director of reproductive health in Guerrero. With support from a handful of international organizations, his team recently began to visit traditional midwives for workshops and to distribute personal protective equipment.


Ms. Vicario performing a prenatal check on Ms. Flores.

Melquiades Villegas Feliciano, 23, supporting his wife, Luisa Ortega Cantu, while Ms. Vicario helped the couple prepare for the birth of Ms. Ortega’s third child.

Luisa Ortega Cantu’s newborn was kept attached to the umbilical cord and placenta for several minutes after delivery, a practice of traditional midwives.

Isabel Vicario with Ms. Ortega’s baby.

In the capital city of Chilpancingo, many women discovered the Alameda Midwifery Center, which opened in December 2017. During the initial phase of the pandemic, the center’s birth numbers doubled. In October, Anayeli Rojas Esteban, 27, traveled two hours to the center after her local hospital could not accommodate her. She was pleasantly surprised to find a place with midwives who actually allowed her to give birth accompanied by her husband, José Luis Morales.

“We are especially grateful that they did not cut her, like they did during her first hospital birth,” Mr. Morales said, referring to an episiotomy, a surgical procedure that is routine in hospital settings but increasingly seen as unnecessary.


Hoping to avoid the coronavirus, many women in Mexico sought maternity care at places like the Alameda Midwifery Center in Chilpancingo in Guerrero. During the initial months of the pandemic, the center’s birth numbers doubled.

Members of the Maternal Health Unit of the Guerrero health care sector teaching local midwives about Covid protection measures and breast cancer detection methods.

Midwives who took part in the course by the Maternal Health Unit received a set of P.P.E.

Anayeli Rojas Esteban, 27, tries giving birth in a standing position at the Alameda Midwifery Center.

While Mexico’s state health authorities struggled to contain the virus, the situation in the nation’s capital further illustrated the dangers and frustrations that women felt.

In the spring, health authorities in Iztapalapa, the most densely populated neighborhood of Mexico City, scrambled as the area became a center of the country’s coronavirus outbreak. The city government converted several large public hospitals in Iztapalapa into treatment facilities for Covid-19 patients, which left thousands of pregnant women desperate to find alternatives. Many sought refuge in maternity clinics such as Cimigen, where the number of births doubled and the number of prenatal visits quadrupled, according to the clinic’s executive director, Marisol del Campo Martínez.

Other expectant mothers joined the growing ranks of women seeking a home birth experience, for safety reasons and to avoid a potentially unnecessary cesarean section. In Mexico, roughly 50 percent of babies are delivered via C-section, and pregnant women face pressure from peers, family members and doctors to have the procedure.

In July, Nayeli Balderas, 30, who lived close to Iztapalapa, reached out to Guadalupe Hernández Ramírez, an experienced perinatal nurse and the president of the Association of Professional Midwives in Mexico. “When I started to research about humanized birth, breastfeeding, et cetera, a whole new world opened for me,” Ms. Balderas said. “But when we told our gynecologist about our plan, her whole face changed, and she tried to instill fear in us.” Undaunted, Ms. Balderas proceeded with her home birth plan.

Her labor, when it came, was long and increasingly difficult. After 12 hours, Ms. Balderas and her husband conferred with Ms. Hernández and decided to activate their Plan B. At 3 a.m., they rushed to the private clinic of Dr. Fernando Jiménez, an obstetrician-gynecologist and a colleague of Ms. Hernández, where it was decided that a C-section was needed.


Janet Jarman

Juan Luis de la Torre Islas joined dozens of other parents waiting to receive vaccinations for their children at Cimigen, a small maternity hospital in Iztapalapa, Mexico City’s most populous and most densely populated delegation, that had become the epicenter of the virus.

Nayeli Balderas, 30, in labor, with her husband, Javier Basilio Lara, 31, in their Mexico City apartment, where they hoped she would give birth. Ms. Balderas had expected a hospital birth, but after the pandemic began, the couple decided to try for a home birth to avoid the coronavirus.

After hours of labor, Ms. Balderas’s baby still had not rotated into the right position for birth. The nurse midwives advised different birthing positions, but the infant still would not budge. Twelve hours later, the midwives took her to a small, private clinic for a cesarean birth.

Ms. Balderas with her son, born by cesarean section in a small private clinic at 4 a.m.

Maira Itzel Reyes Ferrer, 26 and her husband, Hugo Alberto Albarran Jarquin, 33, attended a class offered by an obstetric nurse and a 92-year-old traditional midwife who together blend traditional practices and modern medicine. Ms. Reyes had her first child a week later.

Elva Carolina Díaz Ruiz, the obstetric nurse, massaged Ms. Ferrer as her contractions begin to intensify. Pilar, her midwife, right, was in attendance.

In September, on the other side of Mexico City, Maira Itzel Reyes Ferrer, 26, had also been researching home births and found María Del Pilar Grajeda Mejía, a 92-year-old government-certified traditional midwife who works with her granddaughter, Elva Carolina Díaz Ruiz, 37, a licensed obstetric nurse. They guided Ms. Reyes through a successful home birth.

“My family admitted that they were sometimes worried during the birth,” Ms. Reyes said. “But in the end, they loved the experience — so much so that my sister is now taking a midwifery course. She already paid and started!”

As winter begins, Mexico is confronting a devastating second wave of the coronavirus. Hospitals in Mexico City are quickly running out of space. The much-discussed government midwifery birth centers have not yet come to fruition, and medical workers at prestigious hospitals like the National Institute of Perinatology, or INPer, are working around the clock.

Early on in the pandemic, INPer personnel discovered that roughly one-quarter of all women admitted to the hospital were testing positive for the coronavirus. Administrators set up a separate Covid-19 ward, and Dr. Isabel Villegas Mota, the hospital’s head of epidemiology and infectious disease, succeeded in securing adequate personal protective equipment for the staff. Not all frontline workers in Mexico have been this lucky; the Covid-19 fatality rate for medical personnel in Mexico is among the highest in the world.


Grecia Denise Espinosa tested positive for the coronavirus at the National Institute for Perinatology in Mexico City, and was admitted to the Covid unit where she gave birth by cesarean.

Minutes after the births, Ms. Espinosa’s twins were examined and tested for the virus.

Because Ms. Espinosa and her babies were in good condition, doctors encouraged her to breastfeed, provided that she wore a mask and face shield. 

When Grecia Denise Espinosa learned she was pregnant with twins, she made plans to give birth at a well-known private clinic. But she was shocked by the high cost and decided to consult doctors at INPer instead. To her surprise, when she entered the hospital in November, she tested positive for the virus and was sent to the Covid-19 unit, where doctors performed a C-section.

Maternal health advocates have long said that Mexico’s obstetric model must change to center on women. If ever there were a moment for health authorities to fully embrace midwifery, now is the time, they say, arguing that the thousands of midwives throughout the country could help alleviate pressure on an overburdened and often distrusted health care system while providing quality care to women.

“The model that we have in Mexico is an obsolete model,” said Dr. David Meléndez, the technical director of Safe Motherhood Committee Mexico, a nonprofit organization. “It’s a model in which we all lose. The women lose, the country loses, and the health system and medical personnel lose. We are stuck with a bad model at the worst moment, in the middle of a global pandemic.”

Sunset over the Casas de la Mujer Indígena o Afromexicana in Guerrero.
Sunset over the Casas de la Mujer Indígena o Afromexicana in Guerrero.

Janet Jarman is a photojournalist and documentary filmmaker based in Mexico, and director of the feature documentary “Birth Wars.” She is represented by Redux Pictures.

Ready, Set, Hold That Pose! Have Smartphones Ruined Racing?


A racer poses for a selfie at the 13-mile marker of the Big Sur International Marathon.

A racer poses for a selfie at the 13-mile marker of the Big Sur International Marathon.Credit Courtesy of the Big Sur International Marathon

At a recent 5K in Boston, I got off to an aggravatingly sluggish start. I couldn’t get going, not really, because runners around me took pictures and videos of themselves beginning the race. Then I nearly barreled into a runner who came to a dead stop to take a picture of the pros who had started the race waves ahead of us as they came across the finish. When I reached the point in the race that crosses over the finish line to the Boston Marathon, where an announcer repeated loudly over and over that runners should not stop to take selfies, two runners just ahead of me did anyway, mucking up the path of the runners behind them. I snapped and yelled, loudly, “Just run!”

I’ve been running for 10 years, and there have always been inconsiderate racers who do whatever they want, wherever and whenever they want. But with the advent of smartphones, such incidents have blossomed.

Smartphones can be powerful running tools: They track your progress and location, play your music and podcasts, and can serve as a safety device in case you get lost or need assistance. Race officials have also created apps to keep runners up to date with what’s going on during race weekend or, in the case of an emergency, during the race itself.

But smartphones have also become social media spouts for runners to take selfies, FaceTime a family member on a crowded course, or chat on the phone in the middle of a race, oblivious to the people behind and around them.

According to Running USA, a nonprofit group that tracks data and trends on running, 61 percent of runners regularly run with a cellphone, most commonly to play music, track mileage and workouts, map routes and use GPS features. The group found that millennials and Gen Xers are most likely to run with their cellphones, and also most likely to use social media channels to share running-related activities.


Racers pose for a photo as they run the Big Sur International Marathon.

Racers pose for a photo as they run the Big Sur International Marathon.Credit Courtesy of the Big Sur International Marathon

“Tech is just such an important part of sport in general, whether it’s nutrition, training information, event information, fitness tracking — there’s so many uses or applications for technology now,” said Rich Harshbarger, the chief executive of Running USA.

While he knows that this can cause some friction in races, he sees social media as having helped the sport. “It has made the sport more accessible, less intimidating, and I think it encourages participation,” he said. That finish line photo, or sharing a training run on Twitter, can help runners find others who are doing similar events, and encourage them to train or run a race together. Seeing people just like you doing this thing they love can also inspire you to try it too.

While race directors are embracing the technology to enhance their events, they are also coming up with creative ways to deal with the downside of smartphones.

Many runners elect to take on the grueling hills of the Big Sur International Marathon because of its breathtaking views along the coast of California. The marathon’s race director, Doug Thurston, knows that most will be taking pictures during the race.

“I don’t think you could ever” ban runners from taking photos, he said. “And I don’t think you want to do that.” He just wants runners to do so safely, and to be considerate of others on the course.

The Big Sur marathon’s safety rules specifically ask runners to move “to the far left side of the road or the dirt shoulder before taking pictures.” The course also has designed mile markers with ample space around them where people can stop to take pictures.

“We have iconic images on our course, and that’s what we’re known for,” Mr. Thurston said. “We encourage people to document and catalog their experiences. But we encourage them to do it safely, with minimal effects to other participants.”

In 2014, after a series of much publicized incidents, including one woman who ran the New York City Half Marathon snapping selfies at every mile with a different man in the background of each picture, the New York Road Runners added a section to their code of conduct under the label “Mobile Devices” that says using smartphones for pictures and social media updates during any of their races is “strongly discouraged, as it decreases your awareness of other participants around you.” They have also banned selfie sticks entirely from races.

“It’s part of the changing landscape of what’s going on here and in the world. It’s an evolution,” said Peter Ciaccia, president of events for the New York Road Runners and race director of the New York City Marathon. “We don’t want to be the run police. We want everybody to come out and have a good time, and the message we keep driving home is that everyone should be respectful of each other and be aware of what’s going on around them.”

Mr. Harshbarger of Running USA, who spends a lot of time in airports while traveling for his job, points out that the problem isn’t limited to races. If “someone is walking in the middle of the airport terminal texting and weaving all over, I want to ask, ‘Can you just get out of the way, because I have a connection?’”

Or, as I might yell, “Just move!”

Jen A. Miller is the author of “Running: A Love Story.”


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