The Hardest Photograph I’ve Ever Had to Choose

I took this photo of my mom, Diane Fetzer, on July 9, 2014.

When you become an orphan, you think about things differently. I am now convinced that as a storyteller I may think about things even more differently than most. I have always been an over-analyzer, but the past few days take the cake. When you are the responsible party for how someone is immortalized through words and imagery—it is a lot of pressure. I know much of it is self-imposed because, let’s face it, Mom literally told me she didn’t care what I did. Time here is fleeting, and people forget quickly, so does it matter? I’ve been told more than once that most of this doesn’t really matter, but as a historian I struggle to agree, and therefore I continue (over) analyzing every detail.

Writing the obituary for my mom and choosing what image to go with it has been painful in so many ways. For decades I have appreciated the fact that my photos have been used for funerals. I have photographed many people in varying scenarios, but even more memorial images have come from the countless church directory and school photos I’ve taken. Each year, when I teach my students the basics of lighting, I remind them that while these may not be the most exciting images ever created, for some, they may be the only photos ever taken. That wasn’t the case for Mom. As my mother, she was naturally in a lot of photos. But narrowing down what to use hasn’t just been a matter of choosing from a broad collection—there is much more to the story.

She didn't like to smile with any of her teeth showing, but I loved her smile.

She had health problems looming for years, and I didn’t take as many individual photos of her that I would deem “good enough” for this moment—even though I knew I would eventually have to make this decision. I took photos of us together, or of her with family, but even with the knowledge that this day would arrive, I couldn’t bring myself to think ahead to her funeral photo. Honestly it was because that wasn’t the version of Mom I wanted to document.

The battle in my mind these past few days has been: which version of my mom do I show the world? The Diane Fetzer everyone knew and loved up until 2014, those first 65 years of her life, or the version of her since then—the unhealthy one? As a matter of history, I know it should be the most recent. You can usually tell when obituary photos are outdated treasures of earlier years. As a portrait artist, those always tug at my heart because I wish I could have helped make a beautiful, updated portrait for those families. But now that I’ve faced this myself, I understand. Maybe those families chose older photos for another reason—because that image captured their loved one in a happy and healthy season of life. They wanted that one photograph to showcase their legacy. And when it came time to choose for my own mom, I realized I felt the same way.

For my mom, that certainly rings true. Photos from the past decade show a different woman. So for the obituary I eventually opted for one taken on my cell phone a handful of years ago, when she was standing on her own and surrounded by her grandkids and son-in-law. It reflected who she was closer to the end—yet still not hindered by a walker or wheelchair, though not the go-getting Mom I’ll always remember. That version is the one my kids knew best, but her true legacy lives in the ambitious, faith-filled, and vibrant years before—years marked not only by joyful memories but also by hardships she endured while always looking to God for strength. Those are the years many of us will always remember her by, which is exactly what made choosing her photo such a hard decision.

Mom moved to New Ulm when I was pregnant with Bridger so she could be closer to us. Dad had been in Heaven for years, the farm was gone, and her parents had passed, so she thought, why not? We took advantage of every opportunity to spend time together. It wasn’t always easy with little kids, but she always had ideas for fun things New Ulm offered. I looked forward to the day when our kids would go to MVL and be able to pop into her apartment between high school events.

That never came to be. In the summer of 2014, everything changed. In the blink of an eye, I was racing home from our family vacation in Colorado to care for a different version of my mother. The following weeks turned into hospital visits, moving her into an assisted living facility, and trying to get her the help she needed. Even though God’s reasons aren’t always what we want, this new version of our mom became the norm. I kept thinking I was too young to deal with any of that, and I still have a hard time understanding why it happened the way it did. She wasn’t even old enough for Medicare, yet suddenly I was the one who had to convince her to do things. I often found myself arguing with her about participating in activities. She was an insanely stubborn woman, and sometimes I just gave up when she told me she didn’t want to go anywhere. COVID only made things worse. Talking through the window on her 70th birthday was torture, but even harder were the last five years of her life, much of which she spent sitting in her recliner doing nothing—a far cry from the woman who had never been able to sit properly on a chair because she couldn’t sit still long enough.

There were still bright moments, and events I felt as big wins when she joined in. I of course documented each adventure, and sometimes even the countless doctor and ER visits because documentation is simply how I cope.

Only one week before that 2014 vacation we rushed home from, I took all of these posed photos of Mom. Her class was going to be celebrating their 45th class reunion and she needed a photo. I am so thankful we did this. She had written that she would be back before homecoming and wouldn't be joining their main celebration. Mom, my kids and I went back to Winner, SD that fall, and sadly that was the last time she returned home. Ironically, Facebook reminded me today that it was Labor Day weekend—11 years ago. It was an amazing, and very full weekend of fun and family. Now, in just a few days we return again, but for a very different reason. Funerals bring family together, and I do look forward to seeing relatives I haven’t seen in way too long.

Her world all in one place that Labor Day weekend in 2014.

In one week, all of this will be over—the over-analyzing, planning, sorting, and arranging. I know my pain will eventually subside, but even though I’ve been bracing for this for a decade, the grief is more real and raw than I ever expected. What remains, though, is the legacy of faith, family, and love that lives on in both our hearts and in the photographs that preserve Mom’s story—each image capturing a different facet of her life, from her strength and ambition, to her joy as a mother and grandmother, and even through the difficult years of illness—for generations to come.

Pretty sure a little kid took this for us, and I love it.

Dad and Mom are now both enjoying Heaven together. This may be the first posed portrait I ever took. Circa 1989.

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The Hardest Photograph I’ve Ever Had to Choose

I took this photo of my mom, Diane Fetzer, on July 9, 2014.

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