What to Say When You Don’t Know What to Say
At this stage of my life, I should understand myself better. I should be able to identify things I shouldn’t do because I will eventually regret having done them. When I posted an article on facebook, a couple of weeks ago, “Not Everything Happens for a Reason: The Magic Words to Say When Everything is Going Wrong”, I meant to enlighten people and help them become better “consolers”. I am facing the third anniversary of my son’s death and this article ‘spoke to me’. So, I posted. I didn’t think it would make people feel bad, or ineffectual, or unappreciated. But, it seems that it might have, and that is regrettable.
I believe that people usually mean well and want to say
something to a grieving person that will help them. I understand and appreciate
that. But, sometimes when people don’t know what to say and rely on platitudes,
or offer advice, it can cause more hurt. Let me explain.
When someone says: “Everything happens for a reason”, or
“It’s God’s plan. We can’t understand it”, I hear that my son suffered and was
taken from me because of “some reason”. Was it something I did, or that he did,
or that my husband did, to deserve punishment? Was there some supposed grand
design that was being fulfilled by Jonathan’s death? What possible good could
ever come out of taking such a sweet, kind, and bright person from this earth?
No matter what explanation could be offered, I really don’t care to hear this,
because no reason will ever be good enough.
These comments don’t make me feel better. They make me angry. Of course,
nobody means to do that.
When someone says: “You have to be strong”, or “You have to
concentrate on the good in your life”, it makes me feel frustrated. Does the
person realize how hard it is to carry on with life when you feel like your
life is over?; or how much work it takes sometimes just to smile, or how it
feels to be surrounded by happiness when you don’t feel happy? Can you tell a
person who smokes to “just be strong” and quit? Many people aren’t even “strong
enough” to control their diets. It’s really hard to “be strong”. You can’t
always keep it up. As for appreciating
the good, I know there is good in my life. But, the loss of my son outweighs an
enormous portion of that good. It doesn’t make up for the horribleness of
losing Jonathan, and I’d trade a whole lot of that good to have him back.
When someone says: “Jonathan wouldn’t want you to be sad”, I
hear that by being sad I am disappointing Jonathan. I wasn’t able to save him and now I’m
compounding that failure by being sad because he wouldn’t want me to be. If I’m
feeling particularly low, I hear that the person offering this advice actually
believes that he/she understood my son better than I have.
I confess that if any of these comments are made by someone
who has suffered a similar loss, it doesn’t feel so off the mark. I don’t know
why that is; it just is. Maybe it’s because I know they understand what I am up
against. The advice is offered from actual experience.
Are these completely rational reactions? Probably not. But,
they are the responses of a person who is grieving. That’s the whole point. We
don’t think like everybody else, and things are heard in a different way.
Please – no need to justify or explain a comment or the intention behind it.
That might be something that the “consoler” needs to do, to feel understood.
But, isn’t this supposed to NOT be about the “consoler”? Isn’t it supposed to
be about comforting the grieving person? And, if one is told that a comment is hurtful,
it’s best to just apologize. The grieving person doesn’t have to try to understand;
it’s best to simply acknowledge the error.
People have asked me what might be an appropriate thing to
say that would comfort a grieving person. I’m definitely not the grief-guru,
but for me, empathy works best. Don’t
try to give me a reason. Don’t be prescriptive. Just tell me that you care
about me, that you know it must be so difficult, that it was an unspeakable
tragedy. Send me hugs – virtual or otherwise. These are words and actions of
empathy. They make me feel understood and not alone. They take away the need to
pretend and take away the feeling of isolation that compounds the pain.
If you knew my son, share some of those stories that I might
not know. Tell me how much you loved him and cherish his memory, or miss him.
Tell me a story about him or about something good that you saw in him. Mention
his name. I love the sound of his name. Tell me what causes you to remember
him. Help me feel like he is not forgotten even though he is gone and will
always be gone. My son was such a huge part of me, and is still so much a part
of me. Though he is gone for three years, I still feel love for him, just as
though he were still alive. If people
forget him it’s as though they have forgotten me, and as though they don’t see
me, because my grief is still such a huge part of me.
One of the most beautiful things people have done for me was
to tell me of a good deed, or an act of kindness that they themselves did, to
honor Jonathan’s memory. One person sponsored a yoga class to raise money for
charity in his memory. These acts were so meaningful and comforting.
Soon after he died, some extraordinary parents at the school
where I work started a group to study Torah
in Jonathan’s memory. My heart will forever be filled with gratitude for those
people who reached out to help me by honoring my son’s memory in this way. We
studied together. They didn’t have to say anything about me or Jonathan. They
didn’t need to offer words of comfort. They simply were being there for me and
with me during a time of need.
There were friends who called or texted or emailed and asked
me every day or every week - “how are you doing today?” (They knew that just
“how are you doing?” was too absurd a question.) Others got me out of the house
for coffee or lunch, or something. They were there with me as supports because
they knew that’s what I needed at the time to face living.
Jonathan’s friends message, call, or text at various points
of the year – his birthday, the anniversary of his death, when something
happens to remind them of him, on their own special occasions like
engagements/weddings, or just to say “hi”. They tell me that they are often
reminded of him and how he touched their lives. They touch my heart. I love
Jonathan’s friends.
Do all of these things have to be done all the time by
anybody and everybody? Of course not. I don’t think that people who grieve
loved ones need a constant salve. But, holidays, birthdays, and family
gatherings are never quite the same anymore. That’s understandable. Jonathan
died the day after Chanukah, or the last day of Chanukah, depending on the calendar.
I think it’s fair to say that Chanukah will never be the same for me. Grieving
my son is like having a terrible chronic illness; sometimes it flares up and
those are the terrible times. I just learn to live with it waxing and waning.
Some dear people email me, message me, text me,
whatever, to say “thinking of you”. Those words help. Today I got a text from a
kind and thoughtful person. “I know this is a hard time for you. I love you and
I hope you find peace and serenity. Call me if you want to talk.” I hear that
and I know I’m not alone. And, I love her back for that. It helps.
This hasn’t been easy to say. It’s not easy laying it all
out there, so at least I hope it helps.
