The Work of Grief

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In one four-week period, starting the Saturday before Christmas, I attended two funerals. One for a 52-year-old man, and one for a man who was 83. Both men lived life well. Both left loved ones behind, who will forever bear the scars of their absence. Both men of great faith, who faced death without fear.

I know the sting of grief. A bit too well, if you ask me. My sweet mother fought a brave battle with an acoustic neuroma, a brain tumor, before she passed away in May of 2004 at the age of 62. For more than four months, she faced numerous surgeries, hospital stays, and lengthy recuperation times at home, as well as a brief stint in a rehab hospital.

Her death, after so many highs and lows, shook us all, her family and her many, many friends. The grief came, and still comes almost 10 years later, in waves. But while there's not a day -- really, not a minute -- that I don't miss her, and wish to rewrite history, I have emerged  in many ways stronger through that experience.

There are so many things I didn't know or understand until I went on that journey with her. I learned so much about what to do and say, and alternately, what not to do and say.

I read an article by David Brooks called The Art of Presence in the NY Times (read it here), that really impressed me. In his article, and a blog by Catherine Woodiwiss that he references, he talks about what to do, and also what not to do, when someone you love is grieving.

I loved the points that were made. They were good. Indulge me, for a moment, the opportunity to expand on some of them, and add a few of my own.

Show up. Just, be there. I have so many wonderful memories of people who appeared at the moment we needed them. And here's the thing. They literally just showed up. We didn't call them and say, "Oh, by the way, my mom is going to be in surgery for six hours, and we'd like you to hang out with us." But, for each of her three surgeries, we had a waiting room full of people. Some expected, and some not. One of my dad's former employers, whose own son had a brain tumor as a child, appeared in the waiting room. It was Good Friday. He had plenty of other things to do. I hadn't seen him in years. Literally, years. But his presence was so welcome.

I could list so many examples of people who were present when we needed them, and to list all of them would fill up way too many pages. But my heart is warmed when I remember the friends who sat with us, the friends who came to the viewing and/or the funeral, the friends who visited and didn't let us languish in our grief alone. From the friend who flew across the country to be with me, to the childhood friends who I hadn't seen in 20 years who still showed up, their presence mattered to me.

Do something. When a family friend was going through a crisis, I called and asked if there was anything I could do. She said they needed toilet paper. Of course they did. Because while their son was dying, life was still going on for the living. So I went out and bought them a huge package of toilet paper and dropped it off.

I remember friends, after I returned, who didn't know my mother, had in fact never met her, but they brought me a HUGE pile of groceries. I mean, bag after bag after bag, filled with everything from produce to pantry staples to a few gourmet things.

During a family crisis, it feels like life should stop, but it doesn't. There's still laundry that needs to be washed, food that needs to be eaten, plants that need to be watered, bills that need to be paid, animals that need to be taken care of. So do it. Just, do it.

Don't say, 'Call if you need anything.' Until my own experience with my mother, I said this all. the. time. But now that I've walked through the valley of grief, it's my least favorite phrase, even though it is said with the very very best of intentions. It really is. But here's why it rubs me the wrong way: When someone we love is suffering, we want to help, but we don't know how. So we say, 'If you need anything, call,' and then it makes us feel better. We rationalize our lack of action as, 'Well, we said to call if they needed anything, and they didn't call, so they must be ok.'

The truth is, they probably need so much more than they can articulate. And, in my experience, when I needed something -- food, someone to talk to, an errand, whatever -- I was too consumed in my own sadness to even think clearly who to call. It's not like I could think that I didn't have any more clean clothes, and so-and-so offered if I needed anything, so I'm going to call them and ask them to do my laundry. It doesn't work like that.

We say it to make ourselves feel better, but that's all it really does -- make us feel better. So instead of saying it, do it. Gift card, groceries, a dropped off meal, a thoughtful card are all far better options than waiting for the person swallowed by grief to pick up the phone.

Remember, it's not about you. Grief is a common emotion. Most of us have experienced something tragic, or the loss of someone precious to us. But, while we may have walked through that valley, using someone else's grief to unload your own sorrow doesn't really help. In fact, it can make it a lot worse. There may very well come a time when you have the opportunity to share your experience, but that time will be in the distant future.

Let them have their own time to grieve. Last year, a dear friend lost his father, and posted it on Facebook. I was surprised, and saddened, at how many people posted their own stories of loss under his announcement. That's not the time.

Along those lines, be mindful of your words.

I distinctly remember someone saying to me, not long after my mother passed away, "I know exactly how you feel. I haven't spoken to my mother in five years."

Um, yeah. That's the same thing.

There really isn't an appropriate response to such a thoughtless statement. We were, thankfully, interrupted in that moment, so I didn't have to respond. But, those comments happened a lot. I had someone tell me I should be thankful she didn't suffer longer, because her mother suffered for years. I had people tell me it was God's will, for the best, blah blah blah blah blah. I even had someone suggest that my mother had sinned, which is why God didn't heal her (true story).

But here's the thing: people almost always say the wrong thing for the right reason. They don't intend to be hurtful, of course. They intend to offer words of encouragement. So however misguided those words might be, I had to remember that their intention was not to harm.

We say the wrong thing, or don't say anything, because we don't know what to say. But it's really very simple. The only thing that needs to be said is, 'I'm sorry.' That's it. Two words. Three syllables. 'I'm sorry.'

Remember. The pain doesn't end in a few days, or weeks, or even years. In Woodiwiss' blog, she talks about how some people are firefighters and some are builders, and both are needed. Some people will respond to the immediacy of the situation, and some will stay long after the funeral. Both are important.

Grief is a marathon, not a sprint. I shared with someone, about a year after my mother died, that I was really missing her, and she said, "You really should be over that by now."

She hadn't yet lost anyone close to her, so I forgave her completely inaccurate and foolish comment, but the truth is, grief is the gift that keeps on giving. Long after the sympathy cards stop, long after the phone calls cease, long after the funeral flowers have withered and died, there is still an empty space left behind. Help fill that space. Remember. Remember birthdays and anniversaries and moments.

I have a close friend, who never met my mother, but allowed me to talk at length about her several years after she passed away, when the loss of her in my future felt especially poignant. I still treasure that gift he gave me.

Now that I have lost someone close to me, I'm much more aware of the needs of others who are grieving, but it was something I had to learn. I cringe at how careless I might have been to my friends who were grieving, and I was unaware. But if there's a silver lining in all of it, if there's a treasure among the pain, it's that after we experience our own loss, we are better equipped to help others.

"At some of the darkest moments in my life, some people I thought of as friends deserted me - some because they cared about me and it hurt them to see me in pain; others because I reminded them of their own vulnerability, and that was more than they could handle. But real friends overcame their discomfort and came to sit with me. If they had not words to make me feel better, they sat in silence ... and I loved them for it." ~ Harold Kushner, Living a Life that Matters