What Grieving People Wish You Knew about What Really Helps (and What Really Hurts) (eBook)

Introduction

I have to tell you something up front: I think you’re awesome. I assume you’re reading this book or considering reading this book because you want to figure out how you can be a better friend to people around you who are going through the devastation of losing someone they love. You want to be better equipped for the awkward interactions. You don’t want to be that person who said the stupid, hurtful thing. Instead you want to grow in your ability to come alongside someone who is hurting and enter in. So I applaud you for being willing to invest in finding out more about what that looks and sounds like.

To be honest, I didn’t think much about grief or grieving people for most of my life. I didn’t have to. Or, what is, perhaps, more deeply true, is that I didn’t choose to. I suppose I operated with a convenient naiveté about the deep sorrow and social awkwardness people experience when someone they love dies. But once you’ve been there, it is more difficult to keep an unaffected distance from people in your world who have lost someone and are wondering how the world around them could just keep on turning as if nothing has changed, since it feels as if their world has collapsed.

Grief barged through the doors of our lives uninvited on November 24, 1998. That was the day a geneticist who had just examined our two-day-old daughter, Hope, came to my hospital room and told my husband, David, and me that he suspected Hope had a rare metabolic disorder called Zellweger syndrome. This meant that all of her cells were missing a tiny sub-cellular particle called “peroxisomes” that rids the cells of toxins. A great deal of damage had already been done to all of her major organs—especially her liver, kidneys, and brain. He told us there was no treatment or cure and that most children with the syndrome live less than six months.

A few days later, when we took her home from the hospital, we knew we were taking her home to die. The 199 days that she was with us were rich in many ways. We did the best we could to pack as much living and loving in those days as we could. And then we said good-bye.

Initially, in those days after she died, I felt full and enriched from all we had experienced with her and wise from all we had learned in our experience with her. But that faded quickly. A load of sadness settled in that felt like a boulder on my chest so that I was always struggling to catch my breath.

For a child to have this syndrome means that David and I have to be carriers of the recessive gene trait for it, so any child of ours has a 25 percent chance of having the fatal syndrome. So we took surgical steps to prevent another pregnancy. And evidently it didn’t work. A year and a half after Hope died, I discovered I was pregnant. Prenatal tests revealed this child, a son, also had the fatal syndrome. So we welcomed our son Gabriel in July 2001. He, too, was with us about six months. And there we were again—David; our son, Matt; and me—in a very quiet house, working our way separately but together through sadness.

Over these years since Hope and Gabriel died, I’ve interacted with many grieving people. I’ve listened to grieving people talk about their deep disappointment and ongoing alienation from people around them who just don’t seem to “get it.” But I’ve also heard them speak movingly of the unexpected, often simple things people around them have said or done that demonstrated a deep sensitivity to their pain and a willingness to enter into it with them.

It’s easy to sit with grieving people and swap stories about ridiculous, thoughtless, insensitive things people around them have said and done. Too easy, perhaps. What is much sweeter and certainly more helpful is to talk about what people have said or done that touched them deeply, what was especially meaningful and helped them not feel so alone in the midst of sorrow. So that’s what I asked people to do. I asked them, via an online survey posted on various websites, to tell me what others said or did for them that was especially helpful or meaningful in the midst of grief. I asked them what they wish those around them had understood about their grief. I heard from people of all ages and situations who have experienced all kinds of losses. And I’ve incorporated what these grieving people told me throughout this book.

In fact, I’ve just got to share a few things people told me here at the outset so that you’ll have a taste of what’s ahead. If you doubt that you have any power to bring comfort to someone going through unimaginable loss, surely these will convince you otherwise:

When my grandmother passed away from dementia, someone wrote, “I’m so sorry you didn’t get to say good-bye the way you wanted to.” It still brings tears to my eyes that someone said exactly what I didn’t even know how to express.

Emily McKillip, Fort Worth, Texas

Almost a year after our infant son was born dead, a woman at church talked about him, using his name in a conversation, and I almost wept with gratitude! I didn’t realize how much it hurt that everyone tried not to talk about him to protect me from further pain, when really the most pain was from others dodging his existence at every turn.

Lindsey Coffman, Milford, Kansas

In the hospital cafeteria one day with my pastor, I said, “I’m not sure I can hold on to God through this.” He answered, “You can’t hold on to him, but he will hold on to you.” That gave me such comfort—knowing I could just let God hold on to me, and he has.

Judy Joyce, Richmond, Virginia

After my husband died, a friend invited me to stay with her and her husband for a while in a little cottage in their backyard. I had space to be alone when I couldn’t handle social situations, but they were nearby if I needed to talk.

Carol Miller, Waverly, New York

My husband and I were in our doctor’s office waiting room a few months after our thirty-four-year-old son died. An acquaintance whose son had played basketball with our son worked there. She glanced at us from the back of the office and could have easily looked away. Instead, she got up from her desk, walked out and around through several doors, and came up to us. She said, “I am sorry to do this here, but this has to be acknowledged.” She tenderly hugged each of us in the middle of the waiting room. I had some tears, but it touched my soul.

Jan Kelley, Wichita, Kansas

The morning after our son passed, as I rose dreading another day, there was our elderly new neighbor, meticulously sweeping our sidewalk. He never looked up; he just swept and went on his way. I will never forget that singular, anonymous act of kindness.

GriefShare facilitator, Tampa Bay, Florida

My wife and I had tried for about seven years to get pregnant, which was its own monthly agony. Then we got pregnant and announced it to our church friends, and we all rejoiced. Then we miscarried, and we were devastated, as were our friends. The one caring comment that I’ve never forgotten came from a man who never talked much. He looked me right in the eye, with tears in his, and said he knew that some people might try to comfort us with the thought that because the miscarriage happened early, it would hurt less. Then he said, “As soon as you knew you were pregnant, you were in love with that baby.” He said he knew how much we must be hurting, and he was sorry. I’ve never forgotten that brief conversation. I’m tearing up as I write this, more than twenty-five years later.

David J. Myers, Caldwell, Idaho

After our son drowned, a friend called me up and said, “I am going to make us hair appointments for the same time so I can take you.” When she called ahead, she told our hairdresser what had happened so she would not start asking me about the kids.

Rachel Anderson, College Station, Texas

Six months after losing our baby, we went to a wedding. As we were leaving the party, the couple asked if they could leave a bouquet of their wedding flowers on our daughter’s grave. In the midst of their happiest day they remembered our sadness.

Ruth, UK

In the span of three months three of my young friends passed away. The most significant thing someone did for me was to continuously pursue friendship with my tired self. Instead of pitying me from afar, she entered in with compassion. This meant sometimes being able to talk about where I was and how I was coping, but most of the time it meant helping me to see the beauty in life by exploring the city in which we live, going out with girls, trying new coffee shops, etc. Being a friend who drew near in spite of my changing moods and energy levels reminded me that regardless, I was ever loved.

Beth Gowing, Montreal, Quebec, Canada

In my grief I needed to discharge my burden, and I needed someone who was in God’s Word and walking in it. I needed seasoned maturity, a loving heart, and all that comes with it. I knew such a person and told her I needed to talk. She sat outside with me on folding chairs between our parked cars for hours on end as I shared my story and my grief. I spoke in linear fashion; she spoke but little, but when she did, it was right and something I could use. The evening came on, but I was not done. After we took care of some things, we found ourselves at a track. We walked around it again and again as I finished my story. Night fell, my burden discharged.