3 Things Not to Say to Your Hurting or Grieving Friend.
My most vivid memory of my dad dying in the hospital with Covid-19 was a silent memory. Just a few days before this memory, we celebrated his improbable improvement and passing the six trials of coming off the ventilator. He was still highly critical, but his vitals remained steady. There was hope. Then, abruptly, he wasn't stable, okay, and our hope was gone; he had hours left to live.
I was standing outside dad's ICU room, alone, with only the sounds of the medical devices to keep me company. Mom walked away with my aunt, and my job was to call the brothers and tell them to come home as fast as possible. It was 7:30 on Wednesday night. There was something intimate and uncomfortable about watching him sleep in the thin hospital gown, all emotion scrubbed from his face. Watching his chest rise and fall, I slowed my breathing, matching it to his. We communed like this, still amid the buzzing hospital, lungs, and heartbeats pulsing to the same slow rhythm. I knew his breaths were numbered. I knew we may never share silence like this again. These were my last moments with just me and dad.
My dad died on November 4, 2021, three weeks after his diagnosis of Covid-19. That day, it rained, and the weather matched my emotions - moody.
In the hours before doctor Williams came to remove dad from life-support, my thoughts buzzed into static, all that withheld panic flaring to sudden, hyper-fixated life. I wanted to find something poetic or essential to say, worthy of my final chance to talk to my dad. Nothing came. Dad and I could talk for hours about anything. Why? Why could I not say anything to him when it was my last chance?
The world has become an odd, almost alien-like place filled with reminders of a love that now hurts.
My journey with grief started as a pain of an irreplaceable loss and now is gratitude for the dad I had and the message he instilled in me - "I love you most." However, my grief journey started harder than needed, mainly because of some well-intentioned comments from friends and family that caused me more grief.
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This blog aims to help us talk about grief and to help you support others who are grieving.
Helping your friend or family member grieve is hard, if not near impossible. The following thoughts are not meant to be a complaint or to scold anyone who may have shared similar "words of wisdom or care," but to share what I've learned as the one receiving the ideas intended to comfort me.
Many of these words floated right through one ear and out the other ear onto an enormous pile of condolences.
Here are three comments I suggest not to say to someone grieving, and then I'll share two that were extremely helpful, and I suggest you consider sharing with your grieving friend.
"You will never, ever get over this."
I am still surprised how many people told me this at my dad's funeral. Each occurrence numbed me more. What was meant to comfort and prepare me for my grief journey hurt me like a dull razor blade gliding across my face. This phrase grants no hope to the griever. An already impossible and hopeless situation became more frantic. While it is true that I will never get over my dad being gone, I have learned (and continue to learn) how to live out his love for me - and that's all he ever dreamed for me, anyway.
"I know exactly what you are going through."
I have three brothers. Presumably, we know what the other brother is going through since we all lost our dad. But that simply isn't true. We all have our own memories of dad we hold dear. We all have memories of dad we would like to forget, which are different for each of us. I'll put it this way: when the holidays come back around like Christmas did this year, all of us brothers hold a unique to us puzzle piece that we believe will make the season whole again. The truth is each of us needs a different puzzle piece. This is because every person and family grieves differently. And within one family, the range of how-to/when-to grieve might be miles apart, potentially making people madder or sadder when they force others to comply with their "puzzle piece." All the puzzle pieces are needed to make the entire family whole again.
"At least things can't get worse than this."
Okay, this one. Thanks for the thought, but March 2022 was worse than November 2021. My only guess is the persons who said this to me were managing their anxiety when trying to connect with my deep emotions. To be bluntly honest, this left me feeling "their" discomfort was more important than my feelings.
The problem with statements like these is they come with a follow-up "ghost sentence":
Although comments like these are meant to comfort the hurting, we only really manage our discomfort with our grief by unintentionally dismissing the pain and suffering of the griever. I'll put it this way: a "ghost sentence" says, "there is now something wrong with you, or you should feel better now."
I know now that these statements were not about me but the other person. They emerged out of their experience with loss.
Above all, these exchanges proved that the most ubiquitous thing in life - loss - is something we do not know how to talk about, whether it is our own or someone else's.
This leads me to share the two things people said that were extremely helpful:
"There comes a day that you think more about how lucky you were to have him as your dad than you do how much you miss your Dad."
This was said to me by someone who lost their mom around the same age I lost my dad. Again, everyone's experiences are different, but this statement stood out to me, and I was thankful it came from someone who had a similar experience. I was writing my dad's eulogy when I received this Facebook Message from John Williamson, the father of one of my students. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. The Holy Spirit used John's obedience and faithfulness to help me articulate my love, appreciation, and gratitude for my dad, which would be shared the next day with everyone at the funeral. If you had a good relationship with the one you lost, there does come a day that you think more about how grateful you are for them than how much you miss them.
This Christmas, my mom purchased a professionally hand-painted painting of a picture of dad and me at our last St. Louis Cardinals game together. This gift clarified where I am in this journey between missing dad and being grateful for him: I think more about how grateful I am for dad than how much I miss him. I cried harder after opening this gift than at any other point in my grief journey, and those were grateful tears. I am so thankful John shared with me what the destination looks like with grief - gratitude. I'm there.
"Jeremy, let me be there for you - can I at least cook you a meal?"
So many people said something like this: "I'm here for you; let me know how I can help." I'm grateful for the people who said this; it was nice to be seen. However, I am incredibly thankful for my friend, Matthew Gray, who not only told me he loved me and was there for me but said, "You need to eat; let me cook for you and your whole family." Matthew proceeded to cook homemade lasagna, garlic bread, and salad, and THEN he delivered it an hour away to my mom's house. My mom always cooks the meals when the family is together. Mom didn't have the strength to cook. I didn't, either. Matthew did, and he delivered. Matthew brought the food and expected nothing but a hug from me. He drove more than two hours to see me for less than five minutes. Another friend texted me a Doordash gift card and said, "We love you!" Being there for someone can look like listening to their pain, holding them when they cry, or providing the basic necessities so the family can do only what they can do; grieve. Matthew offered a solution to help me rather than asking me what he could do. I had no mental capacity to think about how I needed help or how anyone could help me. Sometimes asking how you can help someone without offering a solution creates additional mental stress for the griever. Thank you, Matthew, for caring for my family and me in this way. Forever grateful.
So this begs the question: How can you best talk to someone grieving?
There are many more brilliant writers and thinkers on this topic than me, but here are a few quick tips I have learned these last 14 months since losing dad.
Express your condolences: Let the person know that you are sorry for their loss and that you care about them.
Ask how they feel: Show interest in their emotional state and give them the space to express it.
Listen actively: Avoid interrupting or trying to solve their problems; let them express their thoughts and feelings.
Share your memories or stories of the person they lost: This can help them feel less alone in their grief and can also be comforting.
Be patient: Grief is a process that can take time for people to heal, so be patient and understanding.
Offer specific and practical help: Ask the person what they need and offer clear and valuable support, such as bringing them meals, running errands, or helping with childcare.
Respect their boundaries: Some people may want to talk about their loved ones often, while others may prefer not to. Respect their wishes and follow their lead.
Check-in with them: Grief can be a long process, so check in with the person from time to time to see how they are doing and let them know you're still there for them.
Remember, the most important thing is to be there for them, listen, and offer your support in a genuine way. Love them.