Tag Archives: mourning

How to Comfort the Bereaved

1. Do not say, “Everything happens for a reason.” Just don’t. Okay? No matter how many times someone has said this sentence to you, recognize its words as vacuous substitutes for real words that actually have something meaningful to say. What reason are children taken too soon from their mothers, or mothers from their children? What reason does your child get to live and another has to die? Luck? Chance? Probability? Suffering is random, indiscriminate. Not personal. When you personalize suffering, you are not offering comfort. You are saying, “You deserved this.”

2. Do not say, “It was meant to be.” See above.

3. Do not say, “This was God’s plan.” I don’t know what kind of god or God or G-d you believe in, but these words make your god/God/G-d sound like a calculating psychopath. Do you really mean that? A glimmer of my own god, which I call goodness, tells me such putrid malevolence can’t possibly exist. Or if it does, it’s called evil.

4. Do not ask, “What can I do?” You might be short on ideas. This is normal. Grief is overwhelming for everyone involved. But now is not the time to give a grieving person one more thing to do –– i.e. authoring your “To-Do” list. Figure out what you can do, and then do it. For example, you do not need to ask permission to leave a meal on a porch. Not a good cook? Leave a bag of potato chips. Anonymous potato chips can be a great comfort. Better yet, start a meal train and/or order takeout.

5. Do not ask “What happened?” You know the answer already, i.e. something horrific. So why are you really asking? Are you afraid this horrible something might happen to you? That’s not surprising. Another person’s loss can force us to confront our own deepest fears, ones we’ve buried so far down we can barely see them. Do not turn away. Call each of your fears by name until they rise up from the deepest part of you. Understand their power. Understand projection.

6. Do not ask, “How are you?” When a rabbi asked me this question at my mother’s shiva, my heart shriveled into a piece of coal, and I said something sarcastic that he well deserved: How do you think I’m doing?

Let me rephrase that now: How do you think a grieving person is doing?

Not so good. Right? So instead of asking this question, offer a hug, a hand, a potato chip. Offer yourself as a person others do not need to perform happiness around.

7. Do not ask, “How can I help?” See number 4.

8. Do not say “Time heals all wounds.” I wish this expression were true. But, in my own experience, time has not been a great healer because, in this world, we have something called “triggers.” Maybe you’ve heard this word. Maybe you’ve even joked “trigger warning!” before you’ve said something that freaked out a lot of people? Or maybe you have no idea what I’m talking about. So let me explain. Triggers are like giant arrows that rip through time and take us right back to our worst traumas. Sometimes you know what will trigger you, and sometimes you don’t.

For example, the morning I began to miscarry my first pregnancy, I fell to the floor and wept the same way I did when I lost my mother fifteen years before. In that moment, two losses swam inside of me. Mother. Baby. Both gone, forever. And there was nothing I could do. In that moment I was me, the 36-year-old, with a cute house & beyond amazing husband & a horribly behaved dog. And I was the 21-year-old who could not even stand up, because the ground – or what she thought of as ground –– had disappeared.

At best, time can offer perspective. But it’s not a magic suture.

It is okay to be broken open by our losses, to be cracked into a thousand unknowable pieces by them. As Leonard Cohen once sung, “That’s how the light gets in.”

9. Do not say “It’s time to move on.This, by far, is the absolute worst thing to say. A loss can live inside a person forever, and a person can live inside a loss, around it, through it, and on into a life s/he never possibly imagined, a life fundamentally shaped by what has been lost.

Respect the awesome, holy, transfiguring power of loss. Honor it. Build an altar in your heart for it. There is no other way to proceed.

 

 

 

 

Sixteen Mother’s Days Without You

I don’t remember my first Mother’s Day without you. You died a month before, when cherry trees opened the season’s first blossoms. I remember unrepentant forsythia, dogwoods, and azaleas blooming along the street where you once lived. I remember standing in your living room and drawing the curtains closed. I remember I could not bear the sight of flowers or blue skies.

Surely the mundane and the beautiful could not exist in a world without you. Surely they would not go on. But they refused to disappear. I refused to stop wishing they would.

On my second Mother’s Day without you, I was 22. On this day, I graduated college.

I wore a dress I bought the day before, without you there to tell me whether the hot pink floral print was too much. I wore a matching pink lipstick. No one who looked at me that day would have thought mourner. I was good at hiding, good at pretending everything was normal. As if normalcy could exist on this day, as if normalcy could have been my aspiration.

After the ceremony, I shook Bill Clinton’s hand. (I remember nothing of his speech). Then there was a lunch with a few relatives. But I excused myself from dinner that evening. I cloistered myself in my apartment, ordered takeout. You certainly would not have approved of this behavior. The thing about grief is that it erases social graces, changes all our rules. People pleasing was the first rule I let go.

Still, I did everything I could to avoid thinking about you, which meant I thought about you constantly.

On my third Mother’s Day without you, I slept on the sofa of a woman I barely knew. I had nowhere to live & was starting a new job the next day, which that year was also your birthday. You would have been 51, but I didn’t buy a cake. No one celebrates a dead woman’s birthday. Not even me.

Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten Mother’s Days without you. I don’t remember what I did on any single one of them. Eleven, twelve, and thirteen are foggy too, like the edges of a dream.

On my fourteenth Mother’s Day without you, my husband drove me to a house that was the same shade of storm-blue paint as our first house, the one where he and I lived after we married. This house we went to see had the same street number as our first house too. Weird, I thought.

What magic were you working from beyond the grave? I had this question even though I do not believe in magic or clear categories of afterlife. I know dead means gone. I know dead means never coming back.

Our realtor met us on the porch. Five minutes in, I knew this house was our house, the one where he and I could live, the place where I hoped your grandchild would soon live with us. We already had the nursery picked out. (Top of the stairs. Looks out over the backyard.)

We moved in the same weekend as yours and my father’s wedding anniversary, which also happens to be the same weekend as my in-laws’ wedding anniversary. But I have never known my father-in-law. Like you, he died too young. Still, I am searching for a photo of him, so that I might know him better.

The week we moved in, I placed a framed photo of you on the fireplace mantel. It’s your senior yearbook photo, the one where you are smiling through open lips and your hair is ironed straight.

But I could not bring your clothes –– the ones I saved –– into the room where your grandchild (I hoped) would one day sleep. After 14 years without you, they smelled of mold and rot.

So I did what I did with all your other clothes. I stuffed them in black trash bags bound for Goodwill. Then I went into the backyard and cried. I felt scared and certain at the same time, the way I always feel when I make a hard but necessary decision.

As much as I wanted you to exist in your shoes and sweaters and skirts, I knew you lived beyond them. You lived in me, the same way I once lived in you.

On my fifteenth Mother’s Day without you, I started this blog. You don’t know what that is, and I don’t know how to explain, other than to say these words are my heart living outside my body. These words are you living beyond me.

Writing has been the closest I have come to procreating. This is not because I do not want a child, but because my body has been hostile. You know something about that. And I wish we could talk about it, but dead means silent too.

Neither mother nor daughter, I’m feeling a little uncertain as I face my sixteenth Mother’s Day without you. What stake can I claim in this day? What bouquet or card or brunch date could possibly compare with the brilliance of your life? I am a woman who has no biological or adoptive claim to a child. Do I even matter on this day?

I suspect you’d answer “yes” to that last question. Just as I suspect my sixteenth Mother’s Day without you will be like every strange and ordinary day I’ve lived since you died. Exactly 5,513 days without you now. That’s 132,312 hours, or 7,938,720 minutes, or 476,323,200 seconds without you.

I have counted them all, which is how I also know we had exactly 7,720 days together. That’s 185,280 hours, or 11,116,800 minutes, or 667,009,000 seconds of existing in this world at the exact same time.

Seems like plenty. Seems like not enough.

My sixteenth Mother’s Day without you will be my 5,517th day without you. I have chosen to mark that day not on a calendar, but here, right now, on my heart blog, which belongs to you as much as all the construction paper cards I once made, all the burnt breakfast-in-bed toasts, all the poems with simplistic A-B-C-B rhyme schemes once belonged to you.

Today, by the way, is also your birthday. I know: I get the double whammy of your birthday and Mother’s Day in the same week (sometimes the same day!) every single year.

This morning, when you would have turned 64, I have no gift. But I will say what I said on every Mother’s Day of your life as a mother, what I wish I’d said in every moment we shared, all 667,009,00 of them. I will repeat the only words we ever needed, the best ones we could say.

Thank you. I love you. Thank you. I love you.

I will say these words as if you can hear them, as if you can whisper them right back to me.