Itās almost impossible to know what to say to someone in the throes of grief. We all want to say something comforting. Very few of us know what that is.
Iāve learned this the hard way. My beloved husband of 23 years died at the end of July, two years after being diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer. Since then, Iāve seen friends and neighbours struggle for the right words, and Iāve been surprised by how even the kindest questions can set me off.
Thereās no one right answer, of course. What is helpful for me may not work for someone else, and words that I find off-putting may be the perfect balm for another person. Still, trading notes with a few grieving people, including my own children, Iāve found some helpful doās and five unexpected donāts.
No. 1: 'How are you?'
Youād be surprised how loaded this basic question can feel. A caring friend wants to know how youāre doing. What could possibly be wrong with that?
The problem, my kids and I realized, is that itās a near-impossible question to answer. Our feelings of grief change by the hour, sometimes by the minute, so thereās no answer that will stand the test of time. Do you mean how am I this very second? I can answer that, but my answer might change a second later. Do you mean how are we coping in life? The answer is, we donāt know yet.
We find it easier to answer less overarching questions, such as, how was college drop-off? How was the first day of school? How was dinner last night? Specific questions are less challenging than existential ones.
No. 2: 'How can I help?'
Iāve had to dig deep to figure out why this generous question from well-meaning friends doesnāt sit right. I think itās because it puts the onus on the griever to help the helper. The helper wants to figure something out ā but those of us who are grieving are in no position to help. We often canāt articulate, and might not even know, what we want or need.
Hereās something that worked really well: neighbours who, without asking, dropped off a tray of lasagna or cookies or flowers or fill-in-the-blank. They didnāt ring the doorbell. They didnāt call to find out if we liked lasagna or if weād be home. They simply left something on the doorstep. One helpful friend showed up at my house and immediately rolled up her sleeves and started doing my sink full of dishes. She didnāt ask. She just dived in.
One recent morning, as I struggled to summon the energy to open the fridge and figure out breakfast for the kids and me, I watched a delivery truck back into our driveway. Out came bags of bagels, platters of cream cheese, smoked salmon, fresh fruit and a carton of hot coffee sent by my colleagues. That morning, I did not have the forethought to say, āYou know, I could really go for a bagel and coffee right now,ā but it turns out thatās exactly what we needed.
No. 3: 'I canāt imagine what you must be going through'
One of my teenage daughters, a theatre kid, explained to me why this phrase really rubs her the wrong way: It reveals a curious lack of creativity.
Hereās what she wanted to ask her friends who said this: Really? Youāve never imagined losing a parent? Have you ever seen a movie about loss or death? āThe Fault in Our Stars,ā perhaps? How ābout āThe Lion Kingā? Were you dry-eyed when Mufasa died, or did you cry and feel Simbaās pain? My daughterās hunch is that you can, in fact, imagine a devastating loss, but you donāt want to imagine it for yourself or have to think of how sad this is for us.
Thatās understandable. We want to protect you from our pain, too. But the statement has the unintended effect of isolating us on a grief island, as though loss was somehow singularly ours. So instead of putting our feelings in an unimaginable silo, try relating to us. Say something like, āI remember when I lost my X and I felt Xā. Or maybe share a specific memory like āI really enjoyed watching your dad coach you in soccer. Iām going to miss that.ā
A statement like that lets us know weāre not alone.
No. 4: 'This is so unfair'
I was surprised when friends, particularly friends my age, said this. Iām in the news business, so I think my notion of life ābeing fairā vanished somewhere in the middle of covering yet another senseless school shooting. Iāve long since stopped thinking of life as being neatly organized into fair and unfair categories.
Instead of trying to untangle grief from injustice, Iāve started the practice of radical acceptance. This concept was introduced to my husband and me by our grief counselor immediately after his diagnosis. It goes something like this: Some things in life are glorious, and some things suck. Try to accept life on its own terms and deal with the hand youāre dealt.
Radical acceptance has been a game-changer for me and how I tackle the tough stuff. Instead of asking, āWhy me?ā or āHow can life be so unfair?ā I say, āThis is what Iām dealing with. Whatās the best way forward?ā
No. 5: 'I want to give you a hug'
Before I was thrust into grief, I would not have understood how a loving gesture from a friend could ever feel uncomfortable. Now I do.
Those of us grieving need to pace ourselves. Itās draining to grieve for too long on any given day, so we titrate the pain. I find myself carefully carving out chunks of time to read condolence cards and respond to sympathy emails because I need to conserve energy to attend to the stuff of life: my kidsā needs, my work schedule, unpaid bills, returning my husbandās leased car.
Being wrapped in grief does not allow me to function the way I need to. Friends who arrived at my door teary-eyed forced the unintended response of me having to grieve with them on their timetable, rather than my own. Sometimes it felt as though I had to comfort them and help them cope with the loss, which was counterproductive for my mental state. If you do feel compelled to show up at the doorstep of someone who has just suffered a loss, try to bring laughter and lightness with you to help alleviate the grief load on them.
What to say when there are no words
What worked beautifully for us was receiving a lovingly composed letter, email or text, expressing someoneās emotions. I could read the message on my own schedule, at a time I had chosen for reflection. One dear friend sent a lacquered box where I can store condolence cards and keep coming back to when I want to remember the deep impact my husband had on our community.
Remember, itās okay to say you donāt know what to say. Itās also okay to wait a beat before saying it. Last week, I got a text from an old friend who Iād not heard from in the months since my husbandās death. She said, āI havenāt found the right words to text you.ā
I knew exactly what she meant, and somehow those words felt just right.
