When You Feel the Need to Talk to Someone Grieving
When You Feel the Need to Talk to Someone Grieving
Remember that you're dealing with raw nerves, sadness, and anger. Your words will matter in ways you can't even imagine.
I wrote a bit of a rant yesterday and instead of posting it at my non-religious widowhood group on Facebook as I’d planned, I mistakenly posted it on my Facebook page for everyone to see. I don’t know how I made such a mistake but by the time I realized it there were already dozens of comments from people obviously not in our widowhood group. At this writing there are 97 comments, some of them mine.
This is what I wrote—for my FB group’s eyes only:
I'm faced constantly with friends and family telling me Ed and I will be together when I die, and that'll be a good thing. Neither one of us believed in anything but darkness when we die, but I'm torn between telling them I don't believe it or just nodding and keeping my mouth shut. The latter seems dishonest, and it makes me uncomfortable, but at the same time I don't want to create an issue over life after death.
It's such a common thing to say to someone who's grieving, so I doubt it'll ever end. I guess I'll just have to put up with it, though it grinds me more and more, the further I get into widowhood.
It’s clear we need to talk about things like this, no matter how sensitive. The thing is, the people who say these things do mean well. Nobody really knows what to say. Nobody really knows what grievers want to hear. We grievers ourselves don’t always know. But here are a few thoughts, after a full day of reading responses to my Facebook outing:
The obvious response is the one meant only to comfort. What could be more comforting than the thought of a pleasant reunion in Heaven’s golden clouds? Somewhere where everyone you’ve ever cared about is waiting for the two of you in the greatest reunion jam anyone can imagine?
Ah, a second chance at life when this one is done! Nobody really dies. They just move on.
Except there are millions of us who don’t believe in an afterlife. To us there is no second chance, and this one stab at life is it. This is all there is. I haven’t believed ‘we’ll all meet again’ since I was a child. And I’m truly okay with living this life to the fullest, knowing this is all there is. That is where my comfort lies.
I’m not some sad, deluded case because all I see after death is a final, dark end. It seems far more natural to me, since I’ve never had an encounter with the supernatural and have never believed in an omniscient god looking over the world, knowing billions of believers’ thoughts all at once, ready to stop some painful or awful thing from happening to the lucky few who believe strongly enough.
I admit I find the idea of ‘God’s select few’ more than insulting. It tells the rest of us we’ll never be good enough if we don’t turn our hearts and souls over to a being they believe in. But that’s another story, one I’ve written about before.
Ed was 89 when he died. To some that made him very old. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard variations of, ‘Well, he lived a good long life. Wasn’t he lucky?’
Promise me you won’t do that. It’s not a comfort. He’s gone now and neither he nor I would say we were ‘lucky’. You’re not acknowledging my grief, you’re dismissing it. You’re trying to talk me out of grieving, and it only adds to the pain. I want to grieve. I have to grieve.
There’s too much of that—trying to make the grieving stop. Grieving is a crucial part of the healing process. It’s going to happen. It always does. So how do you deal with another person’s grief? By acknowledging it. We loved someone deeply enough to feel real, gut-wrenching pain when they died.
Don’t tell us that person is in a better place. A better place would be beside us, whole and strong, which is the way we want to remember them.
Help us remember. If you knew that person, share your best memories. If you didn’t, ask about them. What were they like? What are some of our best memories? We may sob our hearts out as we’re telling you, but it’ll feel good to tell it. Our loved one lives, at least for those moments.
Don’t tell us it’s time to get over it. You don’t get to be the timekeeper.
Invite us out but if we say ‘no’, don’t stop inviting us. At some point we may say ‘yes’. We’ll need to say yes. We need lifelines, even when we can’t yet grab them. Don’t give up on us. Please.
You might have to baby us a for a while. We don’t know what we’re doing half the time. Life has changed too suddenly, too drastically, too painfully. You may not always see it but we’re basket cases inside. We’re so fragile we’re terrified we might break. There is no time limit on getting to the end. There is no end, there’s only acceptance. Our world is spinning because someone we loved has died and it’s crushing us. We can’t just will it to stop spinning.
All this to say, try and understand. If we tell you to mind your own business—and we might—recognize that this is our pain talking. If our friendship is strong enough we’ll get through this together.
Maybe just change your tactic.
Maybe just be there.
And in time we’ll be there too.
You nailed it, Ramona! People want so badly to help that they end up saying stupid....er, unhelpful....things. They also want you to stop hurting (partly for you, partly for them), so they try to offer what they think will work. It won't. There's no way out but through.
We're terrible with grief in this country. Absolutely terrible. We tend to avoid grief unless we can focus our rage around it (9/11). We've had well over 1 million Americans die from Covid yet there's nothing for them. No quilt, no twin beams, no day of mourning, nothing. It's tragic and unacceptable yet not surprising.
I know it was probably awkward but I'm glad you accidentally posted that to your regular FB feed. People need to hear these things. I hope it was received well.
Perfect comments to make to people who may think they mean well but, in fact, make things worse.