Navi Vernon read this at one of the first meetings of Black Dog Writers at Black Dog Coffee in Logansport. As one who's loved and lost and loved again, she speaks with a gentle and knowing voice. I'm so grateful to her for sharing it with us today. To find other essays by Navi, visit her blog. You won't be sorry you did.
I hurt for
your friend who just lost her husband. As always, your gentle questions are
wise and nonintrusive. What helped? What clearly did NOT? Your desire to, as
you put it, “stand with her in her grief” made me reflect back to that time.
You knew it would.
Enough years
have passed that clarity has replaced the fog that overtook me for so long. I
couldn’t have responded to your questions then. Now, the answers are within
reach.
I hid after
Allan died. Sounds like your friend may be doing that too. Don’t take it
personally. She may not know it yet, but the fact that you care, and that you
don’t presume to know how she feels gives you credibility as an authentic
presence in her life. Write to her. I promise she will read and reread your
words and they will strengthen her.
Everyone is
different. It’s possible that supportiveness is solely in the eye of the
beholder, but I don’t think so. Humans respond to empathy and compassion.
Trying to fix, minimize, distract, or simply check “offer nice words” off your
list isn’t helpful. Doing no harm seems a good universal practice.
A wise man
once said, “you can’t know what you don’t know.” I have no doubt—none—that my own efforts through the years to console
or comfort people in grief have fallen short, despite my best intentions.
From my
perspective, there were five kinds of post-death gatherers—all with good
intentions.
First, were the “well-wishers” who sent
a Hallmark card signed only with their name, paid their respects at the
memorial, and offered well-worn platitudes.
Second, were the “distancers,” those
who knew us and cared but found the whole situation overwhelming and simply
stayed away. I’ve never held it against them. I’ve always assumed they had
bigger issues around uncomfortable realities.
The third group was the “gut
punchers,” who made me feel worse, although I wasn’t sure why at the
time. “At least he didn’t suffer,” “at least you were home,” at least, at
least.” Your label fits. I share your disdain for the at-leasters. Others
grief-trumped me with their own horror stories (conversational narcissism at
its worst). Who knew grief is a competition?
Fourth, were the “loyals,” those
who loved us and bore witness to my total devastation. Although most of them
had no frame of reference, they never gave up on me. And, with a nod to your
insightful brilliance, they didn’t lie. You’re
right, we don’t know how other people feel and we can’t read the future, so we
don’t get to make that stuff up. Instead, the loyals continued to reach out
with help/motivation/compassion EVEN when I was in hiding. EVEN when I
couldn’t/wouldn’t respond.
Lastly, there were the
“grief-standers.” Their heartfelt words outshone the dreaded platitudes.
“I’m with you…. I’m sorry…. Don’t forget to breathe….” landed differently on my
heart than “thoughts and prayers,” “so sorry for your loss,” and vague offers
to help. Grief-standers offered specific acts of kindness. Karen sent a book of
stamps with her card for the thank yous she knew I’d write. Louis and Margo
gave me a $100 bill to cover unexpected expenses those first few days. Barb and
Herschel brought a simple food that we christened “Man Bread.” Hot or cold, it
gave visitors something positive to talk about.
A few not only
stood with me in my grief but gave me a lasting gift, whether they knew it or
not.
• My mom. Not just because she was my mom, but because she lost her husband (my dad) in a construction accident and was a widow at 21. She knew firsthand that the road would get a lot rougher than it felt to me in those first few “love bubble” days. Even after she and my step-dad returned to Florida, I knew she was just a phone call away. The gift: She wasn’t afraid of my emotion.
• Allan’s friend, Mike. Mike was out of town when Allan died. He cut his trip short and came directly to our house. I was sitting at the dining room table. The girls were there. My mom/dad, I think; maybe others. Mike walked in and simply stood in the dining room. When it was obvious he couldn’t take another step, I went to him. He just hugged me and cried. There was no doubt we were sharing the weight of this new reality. The gift: He didn’t shelter me from HIS emotion.
• Our
neighbor, Sam. Sam is a quiet man. An introvert to the extreme. He and his
family have a small farm with a big red barn and a plethora of animals–large
and small. The stereotype that comes to your mind is the right one. It may have
been the day after? For some reason, I was drawn to the front door. Had the
dogs barked? I looked out and there stood Sam in the middle of the yard with a
casserole dish in his hands. I walked out. He never said a word. I took the
dish. We stood there–each with tears streaming. He tried to talk once and couldn’t.
We just looked at each other and finally we nodded and he turned and walked
home. In that shared nod, I felt all of his love, care, and concern. A look of
full empathy. The gift: A total heart
connection when you least expect it.
• My client,
Cassie. Years ago, Cassie was a training director at Bank One. By then, I’d
moved on from my job and she’d moved on from hers and we’d lost touch. Her mom
still lived around here and alerted her when Allan died. A couple of weeks
later, I got a letter from Cassie. Though we’d only known each other through a
client relationship, here she was, speaking my language. I learned that she’d
lost her husband to cancer the year before. She knew (as close as anyone could)
about the void that is left, about the excruciating feeling of half of you
being torn away–your history, your promised future. We wrote back and forth for
years. Now, we’re connected on Facebook. We share the knowledge that even
though we’re both remarried, we are WIDOWS too. That doesn’t end. You can love
again. You should love
again. But, that never (ever) diminishes the love that was. It’s not an either
/ or. Love is an AND. The gift: HOPE.
I leave you
with my ponderings—quasi answers to your insightful questions. Maya Angelo
said, “Do
the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.” May
we use our shared experiences and both become better grief-standers.
FYI – I didn’t
proofread this. Decided that if I did, I’d likely delete a ton of it. So here
it sits. As is. Raw.
Love,
N
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