What TO Say to a grieving parent

My last post (read:  rant) was on the topic of what NOT to say to grieving parents.  Today I've decided to be a bit more helpful and instead give some ideas of what TO say to parents who are grieving the loss of a child.

1.  Acknowledge the depth of the loss 
There are so many ways of doing this, the important thing is to be authentic— you can say something like "This is so heartbreaking" or "I'm so, so sorry for your loss" or "I can't even begin to imagine how terrible this loss must be for your family."

Don't think you are exempt from this point if you haven't seen the griever in question for a while!! Many grievers (myself included) can barely even remember who attended the funeral, we feel so dazed, disoriented.  I'm just emerging out of the fog that was the first few months after our son Vincent's death.  So make sure you do this when you see the griever, even if you sent a sympathy card and/or attended the funeral.

This is also an important point not to forget when you're meeting people for the first time and hear a bit of their story.  Since Vincent's death we've met several different couples at various birthday parties, and the inevitable "How many kids do you have" question came up.  Our answer these days is, "Two, we have a four year old named Theo and another son, Vincent, in heaven."  Believe me, it can be quite the conversation killer.  People often look confused, flustered, some have even said "Oh" and walked away.  I'm pretty ruthless, and for those that haven't yet walked away I usually follow up with, "Yes, he passed away last year from liver cancer."

This is a sort of test for me - if you pass it, we can be friends.  If not, well, then, perhaps not.  Fortunately, most people have the presence of mind to say something conciliatory.  So if you find out upon meeting someone that they have lost a child, please, meaningfully acknowledge the depth of the loss.  "That's so incredibly sad.  I can't even imagine how that must feel."  That can start a decent conversation.  And if you've been that person who walked away without saying anything, well, it's not too late to go back and tell the griever, "I'm so sorry I walked away, I had no idea how to respond, but I just want to say I'm sorry you've had to go through all this."  Grieving parents are happy for any support they can get—I don't think many of us hold grudges, so it's not too late to start over!

2.  Feel free to talk and ask questions about the deceased child.
"How did your child die?  What was his/her name? What was their personality like?" Please note, this is NOT to satisfy morbid curiosity (a parent can always tell) but to let the griever tell the story of their child.  I've heard it said that to most parents, their dead child's name is like music to their ears.  We WANT to talk about our child.  Heaven knows we talked about them while they were alive.  And suddenly, after they died, talk about them stopped as if they had ceased to exist (which they haven't.)

Don't worry that you will accidentally offend the griever in question by speaking about their child.  If you ask questions in a respectful, sensitive way, you can do a great deal of good.  If you knew their kid and have a nice story to share (emphasis on NICE, I've heard horror stories of bereaved parents being told of naughty things their kids did) then by all means, please share it.  If you cry or get teary-eyed when hearing the story of their child's passing, or by sharing a story about the child yourself, you get bonus points.  And if a grieving parent doesn't feel like talking about their bereavement at that moment, believe me, they'll let you know.  

  

3.  Ask how the grieving parents are doing.
Some people have told me that it's a little scary to ask a grieving person how they're doing as they don't want to bring up bad memories and make it worse for the person in question.  This is my answer to that— I have yet to be offended and/or hurt by someone who asked me how I was doing and sincerely wanted to know.  I always carry the wounds of losing Vincent in my heart, they are such a huge part of who I am that you don't need to be afraid that somehow asking that question will be a trigger for me to remember something bad and then feel worse.  I already remember all the bad things that happened. If you ask me these questions I'll then have someone with which to share the darkness.

And don't be afraid if the grieving parent cries while speaking about their child.  They're already crying on the inside.  Sometimes it's a big relief to have the permission to manifest it on the outside.

4.  Be a good listener.  

Part of being a good listener means engaging your heart and mind with the person speaking.  I mean, just think about it.  It's totally rude to ask a very deep personal question like "How are you doing?" if you only have a few minutes of talk time, or if you're in a large impersonal group of people.  Instead, say something like, "I really want to hear how you're doing.  Can we go out for coffee/cupcakes/a drink?"  (And you have to MEAN it!) Or you can call ahead and show up at their house with a meal. You could do this anytime from a few days after the death to a few years later.  You can also send online messages or little gifts in the mail.

Oh, and if you don't have time to adequately hear how the parent is doing, then don't ask. I'd rather you not ask me how I'm doing than be looking at your watch every minute as I attempt to explain.  That's really not cool.

5.  Keep the focus on the bereaved parent  
This is not the time to start talking about your dead aunt, grandma, cousin or pet. Nothing, that's right, nothing is the same as losing a child.  Psychologists put losing a child as the most stressful life event ever, right over losing a spouse.

If conversation with the grieving parent naturally evolves into talking about past losses and they show an interest in your story, then please share tastefully.  But don't use the occasion of the bereaved parent's loss to talk about your own, unless it is really similar or unless you and the grieving parent are connecting well.  You might have felt devastated when your pet mouse died, but really, it's not the same as losing a child.  Not to the grieving parent, at least.  (Quick side note:  I've received e-mail messages from people who've lost loved ones or encountered deep loss and none of these offended me in the slightest!  I'm talking about people who come up to you out of nowhere and start talking about their loss as soon as they've heard of yours.  I know I've done this before.  But it's not a good idea.)

6.  Resist the urge to "solve" their pain  
It can be easy at the end of the conversation with the grieving parent to want to "put a bow on it" —basically wanting to neatly tie up the conversation.  People do this by using hurtful "solving" statements like "Well, God can make all things good in the end" or "At least he/she didn't suffer" or "Well, hopefully everything works out."

I think this happens because after delving into the world of the griever, acknowledging and conversing about their loss, asking good questions and being a mindful listener, you're emotionally exhausted.   As a comforter, you've shouldered a bit of the pain from the grieving parent, and now you want to give it back or dump it somewhere.  From my experience, this is where all the abominable dismissive one-liners are usually used.  People are now feeling a bit overwhelmed.  They want to make their life manageable again, and they do this by neatly "fixing" your pain for you.  "Well, at least they're in a better place" or "Maybe God was keeping you from something worse."

We grievers understand the need to find a quick exit from the painful world of child loss.  As much as we long for it, we know the only solution to our pain will be when we reunite with our children at the end of our lives.  For most of us, that's still a long time away.  Bereaved parents aren't on a day-trip pass into the chaotic world of grief.  We live there, all the time.  So believe me, we understand the need to distance yourself, to "solve" our pain, "fix" our anger and confusion.

Resist this urge and instead exit gracefully from the conversation.  Say something like "Thanks for sharing with me how you guys are doing, I'll be holding you and _____ (name of the child) in my heart"  or "I'm feeling overwhelmed by the amount of pain you deal with every day, I'll be praying for (or thinking of) you" or "I appreciate the trust you showed by sharing some of your grief with me." These are just a few ideas to wrap up the conversation while showing consideration for the griever. (You could also cry and give us a hug.  That works too.)

7.  Be honest
If you have not had the occasion to grieve deeply, or if you have no idea what to say, please feel free to say just that.  Be honest.  Most grievers don't know what to say or do either.  We're heartbroken, devastated, shocked, angry. We're in uncharted territory, and because of it we respond well to honesty, to people who say, "I want to help but I don't know what to do."  That's a wonderful, beautiful, and very constructive place to start. One of the best things our pastor did when Vincent was dying was to tell us that he felt helpless, unsure of how to help best, and wishing he could do more.  He is now one of my favorite pastors of all time because of that beautifully heartfelt message.

These are just a few ideas of what to say to a grieving parent, there are so many more. Fellow-bereaved-readers, what are your suggestions?  

What NOT to say to a grieving parent

It being over eight months since Vincent passed away, most people we know have already had the "condolence" conversation with us.  Overall, I've been impressed with people's empathy, love and thoughtfulness.  One particularly precious memory is of watching Vincent's video together with old friends.  Afterwards a classmate from high school (now a doctor) choked out a tearful impromptu a-capella version of "See."  Our hearts have been broken.  And many of our friends have entered into our sorrow with us. For that we are grateful.

There have been some well-meaning people, however, whose remarks were rather unhelpful, even hurtful.  I've found that when people DO say or write hurtful or un-helpful things, it's usually because they are not allowing your pain to enter their heart.  It's easier to hold someone else's sorrow at arms length where it can be easily dismissed, waved away, forgotten.  To truly empathize, you must be willing to hold the other person's hurt in your heart, letting their reality become real to you and opening your mind to the awfulness of their situation.

This is truly difficult, perhaps even impossible for some people, even when you are friends.  After all, who wants to imagine their own precious child slowly wasting away, eaten alive by cancerous tumors?  Who would want to imagine life without that same precious child?  These are thoughts too horrible to be borne, so people often close mind and heart and instead regurgitate little phrases they've heard without realizing their utter unhelpfulness.  (For us Christians there exists yet another category of people who are self-appointed God-protectors, determined to squelch any hint of disappointment with God.)

That quick vent aside, here is a list of the most common blunders we've experienced:

1.  "Your child is in a better place."
My internal response:  Well, I wish I was there with them.  Thanks for reminding me that I'm stuck in this crappiness for the rest of my life.  I'd rather they be with me, thank you very much.

2. "At least they're not suffering anymore" (or with sudden deaths - "at least they didn't suffer.")
My internal response: ....ummm, but I am.  And I wish they were still here.  Alive. Preferably not suffering, but at least alive, in my arms.  (Quick note:  Some awesome people have said this while simultaneously sobbing.  I'm totally OK with that.)

3.  "At least you still have your other child."  OR "At least you're still young."
ARGH!  Both of these really get my gander up.  Children are not expendable objects!  No kid can "make up" for the loss of another!  They're not like glasses that break and then are replaced.  Sure, I still have my other child.  That does NOT help me get over the loss of this one.  Can you imagine saying to a little kid who lost their mom that "at least you still have your dad/uncle/brother."  Can anyone replace a mom? Heck no!  And as for my age, yes, it's true I'm still "young."  That simply means I have more time here on earth to grieve the loss of Vincent.  Even if I had dozens of children, none of them would be him.

4.  "It could be worse."  (There are a lot of variations to this one, usually along the theme of "At least xyz didn't happen"  or "Maybe God was keeping you/him from a worse fate").
Yeah, heard a lot of this one, in all its glorious variations.  I don't find it helpful for several reasons. At the drop of a hat I can think of dozens of horrifyingly terrible situations, and someone could easily dismiss them by saying "it could be worse." The terrorist attack on 9/11 was bad, but it could have been worse, right?  Or it's evil what the LRA army in Uganda is doing to children, but it can always be worse, can't it?  That statement is just a dismissal of the awfulness of the situation because "it can always get worse." Ugh.  Not helpful.

And last time I checked, God doesn't have to kill you to give your life a good ending.  He IS altogether-goodness-itself, so most of us believe.  I don't for one second think he let Vincent die because it was the lesser of two evils.  Most people who say this didn't sit with Vincent week after week, watching the tumors steal his nutrition, take over his body, watching him shrink, thirsty, day after day until his heart stopped beating.  It wasn't a good death, but hey, I guess it could have been worse, right? (Side note:  It's totally alright if my husband says this.  But it's preferable not to hear it from anyone else.)

5.  "God's ways are perfect" (Similar to this would be "God makes no mistakes" and "God is always good.")  
Thankfully, I only heard this once but it was so awful I had to include it here.  Please don't use it. Ever.  It is not the job of a comforter to instruct on theology.  Last time I checked, it was Job's comforters who tried to use his tragedies to "teach" him right thinking.  God said he'd only forgive them for what they said if Job offered a sacrifice (which he did).   Honestly, I'm not so sure I would have been as quick to forgive as Job was!  Even Jesus in his hour of deepest need cried out to his father, "Why, why have you forsaken me?"

For the record, if someone you know is grieving the loss of a loved one and asks you questions pertaining to faith and God, by all means, prayerfully answer them.  But don't use dismissive one-liners in hopes of comforting the griever.  It doesn't work.

6.  Say nothing at all
I am not referring in this point to individuals who, after crying with you and giving you a big hug, say nothing.  I am talking about people-you-know-pretty-well-but-haven't-seen-in-a-while that one day start talking to you like nothing ever happened.  This one is almost worse than the other five.  If I was standing in front of you with an amputated limb, blood gushing from the open wound, would you pretend nothing was wrong?  Would you talk about the weather or would you call 911 and get some kind of tourniquet on my stump? Come on folks, don't be immobilized by fear.  Just don't get caught uttering one of the five previous gaffes.  Tricky, I know.

OK, the rant is over now. My next post will be on what TO say to grieving parents.

Mother's Day for the Not-OK

It's that time of year again.  Endless jewelry commercials on TV.  Flowers featured prominently in grocery stores. Greeting cards, teddy bears, and giant balloons all remind us that May is here.  Specifically, Mother's Day is upon us.

I did not want this day to come.

Not because I don't have a wonderful mom, (and mother-in-law!) which I do, but because two years ago I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy we named Vincent.  This year his birthday falls on a Tuesday.  But in 2009 he was born smack dab on Mother's Day, the best Mom's day gift I ever got.  And then lost.

Ever since Vincent was diagnosed with and then passed away from an extremely rare form of liver cancer, I have met many other families who have also lost children.  Cancer, car accidents, homicides, miscarriages, premature births and stillbirths - there are so many ways kids die.  And there are many bereaved parents out there, more than I ever deemed likely in our first-world country.  I found out that every year, between 80,000 and 100,000 children under 19 die in the U.S. (depending on the source).  That's a lot of bereaved parents, a lot of devastated moms.  I know one absolutely wonderful family that has lost three children, all shortly after birth.

Needless to say, Mother's Day is a difficult holiday for many women.  Some women have tried for years to have a baby, going through endless and expensive fertility treatments only to be continually disappointed.  Other families have faced tragic developments while attempting to adopt.  Still others have raised healthy children, only to see the relationship fracture over time.  I even have a few friends who for various painful reasons elected to have abortions early in their child-bearing years.

So as you celebrate Mother's Day this year, think about the friends you know who have experienced the loss of a child, the loss of fertility, the loss of an adoption.  If you know of a family in your church, workplace or community who has lost a child, please, let them know that you remember.  That you care.  Send them flowers or a card.  Write them a note or online message.  Whatever you do, don't tell them that their child is in a better place, or that it will all work out in the end.  Don't tell them to be happy.  Just let them know that you care, that you are honoring their child, that you remember what happened to their child.  Parents never forget.  So try to remember, for their sake.

And then they'll remember that you remembered.

Conflict

I need...

to hide yet also be seen
to be understood yet not have to speak
friends, but am unwilling to be friendly
a promotion, but am unable to work for it
attention, yet don't want to stick out

Love Note

Yesterday we left our Chicago family at 4:00 am after a wonderful 8-day visit and headed back here to Hawaii.

Leaving them was really hard.

Growing up as a missionary kid, my family moved around a lot and "home" became whatever place our family was currently located.  We didn't own a house or have one specific place we'd stay the entire time when regularly heading back to the States for furlough.  We were simply home whenever we were together.

When I left my family in the Philippines for Bible college in the States,  I felt suddenly homeless.  It was awful.

Until I was sort of adopted into an awesome family, the Guimary family.  I had known them from my missionary kid days back in the Philippines, and I was great friends with their daughters (and then, their husbands).  They let me stay at their house for vacations and some summers.  I mooched off them for rides, meals, and laundry.  I worked at their dad's church, and he even married my husband and me back in 2003.  

Up until Vincent died, moving to Hawaii in 2004 was one of the hardest things I ever did.  

Because I had to leave the Guimary family.  

And today I had to do it again.

So to 'Mom' G, 'Dad' G, Lianne, Bill, Michelle, Tony, Nerissa, Daric, Jaelle, Laraya, Kaedyn and Javen: I love you guys!  Thanks for flying us there to Chicago, for making space in your house for us, for being great Aunties and Uncles, "Lola" and "Lolo" to Theo, and for staying up late at night crying with us. Thanks for the hugs, the understanding looks, the long conversations, the amazing food, and the effective chiropractic adjustments/therapeutic massage.  Thanks for coordinating church and school reunions, for exploring museums, IKEA, and thrift stores with us, and for shuttling around five children (all under the age of four) through downtown Chicago on the rail lines.  

You guys are awesome.  

I'll miss you all.  And Theo will miss his "cousins".  

But don't worry, we'll be back.   

Because we're family.

Vacation

When Vincent was buried, our wonderful family friend, pastor Uncle Jay Jarman was present to help guide us through the process. Before Vincent's casket was lowered into the ground, Uncle Jay asked us to close our eyes and envision ourselves at the end of our lives seeing Jesus, seeing his love for us, seeing our life from his perspective. When I closed my eyes, I saw myself talking to Jesus. He was saying - "Much has been taken from you, but much has also been given to you."

Much has been taken from me. I often feel like my life so far has been an exercise in various forms of loss, which i recognize is not unique to me. Many societies less affluent than ours are much more well versed in experencing loss. Wherever there is anything precious, there exists the possibility of loss and tragedy. This is the paradox of human history. We are more fragile (and also more beloved) than we realize.

Although I have lost a great deal in my life, I have also been given much. I have been blessed with a strong will, a great husband, sweet kids, and fantastic family support. I have rich friendships with people who are virtually my family.

We are spending this week in Chicago visiting our dear friends who brought us here for some connection and rejuvenation. It's working. I feel great, and it's only been 2 days!

Much has been given, and I'm so glad for the chance to be reminded of it.

Isolation (plus some tips for helping grieving friends)

One of the things I hate about grief is the feeling of being alone - that no one can understand you, no one can feel your pain, no one can share it with you.

And this is at least partially true.  No one person can ever fully understand another's grief, or the myriad of ways that they respond to it.  Dan and I have both been impacted in different ways by Vincent's death.  We've responded differently as well.  And that's OK.

Grief is isolating by nature.

But when grief is shared properly, it has the power to bring people together. I've seen this happen, but it requires a little risk on both sides.  I know some people don't want to talk about Vincent with me because they're worried about saying the wrong thing.  It feels risky for them to step outside of their comfort zone to address a grief that's larger than they've personally experienced.  (For the record, that doesn't help at all, to at like nothing happened. Of course I want to talk about it.)  What has helped, though, have been moments where people just looked into my eyes and said "We're so sorry you have to go through this" or "I can only imagine what you must be feeling right now." There are people who talk about Vincent with me, his life, his treatment, our grief now.  That helps a bit.

It's also a risk for the griever to allow the other individual to share their pain.  Just the act of opening up the wound to the other person is risky because of how they might respond.  I remember the Christian mom on a field trip with us who smiled at me after learning Vincent died, and said, "At least Theo won't remember any of this because he's too young!"  (awful on so many levels!)

So sometimes it's just easier to withdraw from people and grieve in seclusion.  But it's not as healthy, because I as the griever need to know that even though I'm walking this path alone, there are people cheering me on.  And it's healthy for you too, having grieving people around you, as it enlarges your heart and helps you be more thankful for what you have.  Plus, grieving enables all of us to identity more with the rest of the suffering world where awful stuff happens every day.  (Like what's going on in Japan!  Ugh!)

My husband Dan is very clever. He likes to comes up with these little witticisms, some of which are better than others.  (Sorry babe, it's true! :) After Vincent died, Dan said this - "The journey through grief is an unpredictable voyage, but the ship is more stable with many hands on deck."  Doesn't that sound like an ancient Chinese proverb?

Dan's right. Grieving in community can be better than grieving by yourself.  So next time we're hanging out, ask me how I'm doing.  Ask me about Vincent, about how his treatment went, about how his personality was and how much we miss him.  And together, we'll grieve for what's been lost.

I Really Don't Mind

I’ve found that after someone close to you dies, most people don’t ever want to bring up the subject.  Have any of you noticed that?  

Very few people in my life seem to want to talk about Vincent.  When I was on the phone the other day with one of Vincent’s old babysitters, she actually referred to him as “your second son.”  What is it about saying his name, about bringing the subject up that is so hard?  I’ve been surprised by how many people are just acting now like nothing happened, and actually go out of their way NOT to talk about Vincent.  Perhaps they are afraid that if they talk about him, I’ll either start crying, or it will somehow make me feel more sad than I already am.  My conversations used to be dominated by the subject of Vincent - what he’s doing, how he’s feeling, how his treatment is going - and after he died, that all stopped.  All we had left to talk about him were our memories of him, and some of them were pretty painful.  

But I’d rather talk about him than not.  One of darling teachers at Theo's preschool (you know who you are Mrs. Nancy!!) talks to me about Vincent.  She asks me if he was similar in personality to Theo, what he liked to do, how they used to relate.  She talks to me about his birthday and what I will do on that date this coming year.  I love that.  Just because he died doesn’t mean we can’t talk about him anymore.  He’s still just as pivotal to my life now, dead, as he was alive.