Years ago, while sitting outside of security at the airport, waiting to greet a friend, Mr. J and I struck up a conversation with a fellow friend greeter. He was at the airport to pick up his brother. His brother, who was dying. Obviously, I had no idea what to say. So I blathered about my belief of an afterlife of some kind, and that their spirits would meet again. (I know, I know. I cringe now as I write this, but I didn’t know better then.) He told me he didn’t believe in that nonsense. Which I should have taken as a cue to stop talking. But I didn’t. I added, “I like to think it’s true.”
What can you, dear reader, learn from my repeated faux paus combined with my current knowledge? Plenty!
1. When You Tell Me Mr. J Seems Fine, It Minimizes Our Experience
I’m going to repeat that, because it’s important. When you say to me, cheerfully, Mr. J “looks great,” or “sounds normal,” or “doesn’t seem to be degenerating,” I know you mean well. I know you are trying to cheer me up. I know you are trying to make things better. Gently, dear reader, I must point out, you are not. I am painfully aware of Mr. J’s condition. I live with it 24/7. Mr. J, similarly, is well aware that things are different. (For example, he can’t work a full-time job - a painful reality for us both.) Insisting things are okay when they are not, is, at best, tone deaf. At worst, it is a devaluation of our experience. No need to tell me he’s “fine.” He’s not. And like it or not, I have to make peace with that.
2. When You Tell Me Mr. J Doesn’t Have What He Has Been Diagnosed With, I Want To Punch You In The Throat
Okay, that might be a little dramatic and over the top. I am not a violent person. I have never, for the record, punched anyone in the throat. I know you mean well when you tell me the Doctors have got it all wrong. I do. But it doesn’t help. In fact, it hurts. You probably haven’t thought about that three day hospital stay, or those dozens and dozens of tests, or that trip to the world renowned specialty clinic in a while now. I don’t expect you to carry the same wounds I carry about that traumatic time. But, gently, I ask you, “What is it about your sociology degree from 1974 that leads you to be an authority on a little known and barely understood brain disease?”
3. When You Tell Me, “I Believe in Miracles” You Are Ignoring the Obvious
Death is part of life. It is true that sometimes something miraculous will happen. However, Mr. J (and I) are no more worthy of hitting the lottery of miracles than anybody else. (Some would argue, less worthy, given we don’t believe in miracles.) Let me be the first to assure you, I would be delighted to encounter a miracle. That said, good people die every day in ways that are unfair and tragic. We are not so arrogant to believe we won’t experience the same. You are free to believe whatever you want. But telling me he’s not going to die ignores my reality as it stands today (see #1 above). It also ignores medical science (see #2 above).
So What Do You Do?
As a preliminary matter, I do not speak for every future or current widow. Only myself. So obviously, if I tell you what I think, that may not fit for the next person. (Who knows? Maybe some people actually do think your sociology degree from 1974 trumps a double board certified specialist.) This is what I want you to know. I would appreciate it if you would value my experience. When you see me and say, “How are you?” make certain I know that you mean it. I might respond, “tough day,” or I might vomit words, which may or may not make sense in the order they are tumbling out of my mouth. Or I may say, “I’m fine.”
For me, “I’m fine” means one of three things. None of which, by the way, are “I’m fine.” I don’t know if I’ll ever be “fine” in the traditional sense again. “I’m fine” can mean, “I am not talking about how I am doing today, so I’d appreciate you not pressing me.” Or it can mean, “I’m doing as well as can be expected,” which is my new version of “fine.” Or it might mean, “I didn’t catch your sincerity and I assume we are merely exchanging pleasantries.” Feel free to push back gently if you think I might be engaging in the third definition.
What I want you to know, most of all, is that I am well aware of the fact that I am in a sad and difficult spot. Some days I am shocked that I am not actually bleeding out of my heart, because the pain is so great. It’s okay for you to acknowledge that. There is no “bright side” to this, so stop trying to present one. Just consider the best way you can be there for me. And Mr. J. Finally, please don’t disappear. I’ve lost enough already.
What you're going through is the hardest human experience there is. I was widowed 12 years ago but in my case it was sudden. He got sick on a Friday and was dead by Sunday. Both long illness and sudden death are painful to the widowed in different ways. It's true that no one knows what to say except those who've been through it. I wrote a book about getting through grief because I couldn't find any that were secular. I got a great piece of advice early on though: let people say the wrong things. There's not a lot that's right to say. And now more than ever you need your people. Big hugs to you❤️
Thank you for this post, Anne. I wholeheartedly agree.
David Kessler wrote that the thing grieving people need most is for the magnitude of their loss to be witnessed.
In my early grief, this was what I needed and rarely received. It’s extremely difficult for people to observe our loss, pain, and grief without trying to make it better. But they can’t. Nothing they can do or say will make it better and all we need is to be witnessed in our pain.
I see you, I see Mr J, as you both bear this terrible burden and I wish you the strength to hold one another through these days. Sending love and strength.
Thank you for writing and sharing with us all x