I’ve been thinking about grief a lot lately, and I’m not exactly sure why. No one close to me has died recently. Aside from my son starting kindergarten (which unleashed emotions I never knew existed until I walked out of his classroom without him), life has been pretty good lately.

Maybe it’s because I am close to people who are experiencing grief. Maybe it’s because, for the last several weeks, I followed a blog by a woman whose three-year-old son just tragically died. Maybe it’s because at least 10,000 times over the last week I’ve wanted to call my Mom and I can’t.

Maybe it’s because grief is the gift that keeps on giving, and lately I’ve just been missing my Mom. A lot. But it’s also made me think of how much we get wrong about grief, and how much I got wrong about grief, until I walked through it.

In 2004, my mother was diagnosed with an acoustic neuroma, an operable, benign brain tumor. What we thought would be a relatively easy fix — as easy as brain tumor fixes can be — turned into a four-month ordeal, filled with mountains, valleys, a few missteps, and a staph infection that ultimately took her life just as she was winning the battle with the tumor.

In the immediate aftermath, I was angry — at the doctors, at God, at life. I missed our twice-daily phone calls. I missed the sweet notes she sent me a couple times a week. I missed staying with her when I came home, and eating her amazing cooking. I missed the random gifts she would send me, just because. (One time, I was talking to her on the phone when I spilled cranberry juice on a white shirt. Three days later, a brand-new white shirt came in the mail. That was my mother).

I missed her. And I was perhaps prepared for the waves and stages of grief — as much as I could be anyway. But I was completely unprepared for the careless and senseless things people would say, which made a terrible situation so much worse.

People say the wrong things for the right reason, and I understand that. We think we need to say something, so we offer things like, “They’re in a better place” or “Call me if you need anything,” and while the first might be true and the second might have sincere motives, the reality is neither offers any form of healing balm over a big, gaping wound.

But the comments that were troublesome to me, and the comments that hurt the most, were statements like, “So-and-so has it worse than you do. You don’t have it as bad as this person. You should really just try to be happy.” (Someone actually said that to me, and no, we aren’t close anymore).

Or, “Be glad your mother didn’t suffer like my mother did,” before launching into a lengthy diatribe on all the ways her mother’s suffering was worse than mine.

Or, “I know just how you feel …” True story: someone actually told me they knew how I felt because they just lost a beloved pet. Another told me she knew how I felt because she hadn’t spoken to her mother in several years.

Or, “Be glad they aren’t suffering.” This was one my sister suggested, and it’s so true. We are glad they aren’t suffering. But in the immediacy of their loss, we want them to not be suffering on this side of Heaven, not the other side.

Grief is not a competition, and there is not an effective band-aid for it. Grief is hard, regardless of whether your parent died when they were 42 or 62 or 82. Grief is hard, whether you lost your only child, or one of 12 children. Grief is hard whether you lived next door to your friend when they passed away, or on another continent. Grief is not a contest.

I know for me, a lot of my friendships shifted in the wake of my mother’s death, when the people I looked to for support were too busy telling me all the reasons I should stop being so sad.

Of course, there were many, many wonderful people. My sweet Aunt Millie, whose own son was diagnosed with a brain tumor only a few weeks after my mother — her sister — died, still took time to call me, to check on me, to send me cards. My church, although they didn’t know her personally, became a safe place. Many of my friends saved me, from me, in the ashes of my mother’s loss.

I wish I could take back the few years after my mom died. I was incredibly lost, incredibly sad, and incredibly angry. I hid it, some. I made bad decisions, a lot. I fully believe God is big enough for all of our emotions, including deep bitterness and resentment towards Him. I don’t think He’s scared by our feelings. But I vividly remember one night, just feeling so angry and hostile, that I threw my Bible across the room. My mother was gone, I was 800 miles from home, and my sadness felt invalidated.

I didn’t even know where He was, because I was so consumed by my grief. My mother was, in so, so many ways, my compass, and I had to find out who I was without her.

 

black and white photo of little boy at a tombstone

When my mother passed away, Facebook wasn’t yet a ‘thing,’ so I missed a lot of the comments — good and bad — that I’ve seen people make in the last several years. And while Facebook and social media can be a fantastic way to connect with people and offer support (and would have been a lot easier than the email chain I kept up with during my mother’s illness, while using dial-up internet), it can also unintentionally cause more pain.

If I could offer anything, as someone who has lost an immediate family member, it would be this:

  1. The loss of someone is not the time to tell the story of your own loss, in person, on social media, or in any other way.
  2. It’s OK to just say, “I’m sorry,” and not say anything else.
  3. Saying “Call me if you need anything” isn’t nearly as effective as just doing something. Buy their groceries. Take them a meal. Do their laundry. Give them a restaurant gift card. Drop it off without the need to have a conversation. Or, send it in the mail.
  4. Saying platitudes like “They’re in a better place” or “At least they aren’t in pain anymore,” isn’t really helpful. We know that. We believe that. We understand that. But while drowning in grief, we just want to yank them back out of the ground and breathe life into them.
  5. Comparing grief — to others or your own — is really ineffective, and harmful. Grief is not a contest, where only the person with the most perceived legitimate sadness wins. Grief is real and raw and all kinds of messy.

I am positive I made a lot of mistakes with friends who were grieving, before I had my own experience. But now I know better, and while I wish I hadn’t learned the lesson, I’m grateful I can at least offer some support for others walking similar journeys.

It took me a long time to heal, and in a lot of ways, the healing still continues, and I imagine it always will. Some people were so wonderful in the wake of my grief, and their love for me has continued to inspire me, 13 years later, to offer tangible love to others who are grieving.

“The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief or bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing, and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.” ~Henri Nouwen

How have others helped you in your grief? How have you helped others? I’d love to hear your stories!

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