Sunday, August 10, 2014

Helping Those Who Mourn

If you've followed this blog long, brace yourself:  I'm about to break my own rule.  (And if you've followed this blog long, thank you and I'm sorry I'm not more consistent).  What rule is that?  I'm breaking my rule about prescriptions for grief.

Before I do, here's some links for relevant things I've written before:
11 Things No One Tells You About Grief
10 Lessons From Losing a Loved One
Why Are We Afraid of Grief?

Tonight, I was talking to friends about grief.  One of them remarked how sometimes it's difficult to say anything because we don't want to say the wrong thing.  If you've never experienced grief, it can be really overwhelming to try to provide some measure of comfort!  I've also seen people hurt by well-meaning people saying unhelpful things.  So, after 12 years, I finally feel it's time to give some guidelines for helping those who grief.

Before I begin, one MAJOR caveat:  these are guidelines meant to help you navigate grief, they are not meant as rules or a playbook.  Take your cue from the person you're with and use wisdom and discernment.

Without further ado, and in order of how I think of them, the list.

1.  Realize it is not about you.  Being with the other person is about trying to relieve his/her/their suffering, not about making you feel better.  Take your cue from the other person.  If he/she is okay, let her/him be okay; if she/he is a mess, let her/him be a mess.  Don't break him/her just so you can fix her/him.

2.  Listen at least twice, probably 4-5 times, as much as you speak.  Ask good questions.  Try to avoid asking how they're doing, unless you know them well or can do it in a way they haven't heard 300 times already that day.  Ask them if there's something specific you can do to help.  Ask if they want to talk about their loved one.  I heard a Jewish woman recently say that her community says, "I stand with you in your pain and suffering as a member of God's chosen race."  I like that.  I like saying, "I'm here.  I'm with you.  I'll go to the depths of your pain with you as much as I can and I'll celebrate with you on the mountains.  I don't have to fix you, I'll just be here."

3.  Take care of them and the things they need.  This one gets a huge caveat that some people don't like being taken care of; for those people, respect that and don't take care of them.  At the same time, 12 years later, sometimes that is still the hardest thing.  It's hard that I have to call a friend who knows about computers rather than just calling my dad.  It's hard having to think about things and do them for myself when he might have done them for me.  If there's a practical need you can meet, do it- or at least offer it.  Don't be afraid to interfere or inconvenience, but be sensitive to what the other person needs.

4.  Don't linger, but don't wait for an invitation.  Know the person and your relationship.  Read the signals.  If you are close friends, don't wait for an invitation to be in the grieving person's life.  At the same time, if you go over and the person needs to be alone, accept it and go home.  We still love you when we grieve, but sometimes it is just too much to have to be in the same space as someone else because our grief takes up all the extra room.

5.  This is a big one, especially for Christians.  Do NOT recite platitudes.  I know when you don't know what to say, you fall back on other things you've heard that seem like a good idea.  78% of the time, it hurt to hear people say things akin to, "Well, he's in a better place."  I'm not at all saying to not speak truth- I'm just saying to be aware of how that truth comes across.  When I heard those words, I felt like the other person was shutting the door for me to share my grief and telling me that I was a bad Christian because I missed my dad.  When Jesus heard that Lazarus died, he wept.  Even knowing (I assume) that he would raise Lazarus from the dead, Jesus wept.  Do not rob someone of the healing and cleansing that comes from weeping.

6.  Do NOT under ANY circumstance say something similar to, "I know how you feel."  You don't.  I have a close friend whose dad died when she was a young adult.  I don't know how she feels.  I am not her and she is not me.  While I understand some of the principles of grief, I do not understand how she experiences grief.  So I ask her.  I ask her what would be helpful.  I say, "I found myself feeling/thinking/doing ______.  Does that resonate with you at all?"  I look for common ground, but I would never say I understand, because I don't and I never could.  Admit it.  I find it much more helpful to hear, "I can't imagine."  I don't expect you to understand, I really don't.  It's offensive and insulting when you try to pretend you do.

7.  Stay calm.  This person is not himself/herself currently.  They've experienced a loss that is intensely personal and extremely isolating.  They may not be as joyful as usual.  They may not smile as often.  It may take them weeks, months, or years to return to how they were- or they may never do it all.  Help them as much as you can, but have grace for their processes.  Don't freak out because two months later your normally joyful friend still cries at the drop of the hat.  Now, if you are seriously concerned and think your friend is actually clinically depressed or experiencing things beyond normal grief, then talk to someone.  And talk to the friend.  But always remember that grief manifests in the weirdest of ways.

8.  Embrace the mess.  Your friend likely feels very alone and isolated.  They are experiencing things you will never understand and they may never be able to put words to.  If you are close friends, join them in the mess.  Cry with them as they cry.  Hold the punching bag while they're angry.  Feed them chocolate and ice cream when they need it.  Sit in silence when they really just need to have another human present who's willing to not say a single word.  Remember:  it is about loving them, not absolving you.  If you are not a close friend, then support those who are.  Help them help the person who is mourning; don't manufacture a relationship so you feel useful.  If a friend is spending all of his/her time with the grieving one, then clean the helper's house for him/her.  Take THEM a meal.  Secondary grief and trauma is real- support the supporter so he/she can support the grieving.

9.  Realize this isn't going away quickly.  Sure, the initial waves of grief will subside.  The person will likely quit crying so often.  A friend once said, "Grief is like tree rings; you often come back to the same spot, but the rings get further apart."  Mark your calendar (including a reminder) for the important dates, especially the anniversary of the loved one's death or things like wedding anniversaries.  If nothing else, on that day send them a text saying you're thinking about them.  It is such a gift when friends take the time to remember and do even something small to say, "I haven't forgotten."  The cards, flowers, meals, and everything else quickly disappear- much more quickly than grief does.  It's easy for one who is grieving to feel forgotten or like everyone else has moved on.  Let him/her know that you remember and you stand with him/her in his/her grief and ask how you can help.  That is a priceless gift.

We who grieve know that you're trying to help.  We appreciate it more than we can express.  At the same time, 12 years of grief and seeing my friends' grief has taught me some lessons and shown me that we need a better way to help others grieve.  We need a better understanding of how to help.  I hope these 9 things give you a place to start.  I'd also suggest you find someone you know who has walked through grief and ask him/her about the process.  Ask him/her what was helpful and what wasn't.  Ask what they wish had been different.  Ask how they need you to support them in the future. Because the deal is that you're amazing.  You're an amazing friend for trying.  You're an amazing friend for caring.  You're super amazing for making it through this long post.  Don't be afraid.  Keep being the amazing person you have been, just keep in mind that things are currently not normal.  

Twelve Years

I'm giving you fair warning:  it's about to get very real and vulnerable around here.  I hate writing blog posts when things aren't already tied up into beautiful bows for the three of you who read this blog.  :-)  While I'm generally a pretty open person, there are some parts of my heart that I just don't like sharing.  Tonight, though, I was talking with some friends and one of them said it was helpful to hear someone articulate what he/she was feeling in the midst of grief to help understand what was happening.  So, this is me being honest and telling you the best I can about how I feel.

Tomorrow is the 12th anniversary of my dad's death.  Having done this 11 times before, I have certain expectations about tomorrow.  I made the mistake of assuming that I had a grasp on how I would probably feel and what it would probably look like.  Then, like it always does, grief surprised me.

I never expected the 12th anniversary to be immeasurably more difficult than years 1-11.  But it is.

It started early this year.  On Monday I almost lost it at work trying to think of a place my dad would like to eat in Norman.  Grief never starts that early for me.  On Tuesday, I was trying to remember what color my dad's eyes were and I couldn't.  I also did the math:  as of Monday, I'll have spent 39.5% of my life without my dad.  And that's hard.   Today, it felt like a semi had crashed into me while I sat in church.  I thought, "I can't say I miss him.  That isn't it.  My heart just aches."

As I get older, I mourn for the things I've lost and the things I miss about him.  At the same time, my heart breaks even more for the future I don't have with him.  12 Christmases, 12 of every holiday, 2 graduations, 2 cities, countless friends, several jobs, and all sorts of dreams he has missed out on.  When I get married, I don't get a daddy/daughter dance or the chance to have my dad grill my husband and then give his blessing for our marriage.  My kids will only know their granddad through what I, and others, tell them.  Those pieces missing from my future hurt.

At some point I realized what makes this year so exceptionally difficult.  This year I realized my memories are getting fuzzier.  This year I'm more attuned to the details I'm forgetting.  People tell me stories of events I should remember and I either can't remember or have but the faintest memory.  I'm forgetting what he smelled like.  I can't remember what it was like for him to hug me.  Of course I remember so many things.  I remember his embarrassingly loud laugh in the movies.  I remember the silly grin he got on his face as he tickled me mercilessly.  I remember how he wanted to get a yellow truck, but there was a certain yellow it had to be and I never could understand that yellow.

I feel guilty for what I don't remember.  I know it isn't true, but it feels like maybe I didn't love him enough or spend enough time with him.  I also feel guilty for how normal life feels without him.  I feel guilty for how normal it feels for him to be absent on Christmas.  I feel guilty for forgetting his birthday.  I feel guilty when I realize I've gone for several days or weeks without thinking of him (which hasn't happened recently).

But then God reminds of what my dad was like.  He reminds me of what my dad would say to me if he was around.  My dad would tell me to quit feeling guilty and that he was proud of my family and me for living and embracing life.  He'd tell me it's okay that some of the memories are fuzzy because my mind is filled with new memories.  He'd tell me that I remember the important things and my ability to remember his eye color (which was brown or hazel, depending on the picture) had nothing to do with how much I loved him.  He'd agree it was too short of a time, but remind me that even 100 years wouldn't have been enough.  Above all else, he'd remind me that this is a very temporary, though very real, pain.  He'd tell me how amazing Heaven is and to be comforted by the thought of being with him again.  He'd tell me to lean on the Great Comforter and surround myself with people I love.

So, I choose to do that.  Don't get me wrong:  grief sucks and it is unfair.  However, I chose hope over despair.  I choose peace over anxiety.  I choose joy in the midst of pain.  While I feel grief and pain deeply, I choose to remember the hope of future glory.  I choose trust instead of blaming.  I choose to remind myself and believe in God's goodness and kindness instead of hurling accusations towards him.  Above all else, I choose rest- resting in the truth of who God is and that He works all things together for my good and for His glory.

Hey, look, some neat little bows did come out of this!  :-)