Finding a Kindred Souls

A year or two ago, I met a woman who had grown up in the same area in which I'd lived and worked for a year and a half.  We made that connection, and we've chatted occasionally since.  Recently, I talked about my losses.  That's when she mentioned she, too, had lost a child, and recently, too.  I had had no idea.  I gather she figured my losses were so intense that her one second-term miscarriage didn't compare.  She just never brought it up.  We never know who may be a member of the empty arms/mothers of angels club.

I never wanted someone to feel somehow of a lesser rank in that club or that her loss was any less painful.  There really shouldn't be any ranking at all.  Yes, some of us have had more losses than others.  Some of us have had later losses than others or more recently losses.  But we're all members of that club of loss, a membership we wouldn't wish on anyone because the dues are too high.  It's a membership that teaches empathy and understanding that can't be taught or learned in any other way. It makes me feel bad that she somehow feels awkward mentioning her loss with me.  We should all be brothers and sisters in this club.  We all understand what real pain is.

I'm thankful that she did share with me.  Sharing implies trust.  When you're a person in mourning, it's hard to know who we can trust because some people respond in more supporting ways than others to our professions of grieving.  We often walk around like everyone else, saying nothing about our loss for fear of painful words.  When we do say something, we're hoping for the right words or touch or contact of any sort that will make our pain feel that much more bearable.  I would wish that all around me who have suffered loss would feel I was a person with whom they could share their hearts without worry that I'd cause them added pain. I pray the words I say to someone in mourning are the words that will help them feel loved.  Always.

Respecting the Griever

I've faced various kinds of loss, some of them harder than others.  I've had hard loss and easy loss.  Easy loss is the kind of loss that makes you sad but doesn't change you fundamentally.  Hard loss shakes you to your core.  After hard loss, life is not the same.

I've had difficult pet losses, such as sudden death like happened to our precious little Harmoni, who got on the highway and was hit a few months back.  And I've had easy pet losses, as happened today, when we decided as a family our puppy would be happier at another home.  I know some people struggle more than words can say with these losses, and I've had more than I can count.  But a loss like this does not compare to the loss of a family member such as a child.  At least it hasn't compared in my experience.  Even the loss of my dearest, most beloved cat who was an incredibly important person in fur to me did not change my life and rock my world like the loss of my baby.

Today, a friend of mine, someone I've known for years, lost her husband unexpectedly.  It reminded me of another friend who also lost her husband recently.  I can't pretend to understand that kind of loss.  I've imagined a world in which the other half of my mind and heart is taken away suddenly, but I wouldn't wish that kind of loss on anyone.  I can understand pain like that on some levels since I've lost my little girl and several pregnancies, but I've never suffered that exact kind of loss.

Meanwhile, I'm thankful when people understand my kind of loss, when they say the right things or avoid saying the wrong things because they are filled with empathy due to their own child loss.  However, I don't wish that kind of empathy on anyone, that kind of experience.  I can only imagine it may be an entirely different kind of loss when the child has grown a bit older and has become more interactive than my baby was.  For instance, my pain was terrible, but I imagine it may have been even worse had Alli been five or ten when I lost her.  I don't ever want to find out.

I think the mistake a lot of people make is when they try to eclipse all of these losses together, when they try to say that dreadful phrase, "I understand" when they've had a loss and presume to think they understand all loss.  I can't tell my young widowed friend, "I understand your pain" when I really don't.  When I'd just lost cats or grandparents, I didn't understand this idea.  I'd say things like, "You've lost a child?  I feel your pain.  I lost a cat once."  To the uninitiated like I was, this felt like I was empathizing.  To the recipient of such comments, it probably felt like I was trivializing.  I think it's important that we reach out to each other, that we don't presume to tell others how they should feel, that we respect other's right to respond to grief as they do, not as we want them to do.  

We need to be the listening ear without trying to make ourselves feel more comfortable with their pain by trivializing or offering something that feels like kindness to us, such as the question, "How are you?" when someone who hears it may only find such phrases painful.  The right thing to say rarely starts with "I understand..." or "At least...." or "You think you've suffered..." or "You're not over that...?" These things have a tendency to trivialize, compartmentalize, demand, or distance.  The supporter needs to realize many of these phrases are about comforting ourselves, not the grieving party.

Sometimes, the best thing we can do is just let them know we're there, that we're listening, that we love them.  Sometimes, the best thing we can do is offer a hug but don't demand it if that's not what they need.  Not everyone is the same.  Not all losses nor all people are the same.  Let the grieving one decide what they need and be there for them.  If they don't even know what they need, it's a bad idea to demand they figure it out for our personal edification.  Support that can help the griever heal needs to be given without any thought or impulse beyond unselfish love.