Our Sympathy

It’s been seven years since the death of my sister. Yet, it feels in many ways like it was yesterday. Time has a peculiar way of sneaking up on us. Even today, one of the most difficult issues in dealing with her death is talking to others about it.

My experience was by no means the most difficult situation a person has had to deal with, but the circumstances of my loss have given me valuable insight into the grieving process.

It was May 7, 1999. I was out with college friends and my girlfriend celebrating my completion of my Bachelors degree. Commencement ceremonies were scheduled for the next morning. In the middle of our friends’ band’s set, my dad called my pager and left the numbers 911. I was suspended in a mixed feeling of confusion and urgency. I called him back and learned that my sister Heather had been in an automobile collision and was being flown by MedEvac to the University Medical Center in Fresno, CA. I turned to my girlfriend, Jessi and told her what my father had said. We rushed to her truck and told our friends we had to go.

Immediately, there was a very surreal feeling to the entire situation. I found myself talking to myself, reassuring myself that everything was going to be alright. Jessi kept ringing in my ears messages of “emergency” and “helicopter,” fading in and out as my senses scrambled to understand the seriousness of the matter. The basic message I got from Jessi was “grave danger.”

When we arrived at the hospital, my senses continued to decline. Shock set in. I ran into the entrance. I was informed I had to go through a metal detector, a rather simple procedure which I do quite regularly. This evening, the simple request pushed a button in me. I broke into tears and shouts informing the woman of my situation and how my sister was in there. Her logical mind informed me that if she was in there it was likely I couldn’t do anything to help her. She told me that Heather was in the best possible care. She continued to inform me that if I would just calm down and go through the metal detector I can get into the building.

Although I consider myself a logical person, this had no bearing. It took the stern, but gentle guidance of my girlfriend to take me towards the metal detectors, assist me in emptying my pockets, and walk me through to the other side.

Shortly after arriving in the general waiting area, the rest of my close family and friends arrived. We were then escorted through the hospital up to the Intensive Care Unit and to a waiting room. We were met by a lovely woman who was a volunteer with the organization known as TIP (Trauma Intervention Program). She immediately took us into her care. She informed us of the current status of my sister, and told us that she would communicate between our family and the hospital staff. Anything that she could provide for us she would, she assured us.

Unfortunately many of the details of this experience are a blur. The ones that remain played a tremendous role in assisting me through my entire grieving process.

First, I was surrounded by family and loved ones. My parents and grandparents were all there. This was by no mistake. They had traveled to be with me and my family for my graduation. My aunt was there. So was our good friend. While waiting in limbo for some understanding of what Heather’s condition was, we passed the time trying to comfort and encourage one another. We recalled stories together. We cried together. We prayed together. It was the most emotionally, physically, and spiritually exhausting experience of my life. I kept hanging on to the hope that she would pull through.

I wanted to believe that God would make her well again, that she’d come out of it okay. Despite the knowledge I had of the injuries she had sustained, I wanted her to remain with us.

After hours of tears, laughter, prayers, and even a little sleep, I was awoken by the TIP counselor. She told me that my parents wanted to talk to me out in the lobby. I was still groggy with prayers on my lips and sleep in my eyes. I just barely remember being taken out to my parents holding one another in the hall. They looked at me. My mother called me to her. With tears streaming down her face, she told me that they had decided to tell the doctors to stop. They had done all they could do for her. We had to let her go.

After that, tears. Yelling. No, this isn’t happening! I recall an “I hate you for this!” To whom that was directed exactly, your guess is as good as mine. They walked me towards the door of the operating room. My mom wanted me to have the opportunity to see her.

As difficult as that was, what I saw has forever transformed my life. I saw something that resembled my sister, but had nothing of her spirit. I saw an operating room, a table, medical staff exhausted and grief stricken. I don’t think I completely realized it at the time, but this gave me a type of closure, something very important for one who is grieving.

I still had many stages in the grieving process to experience, but for the moment at least, I was experiencing a level of acceptance. It was still so immediate and surreal that I don’t think I comprehended what was happening. I knew that I was extremely sad, and that I felt extremely robbed. I understood, however, that what I saw on that operating table was not my sister. There was no life there, and she was full of life. This made things easier, somehow, and I managed to get the strength to make it to my apartment to lie down for about an hour. I woke up, showered, and got dressed for my graduation. When people ask me how I managed to attend a graduation in the midst of such an emotional time of my life, my response is “how could I not?” My choices were clear. I could admit total defeat and quit, or I could do what I knew my sister would want me to do and graduate.

For me, more than anything else, understanding that Heather was a spirit has been the most helpful thing in finding peace. That spirit was what I had come to know and love. I even admired her. I still do. As often as possible, I let the spirit move me and do things that she and I would have done: midnight runs to Taco Bell, dancing in front of a video camera, or eating graham crackers with chocolate frosting. I say things that I could imagine her saying. I was fortunate enough to receive some of her possessions. These things are all important for allowing her spirit to live on.

What can you do to best support a friend or family member who is dealing with a loss? The first response is the obvious: a card, some flowers, some meals… These are welcomed expressions of your concern and sympathy. They are thoughtful and, well, expected as traditional means of outreach to those in grief.

But, you say, I want to do “more.” I see a person hurting. I know that if I were going through the same thing, I would want… Now, fill in the blank.

The grieving process involves many stages that must be understood and taken into consideration in order to provide the most loving and healthy support. Depending on the specific situation and personality of the person suffering the loss, your support should vary greatly and might yield very different responses.

For instance, Helen has just lost her husband of thirty years. She is one of your best friends. You want to be there for her (and you should). However, your presence reminds her of all of the parties and double dates and family memories she experienced with her husband and your family. Give her grace if it exacerbates her sadness to be with you if your presence brings up these painful memories. There will be a day when she will need to reminisce with you. You can still offer regular, non-invasive, casual visits and phone calls to give her the opportunity to cry or talk or pray with you.

A woman from our church, Sally, lost one of her twin boys in a car accident. I had just given birth to twins, and was worried about bringing them to the calling hours. I was afraid it would be too painful for her to see my beautiful, thriving twin babies. On the contrary, she tearfully (and joyfully) shared stories about raising the boys. She pulled out pictures and cathartically relived their childhood. Later that week, the surviving twin told me how wonderful it was for his mother to see and hold the babies.

Since our intentions are well-meaning, and we want to “be there” for our loved ones who are hurting, how can we best support them?

• Be available
• Be flexible.
• Be persistent.
• Don’t take a negative reaction personally.

Offer your support again and again. If our loved ones need us, they will receive us. If our presence causes pain, we must be sensitive to this and wait. Remember that the five stages of grief are: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. The first four stages are wrought with unpleasant emotions that may seem very unhealthy even though this is a healthy, normal and necessary process.

Remember that this sympathy you are offering is for them, not for you. Welcome the chance to make them feel good (being a shoulder to cry on, being a prayer partner, hugging and helping). But, also welcome the negative reactions as a sign that your friend is going through the necessary healing process. Grief does not last forever, and you will have truly been a friend to have been there through the good and the bad.

Everything was soaked as rain flew in from every direction. Seamen, their clothing plastered wet, grasped at the ropes that blew with the wind, slicing through the storm. Sails came loose and slapped any who ventured near to tie them down again. Curses and prayers in Swedish, Norwegian, Danish, and Irish brogue mixed with the screaming of the weather. In all the commotion, no one missed the deckhand as he lost his balance on the pitching bow and was thrown to the waves. He washed up on one of Dillingham’s beaches several days later.

That is probably what happened.

In Dillingham’s oldest cemetery, there is a plain wooden cross bearing a simple epitaph: “Nineteen-year-old Sailor from Sweden.” We don’t mark graves with carved stone because there is no local craftsperson with that ability. Instead, all our graves have carved wooden crosses with the identifying information painted black, stark as gravel against the foaming edge of a wave.

One of the beautiful things about the wooden cross markers is that they are all made in the same fashion. There is no competition in a Dillingham cemetery. To visit the cemetery is to see that in death, we are all equal. Peace is the final appointment under a cross that speaks not of failures or human accomplishments but of humanity. A wooden cross says only that a life existed and judges not what sort of life it was. The wooden cross shows that the dead beneath it belonged to our community and that we still hold them despite their absence.

The crosses also speak of hope because they are a symbol of what many in our community believe is offered the soul of man. In the sadness of a death, a local resident carves a symbol that states that death is not the end and that our separation from one another can be temporary. Because we live closely, we share our beliefs, our life experiences, and our remembrance at the end.

Since the crosses are simple painted wood, they weather and would eventually become indecipherable but for periodic maintenance by residents today. The marker of the nineteen-year-old Swedish sailor has been refinished with the same regularity as the local grandparents sleeping with him. Maintaining the crosses means that the community never forgets those who depart, and this stranger we buried receives the same honor. What we knew of him, we preserve and maintain, and keep him even though he was not born to us. We resurrect his cross with all the others, and we think of him. In death, he became part of our community and is marked as a life to honor.

She watches you as you walk down the hallway; depending on what you have accomplished throughout the day, her expression may be one of disapproval or satisfaction. The dignified image you pass by is strong, displaying accurate strokes of brown and white charcoal. My mother-in-law recently passed away and her sketched portrait hangs in the hallway of the house. It favors her so well that I often find myself speaking to it.

The loss of her life was one that shook the ground we all walked on. At the time, getting back to a life filled with normalcy seemed a goal far out of our reach. Some people choose to abandon the memory of a lost loved one because of the pain it causes those to think of someone who is no longer with us, but for others, embracing the past and incorporating it within everyday life is a healthy way to cope with the dearly departed.

The Christmas season that followed my mother-in-law’s passing allowed me to give an extremely moving and memorable gift to my husband and stepson. This was to be the first Christmas they would have without the warmth and comfort of their mother and grandmother. I wanted to give them something that would speak to only them and emphasize the bond they both shared.

At the time, I was experimenting with making T-shirts by scanning items onto the computer and printed them to iron-on transfers. I purchased a few white T-shirts and decided on the perfect subject for their shirts. As they left the house to run errands, I grabbed the ladder and lifted the rather heavy portrait from the wall. Positioning myself above the portrait, I took several photos of it with a digital camera. After returning the portrait, I went to the computer and resized the photos, then printed the finished product onto the iron-on transfers.

In the middle of the night, while everyone was asleep, I snuck into the kitchen to iron the transfers onto the T-shirts. This would be my first attempt at creating a T-shirt and I was meticulous in the way I lined up the transfers, hoping I was positioning them in the correct places for menswear. Examining the end results, I noticed something quite odd. In the portrait, my mother-in-law was wearing earrings. This was not the odd part. When I took the digital photo, a reflection from the flash hitting the glass made it look as if her earrings were sparkling. This was the only place that this detail showed up in the photo and it was completely unintentional. When they opened their gifts, it was quite emotional to see the look on their faces. When I saw the tears, as well as smiles, I knew I had done well.