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.

According to most research we all know someone who is grieving the loss of a loved one. It can be one of the most awkward situations in which both the grieving and the friend of the grieving find themselves. Of course I’m referring to talking about it. Nearly all of us have found ourselves standing beside someone, wanting to say something, anything. Just what do you say? The answer really is dependent upon your relationship with the grieving individual.

If you are truly a friend, then it should be easy to know what to say. You would hope, right? Well, that isn’t always the case. My sister died in 1999. Her death was the result of a hit and run automobile collision. The collision happened the evening before my university graduation. This was also Mother’s Day weekend.

Obviously this event was quite a blow to our family. There were many people who were extremely warm and consoling. They truly ministered to our family’s emotional and physical needs. The phone rang off the hook. The community really came forward to let us know that they cared.

Despite their concern, some were extremely insensitive. Many simply made the mistake that their beliefs about life and death, god or salvation, took precedent over our emotional needs. I’ll never forget all of the phone calls I received from friends, or the conversations I had face-to-face where almost the first thing I was asked was, “Jeremy, did she know the Lord?” Now, I know that they were truly concerned, but this was not helpful. Whether she knew the Lord or not is not exactly comforting. If I knew the answer was yes, then they could be comforted. If the answer was no, then there was nothing they could do about it. This just left me hurting, and feeling like they weren’t really concerned with how I was doing.

One of the most common mistakes people make in situations of grief is they assume that others are going to deal with the circumstances as they believe they would. Another example I have is from a similar situation. A young woman attending the local community college drove her car off of a country road and into a telephone pole. No one knew what truly had happened. At the funeral, the father of the young girl was extremely upset. His daughter was 19 years old. He told me in confidence that if another person came up to him and told him that his daughter was in a better place he might lose it and punch them out. I listened to him. I assured him that he was perfectly correct to believe that anyone who told him that was wrong. A nineteen-year old daughter belongs with her family. A family who has been robbed of a future that they envisioned with their daughter does not deserve to be robbed of their beliefs as well.

Sensitivity dictates that a person trying to console another who is grieving should not so much as talk but listen. Or if one is inclined to speak, share memories of the deceased. Tell stories of personal interactions to which they were not privy. Listen to them. Ask them how they feel. Don’t tell them how to feel. Usually, our efforts to help don’t.

When the time of the loss is close to the time of your interaction, it’s actually more comforting to simply offer condolences. Tell them you’re sorry. Offer them help. If you’re not sure what to do, talk with someone who is closer to the family.

If the time of the loss is much further from your interaction, ask them how they’re dealing with things. Usually, just offering opportunities to talk about it is the most helpful thing you can do. Grief can be a very confusing, depressing, frustrating, and overwhelming experience. It will hit each of us differently. The most helpful thing we can do for one another is be supportive. Life goes on, but it can be hard for the grieving to move in that direction. Call them. Visit them often. Get them out. Help them find ways to express their feelings, but also diver their attention to the world around them. With your patience, compassion, and understanding, they will find peace.

Life just doesn’t seem fair sometimes. It feels like bad things happen to good people, and we get in the habit of believing that we don’t deserve the blessings we desire in our hearts. No matter what the loss, we always feel like it was too soon. We have so many things we wanted to do, we looked forward to experiencing. Our hopes are crushed. Imagine now your hopes were for a child, a new life that you desired to nurture and raise. You were all prepared. You had all the toys, the changing tables, the bedding, and most of all the willingness to endure nine exhausting months, labor, and a lifetime of responsibility. It is this willingness that makes women my heroes.

Good news, you’re pregnant. Congratulations! Your heart is filled with joy beyond expression. You begin to plan: baby names, spreading the word, buying clothes. The excitement is so exhilarating. Then, just weeks into the pregnancy there is a problem. You have had a miscarriage.

Maybe this experience is all too familiar. Maybe it is your story, or that of a loved one. The reality is that it happens. For some, it happens more than once. You’re filled with so many questions. Why would God put such a great desire within me for a child if it wasn’t meant to be? It is so unfair. Why is it so hard for me to have a child and so easy for so many people who don’t even appear to want children? It hurts to see this.

You begin to think, “What’s wrong with me? What am I doing wrong?” It is almost too emotional to talk about. No matter how sympathetic your significant other tries to be it just doesn’t take away the pain. So many of your girlfriends have become pregnant or had babies. They’ve shared with you all their joyous moments of feeling the baby move. They’ve talked about how much they love it. Jealousy, feelings of inadequacy, creep into your mind.

You begin to project these negative feelings about yourself towards others. Tension arises, especially between you and your husband. You worry about him blaming you, worry that he’ll leave you for someone who can bear his children.

Experiencing a loss of this type can be one of the greatest tests of a relationship. There are so many positive things in your life. It is easy to allow the stress and sadness to become overwhelming and to direct your attention towards the negative things. Know that you are not alone. If you have a hard time believing that, talk to your obstetrician. Understand that a pregnancy is a very overwhelming thing for both a father and mother. Husbands too are under a great deal of pressure. They can often feel left out because they don’t know what’s going on with you and the baby. They are so powerless. They pressure themselves with the worries of caring for and providing for you and the child.

Talk about how you are feeling. Express your disappointment and sadness. Encourage one another. Focus on enjoying life together. Let this be an opportunity to grow in your faith in one another and your ability to communicate. There are things in life we will not be able to control. We must constantly learn to let go of those things and to focus on where we do have control. Take care of you.

I was sixteen, and I didn’t enjoy visiting my grandma at the hospital. It was such an emotional place. My mom and my aunts were very sad, and watching them made me afraid that I was going to cry myself.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love my grandma. On the contrary, I loved her dearly. I often thought that I loved her best in the world. If she left, there would be a lot of little things to miss, like birthday cards and out-of-the-blue phone calls just to see how I was doing. Most of all, I would miss the security that she gave me.

On the drives up to the hospital, I’d give myself a stern talking to. You are not going to cry. I’d try to think of happy thoughts, like amusement parks and summer vacation – not of my grandma who was dying in the hospital.

When I had to go to the hospital, I’d stand by Grandma’s bed, and we’d talk about normal everyday things. I’d act like everything was fine. And when it was time to go, I’d pick up Grandma’s hand, lean over and kiss her forehead and say, “I love you, Grandma.” But I wouldn’t cry. Often when I walked out the hospital doors, my throat ached from swallowing the huge lump that had formed there.

The last time I went to the hospital, all my cousins were there too. We were all goofing off in the waiting room when Aunt Connie came in and said, “We’re all going to say ‘good-bye’ to Grandma now.”

My cousin Stephanie and I went in to say good-bye together. Grandma was asleep, so we stood at the foot of her bed, waiting for her to wake up. She finally did, and she smiled.

“Look at my two big girls,” she said.

My little brother, Bruce, came running into the room at that moment. He went right up to the head of the bed and flung his arm around Grandma’s neck.

“Grandma, I don’t want you to die,” Bruce said. He began blubbering pitifully.

I felt embarrassed for Bruce. How humiliating to cry in front of everyone! I was proud of how well I was holding myself together, even though a small tear did manage to slip down my own cheek as Grandma hugged Bruce back.

If I had a chance to do everything over again, I would have laid my head on Grandma’s chest and cried my heart out in that hospital room. My façade of strength crumbled during the visitation and funeral, and I cried plenty without caring who saw me. I wish I could have shed a few of those tears when Grandma was still here to comfort me.