How To Back Away From A Grieving Person

December 1, 2014

Dear People Who Are Thoroughly Freaked Out by The Presence of A Grieving Person,

I get it.

I totally do.

Grieving People can be really fun one minute ("Oh look! It's like the old her is back!") and burst out crying- like snot on the sleeve sobbing- the next ("What happened? Wait...but weren't you just fine? I'm so confused.") This must suck to be around. It really must.

Grieving People like to talk about things that make most people uncomfortable. In fact, I'd venture to say that they don't just LIKE to talk about these things, but they NEED to talk about these things in order to keep being alive.

They may talk about the actual circumstances of a death. They may do this in great detail, especially in the first few days after the death occurs, if the death is sudden. They may put images in your head that you wish were never there. They may unintentionally cause you to transfer those same images onto the lives of your loved one. What if it were your love-person falling from that window? What if it were your spouse who drowned in that water?

How can you keep yourself from imagining the pain of your own child taking her life when Grieving People are suddenly hit with the urge to talk about it? Being friends with a Grieving Person is like carrying around a jack-in-the-box, tense and tinny music always in the background, the jolting POP! threatening to happen at any time, anywhere. How fun is that? Not very.

Grieving People are a confusing lot. They like to present to you a problem to be solved (i.e. "I can't get out of bed." "I don't feel like exercising." "I'm worried about the upcoming holidays.") but when you offer solutions, it seems to make it worse. The normal rules of problem-solving don't to apply to Grieving People, and that's just baffling. In fact, if you offer up a list of "Why don't you"s or "Have you ever considered"s, Grieving People are apt to be more upset and accuse you of not "getting it." That sucks if you're just trying to help out. It sucks a lot.

Grieving People like it best if you just be with them in their grief. They want you to lie on your belly right next to them and toss pebbles down into that vast hole, listening for them to ricochet off the sides. Grieving People would rather you sit silently with them than say any of the things we're taught to say to someone who is sad. And that's not easy to do. Go laugh it up with a friend over coffee and see a movie, or sit with a Grieving Person who is telling you (for the 50th time, mind you) that they miss their love-person or that they're not sure how to keep doing this...Which sounds like a better way to spend your time? I know what I'd pick. Latte, please!

Even if you feel drawn to a Grieving Person in the first few hours, days, or even weeks of their intense pain, after a while, it's taxing on anyone. Everyone. And seriously, you've got stuff going on, too, right? Maybe your Grieving Person used to be a great sense of support to you, and now is good for zilch. Nothing. Nada. "Yoooo-hoooo! Over here! I've got shit going on, too!" Grieving People can't always remember that, and even if they can, they may be too tapped out to be there for you like they used to be. Grieving People are not always fair.

Grieving People can offer no time frame of when their grieving period will be over because it's never over. It morphs. It shifts. It sometimes softens. It often comes back looking like the early days right after a string of great days. If you're committed to being there for a Grieving Person, to really being there, you're signing up for a lot.

Grieving People pluck the strings of what could happen in the future, and even worse, what may already have happened to you in the past. The stone of any loss, any death, will often be turned over by the presence of a Grieving Person. And they don't even try to do this. It just comes naturally somehow.

That's a long list of holy cows. There's no convincing me that people are in line to befriend someone in deep grief. In fact, my own experience has shown that some people who were absolute cornerstones of my support system pre-sudden death of Gareth have dropped off the map, so to speak. A Grieving Person may experience a second layer of grief- one that comes from realizing wonderful, strong, compassionate people who were there in other times of need just can't be here now. A Grieving Person may take the unreturned calls, the refusals to be met at the airport, the emails stating that despite a desire to be there, there really isn't time at the moment- personally at first.

These things might knock a Grieving Person down for a bit. An hour. A day. A week.

But, if a Grieving Person is able to step back from it all, to watch everything from a bird's perspective, it will become clear that Grieving People are not everyone's cup of tea, and the Grieving Person will understand this. This will be understood as well as the fact that the Grieving Person cannot, for the missing of old connections, turn into the Non-Grieving Person, just for old time's sake. The Grieving Person will learn how to shift support, how to forgive herself for being in this place, and how to forgive others who can't be there with her for whatever reasons of their own.

I propose to you, Dear Ones Who May Need To Back Away From A Griever, the following ways to do it. You have full permission to read directly from this screen, when needing to communicate with your Grief Person.

1. "I love you. I really do. But being around your grief is bringing up too much stuff for me right now. I need some space from you at the moment. Please know this isn't about you."

2. "I don't know what to say when you're really down. And that makes me feel uncomfortable."

3. "I am so thoroughly freaked out by anything death-related. I just can't hear it. This is my shit."

4. "I want to be here for you- I do. But I find the specifics about how [--] died to be too hard to hear. Do you have someone else you can share that with?"

5. "I am not good with this whole grieving thing. But I like you as a friend. So, I'm just going to go over here for a bit...and maybe we can connect after some time has passed."

These. All acceptable. Most Grieving People will not only appreciate your honesty, but they will feel very loved and supported in the understanding that it's not about them. That they aren't doing something wrong.

Here are some things NOT to do:

1. fail to reply to an email or call because you don't know what to say

2. unfriend the Grieving Person on facebook without explaining why

3. pretend like the dead love-person never existed/never speak of them

4. put everything on the Grieving Person, "You're too negative/sad"

5. ask the Grieving Person things they cannot answer: "When will you get better?"

6. say any of the following:
-"What do you think you're getting out of all of this?"
-"[dead love-person] would want you to/not want you to..."
-"Just focus on the positive."
-"Isn't it time to let go?"
-"You talk about [love-person] too much."
-"You just need to [---]."
-"You're problem is [---]."

Here are some ways you can support from afar- if you need to back away but don't want to be totally gone:

1) Send a quick message that just says "I'm thinking of you." No need for much else.
2) Share a reminder: saw this (photo/article/place) and thought of you [and/or your love-person] today"
3) Lay it out there: "I know I can't really be there for you in the way that you're needing/wanting, but I just want to remind you that you mean a lot to me and I think about you."

These things are ok, too.

Even if you're bowing out of a friendship for good, I'd like to suggest there's a loving way to do it. If it's a temporary step back, there's a loving way to do that, too.

Doesn't Ram Dass remind us that "We're all just walking each other home"?


Love,

Bridget

Day 272: On the Eve of December, 2014

Decorating the tree the night before my birthday.
A tradition I shared with Gareth.

Sunday, November 30th.

I taught you this: that
December was a month
to celebrate. That the
eve of my birthday was
the time for warm cocoa
and warmer pajamas,
both to be enjoyed after
decorating whatever tree
was suitable to drag into
my home; a 6-foot pine
dropping fresh needles
as it births itself through
my front entryway or a
12-inch plastic tree with
globs of visible glue holding
it together- a poor substitute,
but, hey, we're in Korea. The
point was this: on December
8th, a tree gets decorated.
Pajamas are worn. Bing
Crosby tells me once
again that he's dreaming
of a white Christmas, and
when the work is done,
there is nothing to do but
sit back, sip from a mug
almost too hot to keep in
your hands without rotating
it to find the cooling spots,
and marvel in a room lit
up by tiny lights as though
we've never seen anything
like it before. This is what's
done. This is December.

I taught you this: that
the first snowfall of the
year is best when it happens
while we're fast asleep in
the night. And it's best if
it happens in December. That
waking up to a world illumi-
nated by such magic is a thing
of great luck. A time to run
to the window- whichever
has the best view-to press
our hands,  noses, and fore-
heads to the cold glass, and
to feel ourselves quiet while
all other sounds out there
speak up: the scratch of a
shovel, the crunch of a car
tire, the break of a branch.
All of this stillness, our own
stillness, comes of course
after the cheering. My
cheering. The jumping in
place. The outward expressions
of glee I've been practicing
each year  at snow's first fall
since I was a child. This is
how it's done when snow
first falls. And

you taught me this: that
gifts can be hidden in the
most delightful places. That
toes have the right to find
something hidden in a shoe.
That a stretch in bed can
yield a present's discovery
in the far reaches where
my limbs usually don't go.
That the small empty space
behind the milk carton in
our squeaky-doored fridge
makes a perfectly acceptable
place for a gift to hide. And

you taught me this: that
a breakfast tastes better on
your birthday if made by
someone you love. That
when you are loved like this
you want to float right up to
wherever God is, take him
by the face, and kiss him
RIGHT on the lips for
giving you such a beautiful
life. You want to do this with
great speed and fly right
back through the chilly
winter skies to the kitchen
where your love sits across
the table from you. You
want to bolt from your
chair again, because you
forgot to thank God- thank
Him for making your birthday
land in a wintery month, thank
Him for bringing into the
air a chill meant to be
attended to by the warm
embrace of your love. And
this time, when you return
from your Heavenly journey,
you bypass your own chair
to kneel before your love.
Your warm love in his grey
cardigan, arms held out
to take you in. This is how
it is to be. This is December.

Tomorrow December
comes with its invitations
to canceled moments. It
doesn't know yet that you
are not here. This is why
I weep at the unexpected
sight of a city square lit up
in strands of white, a make-
shift tree at its center. This
is why the stockings sent
by mom last year, the ones
with the "G" and the "B"
sewn into the front, are
buried deep in a box under
the other things I can't
seem to unpack: the 12-inch
tree, the strands of lights,
the warm pajamas that you
called my "sweetie pants,"
the cds of my favorite
Christmas songs waiting
for the evening of the 8th.

Teach me something this
December, my love. Teach
me to embrace old customs,
if that will bring me joy.
Teach me to search out new
traditions with an open heart.
Teach me to let the love
of others be not a substitute
for the love you cannot be
here to show, but a reminder
of why you loved me in the
first place. That I was born,
December 9th, a little after
3 o'clock in the morning, at
Silver Cross Hospital in
Joliet, Illinois- to parents Phil
and Mary Hengen, on the most
glorious of snowy winter days. 
That in that moment, I fell
into love with being. With
being here. With being me.

Ferguson Burning

November 25, 2014

Dear Gareth,

My city is on fire. My city's people are hurting.

At the center of it is a death. A loss. A son ripped from his mother's life. His father's life.

At the center of it is an officer, whom I'm sure had no intention when he got up the morning of August 9th, got ready for work, and stepped into that police car for his shift, that his life would also change in an instant.

People's lives have split. There have become for so many a "before" and an "after." My heart is with everyone trying to make sense of the "afters" of their life. Everyone who wishes beyond reason that they could step back into the "before." Officer Darren Wilson. Mike Brown's family. The Ferguson community. The owners who wake up this morning to find their shops destroyed. The owners of hearts so enraged or hearts so laden with grief that today's usual tasks will seem near impossible.

Everyone has a before and an after.

And in this after I miss you. I stood in the student lounge at work facing the soundless television with images of my city. I took in the press conference words through little headphones meant to keep the noise down so students can study. Meant to keep the peace.

Keep the peace.

I listened and I watched and I wanted to call you.

I drove home from work and I wanted to call you.

I took a break. Played ukulele. Watched a tv show. Walked the dog. Took a nap. And I wanted to call you. Today I am really missing you.

This is exactly the kind of thing we'd be talking about. You, fiercely protective of me and my city, would be feeling this, too. You, sensitive to the hurt of others and to all matters of justice, would be feeling this, too. You would be present for this. For me.

Tonight would have been a night that you would have made a 3-hour drive to be near me.  How convenient, I still think, that I'm only 45 minutes from your apartment now. How I still seem to think that matters.

You would have insisted on tea. "Tea is medicinal!" you'd say. We'd watch the news. You'd ask me questions. You'd talk about similar issues in New Zealand. You'd propose solutions. You'd have insightful things to say. Compassionate things to say.

You would be there, and that would make watching this all unfold a bit more bearable.

Tonight, in just a few moments, before I sleep, I will kneel next to my bed. I will pray for my city and everyone in it. I will pray for anyone feeling the ache. The extreme weight of living in the after. Officer Wilson. Officer Wilson's family. Mike Brown's family. Jurors. Protestors. Police. Community members. Business owners. Young men. Young women. Clergy.

And I will talk to you. I will ask you to be with me in any way you see fit. In memory. In a feeling. In a dream. In the compassion I will have for all involved.

Teach me to love. Keep teaching me to love.

(all photos from cnn.com November 25, 2014)

Nighttime Villanelle

(Read more about the villanelle here.)

Nighttime Villanelle
(for Gareth)

I found the key- the one to your old place
deep inside my warmest winter wear
my fingers marked its shape with gentle trace

a curious surprise this odd embrace
of fumbling fingers and cold metal bare
I found the key-the one to your old place

transported now with mind through time and space
to sorting what was yours with mournful care
my fingers marked each shape with gentle trace

your dirty clothes, a meal you ate in haste,
a still life of the proof that you were there
I found the key-the one to your old place

the bathroom mirror ghost shapes of your face
and on your sink a single piece of hair
my fingers marked its shape with gentle trace

the key a talisman, a mark of grace
unlocking tangled thoughts and words of prayer
I found the key- the one to your old place
my fingers marked its shape with gentle trace

Bridget Maret
14 November, 2014

A Triolet for 3 a.m. (and Gareth)

(Read more about the triolet here.)
 

A triolet for 3 a.m.
(and Gareth)

do not deny me, love, my rest
as night drapes over those who sleep
while in the empty space I nest
do not deny me, love, my rest
deny me of your rising chest  
on which my heavy head should weep                               
do not deny me, love, my rest
you've promises still new to keep

Bridget Maret
14 November, 2014