So before I dive into this second blog post, I want to share why I am doing this. I'm working on a memoir about my journey through grief and rage at at Pete's death. These blog posts represent some of my thoughts and explorations as I try to put that experience into words. It's been a challenging journey, both creatively and emotionally. I'm out of the darkness now, but to finish this project I sometimes have to plunge back in and reconfront the less than beautiful parts of the experience. That's what this blog is about...
You can say the wrong thing to a grieving friend.
Some of the worst statements I heard were:
• Everything happens for a reason.
• My dog just died; I totally understand how you are feeling. (Sorry I am not a dog person so this one just struck me the wrong way. I bet it would work with some people, however!)
• You are experiencing the five stages of grief.
• It’s part of God’s plan.
• You’ll meet someone else.
I know these people were trying to help. I know they wanted to say something to comfort me. It takes courage to talk to a crazy, weepy, unpredictable friend who is in the middle of everyone’s worst nightmare. Even after going through the experience myself, I don’t always know what to do in the face of another’s grief.
There’s a woman in my community whose husband died last winter. I don’t know her and have never spoken to her before, yet I would like to say or do something — it’s like I have a responsibility to her as a fellow widow. I just don’t know what that responsibility is.
After Pete died I felt as if I had a scarlet W on my chest. Widow. She’s the one whose husband was killed in the Winds by that kid. So tragic.
I hated going to the grocery store, hated bumping into someone, because you don’t just say “hi” to a new widow. You don’t just pretend nothing happened — or if you do, it feels awkward and surreal. I wanted people to know my story, I wanted to talk about Pete, but I also longed to pick up a carton of eggs or a gallon of milk anonymously.
So what did help Avery and me? Lots and lots of things:
Making us dinner, night after night after night.
Organizing Pete’s tools in the garage.
Coming to my house to help or offer moral support when something went wrong with the stove, the water, the plumbing, the cars….
Sitting unfazed through my tears.
Listening to my rage. Listening to my sorrow.
Sending us care packages full of surprises, most totally unnecessary and over-the-top generous, but all incredibly moving and thoughtful.
Writing letters and emails about Pete.
Remembering his birthday.
Wearing his clothes.
Calling me to let me know they thought of Pete on a long run, a hard climb, a tough day.
Helping me celebrate milestones with respect and love.
Taking me on vacation.
Carving a pumpkin with Avery.
Helping me carry his memory.
My community saved me following Pete’s death. It opened up and absorbed Avery and me, wrapping us in warmth, love and acceptance. And as I healed, they healed with me. Our tears finally became laughter, the weight I’d lost came back on (unfortunately), jobs again assumed importance and our children grew taller. Life became normal again, but we were all forever changed by our experience: by being pushed together, forced to confront the scary hard reality of death and loss, forced to drop our cheery “life is good” masks and see each other’s naked fear and sorrow.
And much as I struggle to say this, that change was a strange kind of gift that has made us stronger, happier and kinder.
So I maybe I should write the woman. As a stranger, that seems like the place to start.