Tag: suicide

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February

February is frozen.

A winter walk in a black and white world. The trees are naked, but the ground sparkles.

I step off the snowy white, one foot onto black. In an instant, my feet are swept from underneath, and I slam into the cold, hard ice, disoriented and disillusioned.

Too cold, too hard, too fast to feel the pain. Yet breathless. Struggling, I pull for air. I am outside of myself, looking down. Who is that girl that cries?

Frantic movements, I scramble back to my feet, dust the powder and the frozen tears off my body and my face… There’s a job to be done, people to call, arrangements to be made. No time to mourn, no time to feel. The cold numbs my bones like my heart.

A wintery blast swirls around me and I fall from the sky in the middle of a frozen landscape, tombstones all around me. With each step, the earth crunches underfoot. I am sure that it’s all a nightmare. Soon I will awaken.

Awake and my thoughts are consumed. No longer the girl I once was. Sleep will offer me an escape… or more nightmares…

I am lost and yet they say, “It’s time to move on.” To where? How? I go through the motions like an imposter. The world has four seasons; but I, I am trapped in winter.

A seemingly endless journey, the numbness yields to pain, rage, sorrow. Alone on the frozen tundra, head bowed, one more heavy step… and then another. I scream. But it only echoes.

Regret, longing and questions without answers, wear like a heavy coat, pushing my shoulders down. I sink into the waist-deep snow, wishing it would swallow me whole.

Where is the antidote? Where is the potion I must drink to restore me? Where is the girl that I once knew? The girl before the burgundy casket? That her father wrapped his arms around before it descended into the frozen earth. Before the bronze marker with a rose?

February is for love.

No longer one set of tracks in the snow but two. It’s you!!

An ecstatic embrace… swept into the air, we spin, up, up, up. I wish my feet never again touch earth. Holding you tight, never to let go.

Your warmth like a crackling fire, orange and alive. Hot tears melt my frozen face. And we commune around the flames- our eyes speak the words of a hundred years and for just a moment, every winter star in the sky is aligned.

But as quickly as you came, you go… breaking into a million tiny bits, stars falling from the sky.

I open my eyes. All is dark and you are gone again.

A thousand heavy steps and a-last you are back! New revelations, new truths… endless love…. In my arms I hold you firm…

Then, you’re gone again.

Fire and then frozen darkness. Again and again.

In the distance, a tiny light. A star that clings to the sky? No, a lantern. A cabin in the woods.

February is for respite.

Afraid at first to stop. To think. To feel. Afraid to forget. Comfortable in the cold and yet desperate for relief. The warm glow beckons me… and slowly, I step inside.

I am no longer in black and white. The color adds complexity, and nothing is as it was.

All around me there are pieces of you. A dino on the floor and a stack of books. Black lace. A small penguin on the mantle. A red rose in a vase. And I don’t know whether to smile or run.

I reach for the doorknob, not today. The cold wind blows outside.

But if not today, then when. Fresh tears pour over the edges of my lids and spill down my cheeks- and I wonder when they will stop coming. I close the door and slide to the floor.

I am tired. It is here I shall stay for a while.

A place to pause. To unthaw my frozen laces, to build my own fire, to rest and remember. To hang up the heavy coat of regret, and wrap in a blanket of memories for a bit.

It is comfortable here and yet I am uncomfortable. A place to settle and yet I am unsettled.

Many months go by and I think I recognize the girl I see in the mirror. A new girl, of whom I make my acquaintance. A fresh pot of tea and I sit with her.

Chamomile and white noise… to quiet and soothe, my mind, my heart that still aches …

Though the throb is a bit slower now, a bit quieter. I hear the thumping in my ears and feel the tight squeeze in my chest less often than before.

No longer a fight. Here I rebuild. Here I balance the storm with the shelter. Here I remember.

February is for my brother.

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Water, Leaves, and Stones… a reflection on the ripple effects of both tragedy and goodness as witnessed by this nurse, teacher, grief worker and foster parent.

 

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There is an image that is used by many perinatal bereavement programs which is that of a green leaf floating on the surface of still water. It is an image that I see every time I do grief work and one that is taped to the hospital room doors of families who are experiencing tragedy. And when I do grief education, I take a minute to discuss that image and the symbolism that it represents. There are quite a few components to that image that hold significance; but the one component, in particular, that always stands out to me, are the subtle water ripples around the leaf. While we focus the majority of grief education on the immediate family, (and we should) … I sometimes think we neglect to mention the many ripple effects that grief has on the world around us. And while the leaf is a perfect choice for this image- as it represents premature loss; sometimes the idea of a cold, hard stone works better for me.

When a leaf first falls or a stone is tossed into a still pond, the break in the surface is a sudden and loud disruption. Those closest to the disruption, to the loss, feel its effects the strongest and the fastest. They are the ones standing at the edges of the hole that is created when the stone breaks through the water’s surface.

From that hole, from that initial impact, the effects continue to spread outward, from one circle to the next, ending in a seemingly remote place, the edges of the shoreline. There, far away from the inner circle, someone reads a story that was inspired by that person’s life or they receive the goods distributed by the charity that was created in that person’s name. Even subtler and further away still, are the ideas and the developing culture that is perpetuated by the feelings and ideas of the outer circles, like whispers into the ears of society telling us how we should feel or who/what was to blame. While these ripples are much quieter and much subtler than those closest to the loss, they are very much felt and very much have an effect on the world around us.

I have been touched by two types of loss that share similar ideas and feelings by society: Perinatal Loss (which encompasses any pregnancy loss or death of an infant close in timing to its birth-miscarriage, stillbirth, severe prematurity, genetic conditions or birth defects non-compatible with life and neonatal death) and Death by Suicide. Both types of death are largely considered “taboo” by society. When something becomes “taboo” it doesn’t occur with less frequency; in fact, both types of loss are much more tragically common than anyone realizes. But its occurrence is often ignored or mention of it avoided- either because one is afraid of “catching” it or because one is uncomfortable discussing it. And uneducated, often negative ideas and assumptions are often made.

While tragedy, I find, is not contagious, feelings of discomfort and negativity often are. This perpetuation of negativity/discomfort regarding both suicide and infant and fetal death leads to a lack of acknowledgment of the death by society and ultimately, isolation and complicated grief of those closest to the loss. Loneliness is an awful awful feeling. And then guilt and blame, the demonic twins of tragedy rear their ugly heads and they too feed into the tone of those quiet circles that move outward from the stone. Tones that encourage us to look away, to avoid, to think they must have done something wrong or missed something. Tones that allow us to feel that it only happens to them, not us.

Without even realizing it, the negative energy that is fed into those ripples perpetuates pain and it leads to the under-serving of those affected the greatest by that loss.

Through my journey as a bereaved loved one and my years of public service, I have come to realize that we all play some part in the circles of change.

And not all leaves and stones represent death.

As a mother, a teacher and a nurse, I know the effects that my words and actions have on my children, students, and patients. We all do. Because regardless of our backgrounds, we can all recall a time when we were taught, when we were raised and when we were ill or injured. And we can all recall how those various experiences and the people around us, made us feel- be it good or bad. Regardless of how many years tick by, we can still remember those people who helped to build us up and those who tore us down. And while a significant loss is known to make a strong and definite impact on our development of self, oftentimes it’s the seemingly smaller moments in life that too, become life-altering ones: The words of a mentor, the patience or annoyance of a teacher, the attention or dismissal of a caregiver, the confidence or chastisement of a parent… in the tiniest moments of life can cause large circles of influence on the human spirit.

In the few short months that my family and I have begun the journey of fostering, we have witnessed the most extraordinary effects on people that we could have never predicted. The stone of a child entering the foster system sent immediate ripple effects into the pool of our lives and our home. And in spite of some seemingly inevitable tones of judgment and isolation by people who don’t understand; we have seen more goodness, more understanding, more compassion, working their way into our circles, than we could have ever predicted.

We entered this journey to help children. Through direct affirmation, we can see children who have been immersed in ignorance and anger, now learning love because of our involvement. It is more beautiful and more affirming than we could have ever imagined. And they have changed us as much as we have changed them.

We are better people because we elected to stand by the edge and help catch that stone.

But as beautiful as that is, that’s not what surprised us the most. What has surprised us the most, are the effects that we’ve witnessed rippling further outwards from our experience:

The people who took no previous interest in foster care or adoption, who are now researching the requirements.

The people who previously only worked to save babies, who are now taking a step to save older children too.

The people who in their minds, so easily tossed foster children into the “Damaged” bin, who are now seeing the faces that we love with sweet endearment and compassion.

The parents, not of foster-children, but the parents of children who ‘don’t quite make the mark’ for removal- the parents who have not made their children a priority, who have sparked a sudden interest to do better and to be more present in the lives they created.

The workers collecting a paycheck, in an overwhelmed and inundated system, who have seen love and progress and healing and have been reminded that despite the burn-out and the endless cases, it is tiny human hearts that are on the line. And they have softened and bent in beautiful ways.

And much further away, with no credit to us at all… are the messages in recent movies (like “Instant Family” and “Shazam”) that feature top stars and foster kids presented in a loving manner; even a Sesame Street puppet, who shares perspective and teaches inclusion.

Because while negatively spreads, so does goodness. Good energy begets good energy and waves of change happen when we initiate it.

Though early in our journey, we have been shown that good people can make mistakes and sometimes it’s not our job to rescue them, as much as it is to assist and teach them. We would’ve adopted our first three foster children in a second… but we learned that our efforts were better served in teaching their parents and other foster parents how to love and support by example. A similar message to that of grief support… where we too can’t rescue the bereaved, but we can guide and support and love them.

And it doesn’t take a movie star or a PhD to do that.

I am no super-human. I was raised below the poverty line and I hold college debt that I will take into retirement. I am married to an immigrant and together we make a very middle-class income. We live in a small 3 bedroom, 1 1/2 bath home that faces the side of a gas station, just outside the lines of one of the murder capitals of the world. My children have learning differences and therapists. And when I’m not around said children, I love to curse….and I also love wine. But together, we play and we talk and we love one another endlessly… and despite our very small space and limited abilities, we are changing are the fucking world! Not on a Mother Theresa level, not on a Noble Peace Prize level… but on an everyday tragedy, everyday joyous celebration, every day pond-skipping-stones level.

The nurse in me is forever aware that we never know when our card is up.

The foster mom knows no one is immune.

The teacher knows everyone matters.

And the mother in me won’t let me quit.

And so the ridiculous ven diagram that is my life evolves and the circles just keep coming from my ever-evolving pond.

It is so easy to see and perpetuate the bad. The bad is real and it hurts and mustn’t be easily dismissed. We must acknowledge it and be patient and work through it. And we must accept that that pain will forever change us.

But we can’t dismiss the good either. It too must be acknowledged and then fed; because it too, forever changes us. Like the scars left on abused babies bodies and the ache of the empty arms of a mother, so are the seared imprints of love on their hearts when they are cradled by someone who cares. They will never forget that pain, but neither will they ever forget the love either.

The ripple effects, the rhythmic and vibrating circles of cause and effect, are one and the same. It’s the energy that we choose to add, that changes the direction of the tides.

What if instead of dismissing or jumping to conclusions, we took a moment to educate ourselves and to try to understand? Or even more, to love?

Like the untimely falling of leaves, or the misdirected toss of a stone, not every component of life is one that we get to choose, or one that we welcome. But when those waves of impact strike us, will we add to them judgment and misfortune? Or will we change those circles into life-long lessons of love and acceptance?

Through our words and actions, we can choose to perpetuate anger, distrust, aggression and judgment OR we can be the waves of peace, trust, love and understanding.

The choice is ours. Go make your own ripples. The world is waiting.

 

 

The leaf image discussed in this piece is credited to Gunderson RTS.

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Ash and Red Satin….That February

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February is for lovers… Red Roses and “I love you”s.

It was today, February 1st, 22 years ago, when my father came running through the door with a panicked look I rarely saw on his typically unfettered face.

“Where’s your mother?” He was out of breath.

She had left to go pick up my little sister. It was just me … and Dad.

I don’t know if it was pain or shock, fear or a sickening confirmation of what we’d already thought (but not yet said out loud), that I saw in his eyes that day. But I can still see them, as I looked up at him in the dimly lit room, that February afternoon.

His face should have been flushed from the run but instead it was ashen.

“They found your brother. He’s … dead. He’s dead honey.”

My Dad held me and we cried for just a few short minutes and then I wiped my tears and said, “We have a lot to do.” I put my grief in my back pocket and started making the list for phone calls. It would be a long time before I really cried.

We had all thought it. He’d been missing for 10 days. We knew he was ill. We knew it was winter. We knew 10 days was a long time.

But he was a wanderer. He was untethered. And he blew where the wind took him, or the booze. Inside all of us was the hope that he’d wander back, with his sheepish grin and his black boots and chains and a quiet “I’m sorry”. And for both him and us, we wanted another chance… another hug… another “I love you.” Our hearts yearned for more time and our souls pleaded for another chance to help him.

But time and chances run out and so does luck. We buried my brother two weeks before his 18th birthday- his birth and death dates in the same month. Death by suicide, complicated by a high blood-alcohol level and a history of mental illness.

And I was forever changed.

Loss affects us all, no matter what age we are when we experience that loss. Sometimes I wonder if there’s something about experiencing a significant loss during that most vulnerable time in life, when you are old enough to understand it but before you’re mature enough to handle it, that makes a particularly profound impact on your sense of self. Like disturbing a cake when it’s no longer batter but before it’s cooked solid, do the shock waves of loss alter how you develop and who you become? The surface of my heart, lumpy now and tough in spots, tells the story of those waves and my journey in pain. Would it have been different if I had been older, or younger even? Or am I just searching for significance again?

When I learned more of my brother’s reports of psychiatric symptoms, I developed a passion and preoccupation with Mental Health. I wanted to understand and I wanted to help. Addiction too. The crazies and the addicts weren’t scary people to me…they were my brother. The geeks and the outcasts, the artists and the freaks, were endearing to me. I hated the straight-laced, popular kids and those who belittled others. I gained appreciation for oddities and a new life perspective.

But not all of my change was gain. I also lost. I lost my faith. I lost my way. And I lost friends. With his death and a crumbling structure at home, I came to learn that nothing in life was safe or predictable. Confirmed by my own fears coming to fruition and in avoidance of false hope and disappointment, I came to always expect the worst. I disdain regret. I am afraid of missed opportunities. And hope is a slippery ideal that I struggle to keep a gripe on. I learned at 14 years of age that the worst case scenario happens…and sometimes it happens to me. Prayers don’t always save people and not everyone will understand or accept your baggage.

Prior to my brother’s death, I had already come to acquire some pretty hefty emotional armor. And after it, I carried around a fucking axe and bayonet.

Some viewed me as “resilient” and others as “hardened.” It was just self-preservation. And until I found myself a safe relationship where I could finally be vulnerable and let my guard down, I rarely cried. And new losses got packed away in all the rest of my shitty-ass boxes.

But I did come out on the other side. I did survive. And now, I am conquering.

While I will forever live with the pain and regret of not being able to save my brother, I’ll be damned if I don’t go down fighting for others. I learned, through his death, that you can’t save them all, but you certainly can try. At the very least, I can try to understand others and meet them where they are- however “damaged”, however “hopeless”, however “unsalvageable” they might seem.

The ground was frozen the day we buried him. Red roses covered his casket-his favorite flower. Interspersed amongst the grandparents and cousins, coworkers and conservatives, were a gangly group of teens trying to grieve. Blue mohawks and shaved heads, chains and black boots, gathered around the casket after the family, but before it was lowered, to “have one last smoke.” And they tossed their cigarette butts into the red petals.

I think about that image sometimes, ash on red satin, and the symbolism that it holds. Beauty in death, endings and new beginnings, significance in loss, finding a way to grieve, burning pain and imperfections, scars. And my journey makes even more sense.

That February I learned how to stand in a funeral line. I learned how to smile and pretend that I was okay. I learned that everyone grieves differently. And I learned the fragility of life and the human spirit. The other lessons came later.

If February is for lovers than this February I challenge you, while you’re out picking up that bouquet and box of chocolates, to remember that love isn’t always romance and it isn’t always perfect. Love is accepting the human spirit and embracing it wherever it is. This month, reach out to someone who might be hurting. Smile at the outcasts. Stop and lend someone a hand. Check-in with that person that you know might be struggling. Make a call you’ve been avoiding.

As you live your busy life, someone around you is making a plan to end it. Someone is misunderstood. Someone is hurting behind the facade of their smile. And someone just said a very hard good-bye. You may very well never know who those people are, be kind anyways.

As I walked away from his grave, my feet crunched in the frozen grass. My head hung low and despite the crowd, I never felt so alone. Like the rose petals, on the satin surface of my heart, red-hot ash slowly burned a hole. A hole that could never be filled- like pulling a candle out of a birthday cake that would never be made. Burns always leave a scar.

Submersed now, in safety and love, the edges have healed and it no longer bleeds when you touch it. But every February, every holiday, every life event… it still throbs… to remind me to continue loving until the candles are all blown out and the petals are lowered into the ground.

 

 

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Death etiquette tips from a suicide survivor… a personal reflection and four tips on supporting the grief-stricken in an unexpected loss

I remember his death like it was yesterday. My father received the phone call at work. Seeing him pull up and race inside, asking for my mother, pulling me aside, it’s all still emblazoned in my mind. I remember his face. I remember how his mouth opened but couldn’t speak. I remember my mother collapsing.

I couldn’t believe this was happening to OUR family. I remember the stress. There were so many people to call. Where will his body rest? What do we do next?

No one plans to bury a child and especially not like that. The feat that is an unplanned funeral is a tremendous one : Picking out a casket, planning a memorial service – with no previous plan in place and no prior conversation on what his wishes would have been, no cemetery plot purchased, no money set aside …. and all to be done by a grieving family in a matter of days.

No doubt, the exhaustion that accompanies a planned funeral after months of caring for an ailing family member is tremendous, despite the time to prepare. An unplanned death seems to be gifted more energy in the form of a shock response. Perhaps shock is somehow a universal self-protection mechanism that allows the loved ones of an unplanned death to, in an almost zombie like state, prepare such rituals before the grief sets in and they are incapacitated. I remember being in shock.

I remember the people. There were so many people. His funeral line stretched so far behind our limo that we couldn’t see the end of it.

Some came and stayed. They were helpful and supportive and present. They were our pillars.

Some came and left. Worthy supports who served as a meaningful presence who then quietly and respectfully retreated. They were greatly appreciated.

And still there were some who merely poked their head in. Uninvited and intrusive, they served as nothing less than a disruption. Like the onlookers to a car accident, they didn’t bother to help but they wanted to know what had happened. They stopped-in only to peer. They wanted to talk when we didn’t. Twenty years later, I still have ill feelings towards those people. You don’t ever want to be those people … that disruption … or even worse … that blatant cause of pain. Morbid curiosity is never welcome in the presence of a grieving person.

I remember the storm – the non-stop ringing of the phone, the busyness of putting together a meaningful service in days- photos pulled out of basement boxes and strewn across the kitchen table, requests being given and offers being accepted, the opening and closing of the door from visitors. It was a chaos that was as organized as an unplanned funeral could be and it was only made possible by the family and friends rallied to help, and the fact that we were still in shock. I’d venture say it’s probably the most comforting time in the first year. Everyone is together. Everyone has a job. The teamwork is amazing. The unity is powerful. It’s exhausting but it’s done with great purpose and in your darkest moments, you still feel a sense of importance and accomplishment and support.

And then the services are over and people go back home and the empty calm after the storm begins. First, the phone rings less frequently. Then, the meals stop coming. The flowers die and the mailbox is once again filled with just bills instead of sympathy cards. Family and friends have gone back home and back to work and you know you’ll have to too. It seems the rest of the world has moved-on but you haven’t. You go to the grocery store for the first time and you look at all the shoppers and you think … “They have no idea. They have no idea that I just lost my brother last week.” They’re pissed about the long line at the register and you’re just trying to breathe again. Leaving the house and entering a public place, you feel like you’ve been mauled by a bear and no one around you notices that your organs are hanging out and there’s a trail of blood behind you. It was the loneliest time of my life. And returning to work/school was worse. I was ready to escape the oppression inside my home but the outside world was so fast, so loud, so different from two weeks ago. The oppression wasn’t just inside of my home, it was inside of me. And interacting with people was the biggest torture of all. People didn’t know what to say or how to act or where to look. Sympathy was appreciated but it was awkward. . . I wanted to feel normal, but I wasn’t.

Suicide is almost always unexpected and it is always tragic. Despite the progression of the world on many other things, mental illness and suicide continue to hold steadfast their “taboo” nature and it makes people uncomfortable. The grief is complicated because the cause of death and the victim are the same entity. It is also a less common cause of death which some people haven’t encountered on a directly personal level. And yet, the numbers are climbing and people are talking more.

Accordingly in Emory State, 34,598 people commit suicide every year. The suicide rate in the United States is nearly double the homicide rate. How often do you hear the news channels and government officials talk about reducing our homicide rate? And how often do you hear them address our suicide numbers? People who suffer from major depression are 20 times more likely to commit suicide. Treatment for depression is proven to be successful and yet only 25% of people with major depression receive help. Prevention of suicide is the key and organizations like Out of the Darkness are aimed at doing just that. But when it’s not prevented and this tragedy strikes someone you know, prepare yourself so that you can be a real support. If you do, they will never forget you, I promise. It’s time these families and all families who experience tragic loss receive the respect and the support that they deserve.

 

Those who have survived the suicide of a loved one are forever changed by it. So here are some tips from a suicide survivor on how, when faced with death, any death, to provide supportive, meaningful, and respectful sympathy and to avoid ever being part of the uninvited, intrusive and disruptive gagglers. May you give the survivors your best, lest god-forbid, you ever find yourself on the receiving end of the sympathy line, there will be someone there to do the same for you.

1. Never ask someone how their loved one died.

This one is number 1 for a reason … because it’s probably my single-biggest pet peeve when it comes to death etiquette. One of the fastest ways to identify a suicide survivor is, when they encounter a person who has lost a loved one, they will never ask “What happened?” or “How did they die?”. Do you know why? Because after their precious loved one elected to end their own life, they were asked this question more times than they can count. And every time they were asked, they felt violated. They didn’t know what to say. If they caved to the pressure to give an honest answer, it meant they had to verbalize their loved ones tragic end over and over again. And if they didn’t give an honest answer, they felt like a fraud. Worse yet, if their mouth found the strength to form the words “suicide”, the reaction from the person who just inquired was just as painful. Be that reaction one of surprise or shock or embarrassment for asking … it is so awkward and uncomfortable that they never again want to be put into that position. Twenty years after my brother’s death, I am now very comfortable discussing his end. But the uncomfortable reaction that I  continue to get from inquiring minds continues to divert my eyes away from theirs when I satisfy their morbid curiosity and answer “He committed suicide.” And so, a suicide survivor will never ask someone how their loved one died because they understand.

And the truth about this is, knowing the cause of one’s death has absolutely no bearing on your ability to provide support. The only reason you are asking is to satisfy your morbid curiosity. If they want you to know, they’re going to tell you. By asking them, you rip that choice away and you violate them.

Further more, if they answer “suicide” and you ask “How did they do it?”, you have taken that level of disrespect and violation to the umpteenth degree. If you have ever asked someone this question, I hope after reading this article, you never do it again. It is the single most insensitive and offensive question I have ever been asked and not only does it cause a grief-stricken person pain but you lose major respect in their eyes.

And it’s not just suicide survivors that hate this question, it’s anyone who has lost a loved one unexpectedly and tragically. It’s a natural tendency to wonder when a young person or a seemingly healthy person suddenly dies. But imagine for a minute that the person you love the most was kidnapped, raped and brutally murdered. Can you even begin to imagine how you would cope? The fact that the person you love so dearly is not only gone but that they suffered such a tragic end, it would have you utterly consumed by grief, a grief that will never completely leave you. Then imagine, that someone asks you “Oh, what happened?” How would you feel? Well if you can’t imagine how you’d feel, I’ll tell you. It’s a mixture of wanting to cry, wanting to scream and wanting to punch them in the face. And yet somehow our social pressures allow us to feel that our hands have been tied. ” I just told you that my child/my brother/my husband/my mother died! Are you so fucking insensitive that the only thing you can think to say is, ‘How?’ How about some fucking condolences and a casserole!” That’s how you feel. And if they continue on by asking the details, you literally feel like you’ve been violated, like someone took advantage of your vulnerable place and raped you of the intimate details of your loved ones passing.

Protect yourself too. You might be expecting to hear that they had cancer or were in a car accident. Save yourself from that awkward discovery and don’t be that person. When someone reveals that they’ve lost someone, say “I’m so sorry to hear that”, “How can I help?”, “Is there anything I can do?” or if it’s been a while “Wow, that must have been hard.”… and leave it there.

You can ask, “Were you prepared?” or “Was it sudden?” That information can help you to tailor your aid and response without asking for details. But be vigilant in reading their body language and if they signal feeling uncomfortable, back off and give them an out.

Go ahead and ask your intrusive questions to someone else, far removed from the grieving circle who might know … you are allowed to satisfy that curiosity and maybe you want to know so that you can provide more sensitive support. But don’t ask the people who are grieving, it only pushes the dagger further into their heart.

2. Mentioning a passed loved ones name is not only ok, it’s comforting.

Recalling a loved one won’t resurface the pain that you think it will … the pain never really goes away and they’ve never forgotten their loved one. Instead, it provides validity that they lived. Once we are gone, our legacy is the only thing that continues to live. You can help comfort surviving loved ones by helping to build and uphold that legacy and by affirming that you know that that person was important and that you remember them too. Further more, remembering their birthday or anniversary will add you to the “very special friend list”.

3. If you’re going to offer help-be specific, follow through and consider extending the offer throughout the first year.

Anyone who has grieved with any sort of support has certainly heard the words “Call me if you need anything.” How often do you think the grieving persons actually take people up on that offer? Not too often … The reason for that is that they don’t often know what that person’s limits are and what is an appropriate request. Instead, if you want to help, offer specifics: “Would you like me to coordinate a meal train?” “Would you like help compiling photos for the memory board?” “Could I help by taking the kids to school this month?” “Could I help with housework, grocery shopping, walking the dog, shuttling family members to and from the airport?”

Offering assistance in the house and making meals is a great way to help, as is sending flowers and checking in … but don’t forget them when the memorial services are over. One of the hardest things about death is the ‘quiet after the storm’ that I mentioned earlier. In the first week, the fridge is loaded with meals and the phone is always ringing …. which is great! But after a month or two or twenty … don’t forget, they are still grieving. Be a good friend and call, bring a meal by, offer them a day out … especially on the holidays, and around the anniversaries. People process grief at different rates and especially if the death is unexpected, people may not be ready to talk for almost a year. Be the person that’s still there in a year. Be the person who’s still there in twenty years.

4. Don’t look for a silver lining.

Ok that sounds harsh and a bit over generalized. But for the most part, when people have a loss, it’s not comforting to deduce anything positive unless it’s a mere “She’s no longer in pain”…and even that one can be tricky! When you are grieving, outsiders who are looking for a silver lining, often times because they don’t know what to say or they want to “fix”, can choose words that make you feel like your loss is being minimized. When you’ve lost a baby, you don’t want to hear, “You can get pregnant again.” That doesn’t bring back the baby you just lost. When you’ve lost a friend to drug or alcohol abuse, you don’t want to hear “It’s better this way.” You wish they had never been an addict, you wish they had gotten better. When your child is killed in a car accident you don’t want to hear “It’s going to be ok.” They are burying their child…it’s NOT okay! Don’t ever think that your loss is worse than someone else’s because you can’t possibly know until you’ve been there. You’d be shocked to know how many people feel that suicide isn’t as painful as another death because the person committing suicide made that choice. Ummm…hello…do you hear yourself? The person I love chose to leave me … do you have any idea just how fucked up that is for my head to process. And regardless of the cause of death, don’t ever tell a grieving person “It was God’s plan” -or- “It’s time to move on” unless you want to be punched in the face. Instead, often times the best thing you can say is “I am so sorry.”

You can’t make it better. You can’t make it go away. In the face of overwhelming tragedy, there isn’t a sliver lining. Don’t try to make one. Just be there to hold them up. Eventually, the sun will once again rise in their universe and they will remember the people who stood by them in their darkest hour. Superheros don’t really wear capes or throw lightning bolts. They look much more like the giant pillars that held the walls of ancient Roman architecture than they do the gladiators. And they don’t question or barge-in, they bake casseroles, they stop by, they pick up the phone, they remember.