A Candid Look at Weird Things People Say to Grieving Parents
Even the most well-intentioned comments can still be strange
“Gee, your boss is really hard on you,” I once said to a waiter who’d just gotten a dressing down in front of customers. “I think you’re doing a great job. Sorry she’s being kind of a jerk.”
“It’s okay,” he answered. “She’s my mom.”
I wanted to fall through the floor. That happened almost 30 years ago, and my face still gets red when I think about it. I practically needed a podiatrist to get my foot out of my mouth.
When people say weird stuff to me about my son’s death, I figure they’re just having a similar foot-meets-mouth moment and try not to let it bother me. After all, talking to someone about child loss doesn’t come naturally to most people, and it’s certainly not covered in the etiquette books.
I don’t believe people intend to hurt us with the things they say, but the words pierce our hearts nonetheless. Every grieving parent I’ve spoken to has a story about something dreadful someone said to them, but most of us agree the stumbles are unintentional.
Visit any child loss online community and you’ll see thread after thread about how to withstand the barrage of things people say to us. The conversations are always filled with comments like, “that happened to you, too?”
Like so much of the unexplored grief of child loss, we feel alone in our experiences because we rarely hear what other vilomahs go through.
This week, we’ll look at some of the things people blurt out when they hear we’ve lost a child, and what it feels like to be on the receiving end. I’ve no interest in vilifying anyone so we’ll assume all the comments we discuss originated from a place of compassion but landed wrong. Just imagine every paragraph from here on begins, “I know they meant well…”
Sometimes when the things we hear hurt, we can’t put a finger on why. Since we all experience our grief differently, all I can do is share my point of view based on my experiences and what I’ve learned by talking with other vilomahs.
There are plenty of great articles all over the internet about what to say (and what not to say) to a grieving parent, so I don’t need to repeat their advice. Anyway, this post isn’t for them.
It’s for the grieving parents who swallow their tears and put on a fake smile to avoid looking hurt. It’s for the vilomahs who wonder if they’re being too sensitive to what people say, or too thoughtless to appreciate the intent behind the words.
I won’t speak for you. I am speaking to you.
“I can’t even imagine”
I never really know what to say to this. Good? Thank you? I’m so glad you’re relieved you don’t have to?
To be fair, this comment is surprisingly nuanced for a cliche. In a way, they’re right. It’s an unimaginable situation every step of the way. From walking into the funeral home or packing away their clothes to tending a memorial garden for the ninth year in a row, there’s not a single emotion within this grief experience that can be accurately forecasted.
Regardless, the undertone of relief that the nightmare isn’t happening to them is palpable. I confess that early on I was tempted to respond “Just try, I’ll wait.” Of course I never did. But I definitely imagined it.
“You’re so strong”
Several months ago, someone I’d only known a few minutes stumbled their way into a “so, do you have any kids, and how many” conversation with me. I tried steering things in a different direction but mentioning my loss was eventually unavoidable.
Completely caught off guard, the person cast about for something to say and landed on a long monologue about how strong I am and how well I’m doing, over and over again. You just met me, but okay? For all you know, I spend my days sitting in an empty bathtub chewing on paper cups and talking to the soap.
I genuinely appreciate the effort that went into making me feel better, even though all I could do was nod and thank them – over and over again. What else are ya gonna do?
“You’ve joined a club no one wants to be in”
This comment is so common that I’ve even heard it from grief counselors. That surprises me because, although the statement is 100% accurate, it’s still pretty flippant. I mean, picture telling someone that you joined a neighborhood walking group and their response is, “you’re in a club no one else wants any part of.” 1
Yet, people toss off this comment to vilomahs all the time. When you’re dealing with the cold isolation of deep grief, the last thing you find comforting is, “I’ve lumped you into a group that society is happy to avoid.”
The only time this glib remark sailed right into my soul is when another vilomah said it to me. The unspoken meaning was, “you aren’t alone.”
“He’s at peace now”
See also: “He’s in a better place now.”
Christopher took his life so it’s not like I can pretend there isn’t a mental health aspect to his death (anyway, I wouldn’t try). I know telling me he’s at peace is meant to reassure me, but my brain only hears, “he was miserable here.”
Parents can’t stand to see their child stub a toe without wanting to absorb their pain. Suggesting their child was so unhappy with their life that death was their best option is just so…unintentionally awful.
Vilomahs who’ve lost children to illness tell me the comment lands the same way for them. Parents who did all they could manage their child’s diagnosis, who would have given every molecule of their soul to trade places with their son or daughter, are left feeling like it *still* wasn’t enough.
There’s often a religious undertone to this comment, which makes me extra careful to not respond with something snippy. No reason both of us should be crying on the inside.
“At least you have other kids”
The terribleness of this comment is blatantly obvious, so I won’t even go into detail. However, this jaw-dropper belongs on this list if for no other reason than to reassure other parents that we all have That One Friend who doesn’t think well on their feet and says the first thing that comes to mind.
You know what I’ve noticed, though? No one ever asks, “and how are your other kids?” I guess they think that question is too personal, but commenting on the newly-shifted dynamics of my life isn’t.
“Don’t let your child’s death define you as a person”
This from a culture that considers parenting a whole personality! Let’s see. Off the top of my head, we’ve got Boss Mom, Boy Mom, Girl Dad, elaborate birth announcements, monthly “see my belly grow” pics, gender reveals, babymoons, kindermoons, helicopter parenting, tiger moms, and every social media bio on earth is some version of, “Dad of four!!” or “Mom to 3 littles!”
There’s nothing wrong with those identifiers. BUT. If society is going to celebrate and elevate parenting culture to that extent, it shouldn’t only apply to the parents of children who are alive.
My underlying issue with this statement is that most of the time, what people really mean is, “you remind me of something I don’t want to think about, so if you could shove that part of you into the corner, that’d be great thanks.”
Nah. I don’t believe I will.
“Medication is just a crutch”
I’m open about the fact that I called my doctor the day after Christopher died and immediately began a course of anti-depressant/anti-anxiety medication. It literally, and I do mean literally, kept me alive.
I was surprised to discover there’s a large swath of the grief community (parents and mental health professionals alike) that consider meds a crutch, something “good grievers” should avoid. They believe that true healing can only occur when you’re not taking medication that might interfere with “the process.” (There’s no one true way through grief and no singular process either. But I digress.)
Listen, I respect those opinions. Meds aren’t right for every situation. I also believe everyone should make whatever choice is best for them, full stop.
A vilomah once… for lack of a better word…reprimanded me for taking meds, but I didn’t mind. However, I do mind when it’s coming from someone who’s never lost a child and is not my doctor. It’s amazing how effective staring silently at someone when they’re done lecturing me can be.
“It gets better over time “
I know this comment is meant to provide hope for my future. It’s meant to assure me that every single day of my life won’t begin and end with sorrow. But the idea that it ever gets better implies that our lives will improve at some point – a concept that’s sometimes outside of a vilomah’s comprehension, especially in early grief.
We know there will never be a time when we don’t care about our loss, so according to grief logic 2, things will never get better. It doesn’t always occur to us until much later that it’s possible for grief and moments of better to co-exist.
Anyway, “over time” means different things to different people. Our culture pushes us to get over our grief as quickly as possible, so we constantly question whether we’re getting through the grief checklist quickly enough. Don’t want anyone to think we’re wallowing, y’know.
“So what happened?”
Remember what I said about not vilifying people for the things they say? Here’s the exception.
It takes a big serving of unmitigated gall to ask someone for details about how their child died. I mean, we don’t even do that inside the grief community. I’ve known one vilomah for nearly a year, and I still have no idea what happened. It’s not my business.
Most people are at least somewhat tactful as they pry, but not everyone.
Take, for instance, this little exchange on Twitter. This high-profile person is very open about losing his son, so rubberneckers need only do a quick internet search to learn more, but some people can’t be bothered. He was a lot kinder to this fan than I would have been.
“I’m sure you’ve answered many times…” In other words, their lazy curiosity overrides his pain? And the “I’m so sorry for bringing it up again but…” clinches it for me. There is no sorry happening there.
None of us, not a single one of us, owes anyone any explanation about the circumstances of our loss. We’re socialized to be polite, but I don’t believe it applies to situations that lack common decency.
Anyone rude enough to ask this doesn’t deserve a response, but it takes a level of zen I don’t currently possess to let it slide. I usually say, “why do you ask?” and watch them flounder around for an answer. Yeah, I can be really petty when the situation warrants. Don’t tell anyone.
News & Notes
A Mother Who Counts the Months
Liz Breslin, a New Zealand mother who lost her son to suicide wonders, “… is your reticence to make contact because of how you imagine it might be for me, or for you?” I’m of two minds on this. I understand (oh my god do I understand) how it feels to wonder why people scattered like confetti when you lost your child. The flip side, though, means spending time with people who would reallllly rather be elsewhere but felt obligated to visit. There’s no good answer.
Closure Isn’t a Thing in Grief and That’s Okay
You know that 5 Stages of Grief concept that gets so much attention? What’s Your Grief’s Eleanor Haley says, “People think that completing a set of stages or tasks, or just letting time pass in general, will lead to closure in grief. However, this is a misconception, and I’m sorry to say, this isn’t how grief works at all.” I wish it were, though. I like plans, not chaos, but I don’t get a say.
C.S. Lewis’s famed book, A Grief Observed, begins, “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” Indeed. Although Lewis was mourning the loss of his wife, not his child, the sentiment is the same. Vox’s Constance Grady writes, “Later, he will clarify this sense. It is less that he is afraid, he determines, than that he feels as though he has been left in suspense of something. ‘It gives life a permanently provisional feeling,’ he frets.”
A Note From Me
Some say this quote is a Chinese proverb (probably true), others attribute it to Martin Luther (probably not true). Regardless, I wrote it down the other day because it seems fitting.
You cannot prevent the birds of sorrow from flying over your head, but you can prevent them from building nests in your hair.
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Until next week,
Be well.
Lisa
I’m aware this is not a grammatically sound sentence. I can live with it.
I’ll talk more about this in an upcoming issue.