If you are expecting a bullet point presentation of “Ten Ways to Help Someone Grieve” then this is not your article. As a matter of fact I have already looked for that sort of information. It wasn’t very helpful. It has been my experience that you really don’t know what grief will look like, how to help, what to say, what not to say, until you are in the situation. The grief response is as unique as the person going through it. Earlier this week I went to a funeral. A good friend of mine lost her father. As strange as this may seem at my age, 47, I have not been to a whole lot of funerals. I felt inept with my lack of experience and understanding of the rituals and religious practices which are associated with death. So I called upon friends to help me know what I might expect and how to help.
Would there be a viewing? An open casket? A wake? A mass? A burial? What do I wear to the funeral? Do I send flowers? Give to charity? Send a card? Should I bring a meal? Which ceremonies are most important to attend? Do I call? Do I wait? My anxiety and obsession over doing the right thing detracted from connecting with my friend during her time of need.
My first experience with death was over four decades ago when I lost my father when I was four. I was not allowed to go to his funeral. So in my young mind he was there and then he was gone. I was not privy to those in-between moments between life and death. I never got to visit him in the hospital where he died. My mother, in her protection of me, did not grant me any closure or a goodbye. My mother did not use the word death to describe what had happened to my father. Instead she told me that he was sleeping and could not wake up. After this I feared sleep and to this day a part of me still does. It is not surprising that death was and still is a mystery to me.
I was thinking of my father as I entered the church to see my friend and her family. Was this ceremony something I would have understood as a young child? I also felt a growing wariness that I would say the wrong thing to my friend or her family. My social anxiety causes me to doubt my abilities especially in social situations. I decided to just say whatever was in my heart.
In the front room of the chapel, family and friends were gathered. I approached one younger family member and said, “I am so sorry.” The response I received was unexpected. “Why are you sorry? It wasn’t your fault” and then she quickly walked away. I sensed pain in her curt response. I am sure she probably heard the same words of sympathy a dozen or more times already. It was then that I realized that maybe there is never any “right” thing to say after a loss. But it is still important to try anyway.
I did get to speak with my friend and give her a long hug. She seemed to really appreciate that I came. I don’t know how people do it when they experience a loss and then have to get dressed up and be social to boot. I asked her, “What can I do for you friend?” And she whispered in my ear, “Just be here for me.” I felt comfort in her words that this was something I could do. I could simply be there for her in whatever capacity she needed. To listen. To support. To love. These rituals and services are a way to put order to the grieving process and promote closure. But perhaps more importantly they provide a way to bring people together for support.
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From experiencing the funerals of family members and friends, what I mostly remember is a kind of mental slideshow of the people's faces who came. I don't remember who shook my hand or what, if anything, they said. It was just a kind of moving train of bodies in step with the formalities. I don't remember what the preacher or anyone else said in eulogy, except for something particularly rude some man said as my sister's funeral closed. And I just remember that guy as an aberration -- everyone else was kind in their smiles and nodding heads and subdued colors.
I think that, for my memorial service, I will ask that everyone wear the brightest color in their closet and plant a perennial flower in their yard or on their porch to remember me by. I won't have an open casket -- I want people to remember me alive and laughing, not embalmed.
Grief can come as relief from years of caregiving -- letting them go, finally, and realizing life goes on. Grief can be solitude and shutting out all the noise and hullabaloo long enough to recover one's self -- no need in burying two when one will do. Grief can be memory and reflection and tears and anger and seeing the ghost in the living room chair. So yes, it is definitely an individual journey, but one best made bouyed up by friends who are there when you need them.
This is such a great comment Donna.
You paint word pictures that I keep in my mind for a long time....especially about the mourners in subdued colors. In my role as friend...I felt almost like an alien studying human loss.
I like your idea for celebrating the life of the person and not have that last memory...be the dead body. But everyone has their beliefs on such things.
Thank you so much for sharing your experiences and thoughts with us.
MM