I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately. Yours, mine, and the way that we relate to death in general. This is obviously one of those topics that make a lot of people uncomfortable. (Which is to say, it’s one of those topics that tends to make people say and do really stupid things. More on that later.) But that’s never made any sense to me, probably because my experience with death is long and deep. How long? How deep? Here’s a timeline for your reference.
- 1980: my grandmother
- 1985: my favorite uncle
- 1987: my grandfather
- 1988: my aunt
- 1989: my great-grandmother
- 1990: another uncle
- 1992: my cousin
- 1992: a next-door neighbor I grew up with
- 1993: my aunt and her baby
- 1994: my best friend from elementary school
- 2008: another cousin
- 2008: yet another cousin
Freaky? Yeah. I know. That’s a lot of death. A lot. (It may not come as a surprise, but I spent the years between 1992 and 1998 assuming, whenever anyone was late, that they were dead.) For a long time, I experienced this overabundance as something shameful; a curse, if you will. Over time, I’ve come to see that, for however awful these experiences have been, they’ve helped me to accelerate a particular type of learning. Primarily, I’ve learned to live in such a way that, if I die tomorrow, no one that I love would be left wondering how I felt about them. But it’s also given me a sort of rare privilege: the ability to make myself useful when the people around me are faced with death.
We’re all going to die. Right? We know this. But because we’ve had the luxury in the West of removing, sterilizing and/or ignoring the things that cause us discomfort and pain, we walk around pretending we’re not going to die. Or worse: we think about it and make reference to it in hushed, faux-pious tones.
Death is imminent. All the time. Everywhere. It takes so very, very little to make it happen. Which makes it (rather automatically) unmysterious. Common, even. And yet: when it happens to the people you care for, it never is anything less than painful as hell itself. You get used to the process, which is sort of helpful; but that’s it. The pain is new every single time.
Death is messy. It’s embarrassing, awkward, ugly. It’s definitely inconvenient. It never, ever feels right. No part of it ever feels right. And it brings out the worst in people; those directly connected to the deceased, and those around you with whom you might need to share the news. When my cousin died in 1992, it was completely unexpected. It was accidental. He was 16. I went to school the day I found out (figuring that doing something normal would be the best way for me to cope with it during the shock stage), and I told a friend of mine what had happened. She opened her mouth in surprise, closed it again, and walked away from me. And then she never mentioned it afterward. A couple of years ago, the brother of a dear friend of mine died suddenly, and although I hadn’t known him, I was stunned to receive the news at work. I got up from my desk, and the first person I saw was an office mate I trusted. I told him what I’d just heard, and he grimaced, chuckled a little and said, “Well, that’s fun.” (Amazing, the similarities between a 15-year-old girl and a 46-year-old man, no?)
Here’s what people need when someone dies:
- To be held
- To be heard
- To hear that you are waiting to help them in whatever way they need help
- To be checked up on
- Silence
- Space
- To be fed
- To be reminded to sleep
- To be told that however they are grieving is normal
- Safety
- Respect
- To laugh
- To cry
- To slip back into their regular lives and selves for a bit, even (especially) in the midst of grieving
- To never have to hear (or never again have to hear) dumb-ass platitudes like, “Well, she’s in a better place now,” or “He would have wanted you to be happy.”
- To not be expected to be back to normal after the funeral
That last one in particular gets to me. The first few days, everyone descends upon the bereaved with cards and phone calls and meals and visits. Once the funeral is done, people start frowning upon signs of your insistence not to get back to life as we know it. If we’re honest, we can say that other people’s grief is not terrifically exciting, and that we tend not to see beyond our own level of entertainment. That is to say: our own level of comfort. We are small, small creatures.
But we aren’t so small that we can’t push past our silly little cubicles and pigeonholes and scheduled me, me, me time to provide a service for a fellow human being. Reaching out to others is risky. It’s awkward. It doesn’t always feel good. And hey, guess what? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all what it feels like to you. Because by being a willing participant in the grand, arch, cosmic joke that is life on this planet–that is, by being willing to bare yourself in a way that we never really do anymore in this great Western culture of ours–you begin to see that maybe, just maybe, there’s a bigger picture. And that the bigger picture goes beyond life and death. Because once you get beyond that, you begin to see that the little things are huge, and the big things are tiny. And nothing is ever the same again, really, after that. And you won’t mind.
I promise.
Tags: 18 Comments
In 2003, my best friend died in a car crash. I had spoken to her on the phone about 2 hours before it happened. When the phone rang, I knew something had happened and I didn’t want to hear it. I was lucky as I was carried through it by kind friends. Two friends, to be precise. The rest well the rest was all of what you mentioned above. Embarrassed, silent, absent, avoiding, ignoring, pretending nothing had happened. And then, after the funeral, yes there was the moment when most thought: Just move on, now, will you.
I am trying to be different now. I kept texting once a month to a friend who had lost her baby at birth that I will be there for her. I was pregnant at the time and she just couldn’t face to see me. I could understand that. I texted once a month saying something like: You are in my heart. Thinking of you. I am here. It took 9 months for her to be able to reply. Recently she said that the knowledge that I would still be her friend however long it took her to be able to get in touch was like a flicker of hope in that time.
this is thorough and loving, Emma. I especially love the idea of the rare privilege to be of service. To stand in love and witnessing of another, without walking away or deflecting, is a cultivated talent. This is a reminder to take care of ourselves so we can be present for life. Thank you.
awesome post. I’ll be sharing it today.
This should be made into a pamphlet and handed out at funerals/tangi/farewells. oh, I completely agree about the little thing and the big things!
My closest friend lost her mother almost five years to the day after my own had passed away suddenly. Years later we are able to support each other through what I know will be, a lifelong grief.
Beautiful post.
You rule.
Such clarity, such clarity.
I totally get you here. Yet your experiences with bereavement far outpace mine.
People need to warm up. Guess I’ll start with me: I appreciate you, Emma. I look forward to recording “Pos-Fetal Blues” with you when I get to L.A.
Cheers,
Will
In my experience, people turn away from emotions that they themselves find uncomfortable. People have fears about death. Comforting someone who is grieving brings up those fears. Most people are unable to acknowledge, let alone handle this. I love your list of what people need when grieving.
I recently became involved with the Threshold Choir, groups of women who sing at the bedsides of the seriously ill or dying. It’s been huge for me, allowing me to rest in the space of What Is in a situation that Western culture doesn’t easily embrace. I’ve been lucky enough to see the beauty in death, but I know that my experiences won’t keep me from feeling loss — and hurting because of it — whenever it’s my turn.
This post means so much to me because you express in words so many emotions that I know and feel. My list looks a lot like yours and includes a sister (terrible auto accident) and a friend of 40 years (we met when we were 8 yrs old). Each loss is as unique as the person who has died. For me, the world just goes dark for awhile and I need to be alone for long periods of time. 3 days? That’s what most work places give an employee. Are you kidding me?? So they can return and get responses like the ones you mention? I hope that people read your wisdom and that it helps them to learn how to respond to someone who has experienced a death. That said, friends have been so amazing when they have done the things on your list. When dad died, four friends showed up with the most amazing food and just sat with me. I will never forget that! Obviously, your post resonates with me. It is beautiful and I thank you for it.
Emma, this is grab-the-heart fantastic!
And speaking of “topics that tends to make people say and do really stupid things” I’m writing a book on that – something along the lines of – the outrageously ___hole-ish things people say to grievers and how NOT to!
I LOVE the way you gave practical, beautiful help on what TO do..and also the way you see “the bigger picture” – I am so touched by this!!
It sounds to me that your having a hard time dealing with death yourself. To even expect that someone should have something enlightened to say upon the news that you are going through grief seems a bit naive. I guess in your eyes I’ll be classified as a person who can’t see beyond life and death, the bigger picture. The reality is that you can’t expect a superficial work mate, school mate or even a spouse for that matter to do or say something that will change the way you feel for the better. Death is a hard subject, but it’s something each of us has to face head on & come to terms with. It’s a unique subject in that it won’t let you hide behind someone else. In my life, the most responses I’ve gotten in these situations is “I’m sorry.” is that more helpful than stunned silence or sarcasm? Not really. When you expect a certain something from someone else in this situation then be prepared for let down after let down. I think it would be better to understand that learning to manage grief is way healthier and smarter for the simple fact that since the beginning of man kind people have been doing things to each other way worse than not listening. I’ll admit this dream of a society where everyone is understanding & caring to each other would be great, the problem is that it has never been that way nor could it be. The reason is simple, we are all individuals and think for ourselves. That’s what makes this world so great. Don’t expect to be helped, understand the situation & help yourself.
Adding to your list (or perhaps expanding the “to cry” portion) is “to be comfortable with another person’s tears.
Thank you again for a heart-felt, truth-filled post.:)
Emma, give yourself a hug from me. Best, Michael
SOOOO timely for me. I, too, have been thinking of writing the “things not to do and say” guidelines, and I shall borrow from yours. I’m also going to write a part about how to address someone who’s caring for a sick person who may or probably will die, because those responses tend to be equally asinine, and when you’re already exhausted from the care-giving, the only reason you don’t punch them is that you don’t want to bother lifting your arms for something that isn’t serving the person you’re caring for. It really is strange that everyone has a close relationship with death and experiences grief a lot, but so many people don’t know what the hell to say or do.
Well done, Emma.
Having worked as a hospice nurse, and having been on the receiving end of your amazing comforting in times of grief, I applaud your advice. It is greatly needed.
I disagree with Vinson’s statement that you cannot expect the people around you to behave in a supportive manner. In my experience people want to be helpful, but have no clue how to do it.
The reasons are as varied as the people:
-fear of death
-discomfort with things having to do with death
-absence of experience with the loss of a loved one
-fear of “making it worse” for the person
-inability to “sit with” the distress of another
-lack of training about how to deal with any and all of the above
I’m certain there is much more to add to the list, and any one of them can lead to behaviors such as avoidance, attempts to “lighten the mood”, pressuring the bereaved to “get over it”, etc.
It has been my experience that in general people will rise to higher expectations of good behavior when they are given the proper training and tools.
Thank you for your courage in tackling this topic. I love your insights, and I love the practical suggestions.
This is lovely. I have to say that in hind sight I haven’t always handled other people’s grief graciously enough. My dad died this year in a private plane crash (sorry, you are so probably not looking for more sob stories) and I learned so much from the way other people handled mine. My childhood best friend dropped everything, left her husband and baby at home, and flew up to take care of me. And beyond that, she cried with me and she encouraged me to cry. She acknowledged how horrific it was, and that it probably would hurt for a long time. If we went a couple of hours without crying or talking about it, she would gently nudge me back to my emotions, which is exactly the opposite of what most people would have done. Having someone I love meet me exactly where I was, and go there with me, is really what allowed me to break open and grieve in a healthy, clean way. I am so grateful for that.
Thanks for this.
Thank you, everyone, for all of your comments. They each provided me with valuable insight. I do indeed have a hard time with death; that was one of the main points of this piece. Death is extremely difficult. But I do also think that, once we have the proper tools, we can be better at helping one another get through it.
Emma,
This is a wonderful post.
I don’t know what Venison is talking about, but you are a better woman than I for taking it in stride. I, too, have experienced a lot of death- people close to me, and friends who have lost people close to them. Platitudes are indeed the worst. Listening, REALLY listening is the best. Everyone grieves in their own way, and it is so important to communicate that you are there in whatever capacity THEY need. Not whatever capacity YOU FEEL they need.
Dear Emma,
Thank you for this post. It resonated with me on so many levels. A dear friend forwarded it to me ..and I will forward it to many.
Something that happened to me recently …and I have experienced the death of 3 dear friends, my father, an Aunt and 2 animals I loved dearly all since 2001……is one of those 3 dear friends was a single father who I lived with. We were not a couple and because of some problems I moved out last February. In April he died. We had lived with our two children together for 2 years. I found him dead. Except for the first two days..the day I found him and the following day…it seemed surreal because no one expected that I should be grieving much …he wasn’t my lover, he wasn’t my husband…he was a single father I lived with …..but here we are at Christmas this year and the last two were spent with him and his daughter…..loss…..and yet …few people in my life get it……Yes, death is an ordinary part of life and we would all be better off were we too live in a place of acceptance about it and embrace those experiencing it because while ordinary…it is so surreal….
Wow. We’re so similar in how death has affected you and I, Emma. From 1991-2006, I’ve had 7 people close to me die. Each of them different and equally, differently painful. For years I dreaded anyone being late. Because even though I knew they were not dead, I knew they were dead. Every.Single.Time. I still get antsy when people who are usually on time don’t show up within 10-15 minutes of their scheduled arrival.
My mom died when I was 16. On a Saturday. On Monday I went to school. I told a friend that she’d died and my friend’s response was, “Shut up. No she didn’t.”
You’re so right on about all the things on your list of what people need when someone dies.
So much more to say on this topic…maybe we’ll end up chatting more later, you and I. Thanks so much for sharing this with me.