Slate article: "Mourning: Condolence notes? Casseroles? What our grief survey revealed."

What is grief really like? Earlier this spring, we posted a survey on Slate asking this question. Struck by how poorly our culture seems to understand the complexities of grief (each of us had lost our mothers to cancer and had written about the experience), we wanted to hear from readers about the lived reality of loss. As we noted in our first article about the survey's results, we had an astonishing number of responses—nearly 8,000 in total. In our last piece, we offered an overview of the data our respondents provided about symptoms and duration of grief. In this installment, we look at what our respondents said about interacting with others as they mourned: what helped them and what made their grief more difficult. Taken together, these responses may offer some guidance for people who want to console and help friends in mourning.

The most surprising aspect of the results is how basic the expressed needs were, and yet how profoundly unmet many of these needs went. Asked what would have helped them with their grief, the survey-takers talked again and again about acknowledgement of their grief. They wanted recognition of their loss and its uniqueness; they wanted help with practical matters; they wanted active emotional support. What they didn't want was to be offered false comfort in the form of empty platitudes.

Acknowledgement, love, a receptive ear, help with the cooking, company—these were the basic supports that mourning rituals once provided; even if we've never experienced a loss ourselves, we know from literature and history that people require them. Yet as American culture has become divorced from death and dying, we no longer know how to address the most rudimentary aspects of another's loss—what to say, when to say it, how to say it. Disconcerted by discomfort, friends or colleagues are all too likely to disappear or turn the conversation to small talk in the aftermath of a loss, not knowing what to say. Our survey-takers reported wanting to grieve communally and yearning to find ways to relate to those around them.

They are not the only ones yearning. "What should I say to my friend?" more than one person has asked each of us, about talking to grievers. Everyone fears putting a foot in his mouth, because in a world without scripted rituals to guide us, there is no "right answer": What comforts one person sometimes pains another. But what the survey reflected was that mourners want their loss to be recognized and reflected back at them.

And so mourners were sensitive to anything that seemed to minimize their grief. Platitudes offering false comfort were seen as unsupportive, and even hurtful. Saying the loved one was "in heaven" or that it was "a blessing" that they were "out of pain" was not helpful; nor was saying, "I know how you feel" or "It's all for the best" or "Time heals all wounds" or "It was God's Plan." No one wanted to hear these things, especially right after someone they loved and cared about had died. Instead, one wrote, "It helped me when people acknowledged—even nonverbally/tacitly—that I was grieving. Their acknowledgment meant (to me) that they knew I wasn't 'normal' and they weren't going to hold me to my usual standard. It felt unhelpful/unsupportive when people expected me to act like everything was normal (or seemed to expect that), since I did not feel like myself and didn't have the energy for the activities and conversations that were the norm before my mom died."

Saying "I'm so sorry for your loss" was considered helpful by many, but at least one respondent objected to that phrase, especially when used in a rote way—a reminder that many mourners are looking for recognition of the unfillable hole in their lives, rather than for routine sympathy.

Many respondents felt that rituals that brought people to collectively mourn together—i.e., wakes, burials, shivas—had been deeply helpful to them. This finding underscored the importance of such events (and reminded us how important it is for friends and colleagues to make the effort to attend). Asked about whether rituals had felt meaningful, and if so, which ones, one respondent wrote, "Memorial service. I had the funeral home give me a small box of ashes and we planted a tree in our yard and I included the ashes." Another said, "We had a 'roast' for my cremated husband a few days after he died. A few months later, I scattered his ashes with friends. His soccer team planted a tree in his honor. I started a soccer tournament in his name."

Even when those surveyed found some kind of solace in rituals, returning to everyday life often proved difficult. What was most helpful? Mourners reported feeling that there is a sharp dividing line between those in the "grief club" and those who are not. One thing that's worth doing, even if you are not in the "grief club," is getting in touch and acknowledging the death. Many of our respondents noted how painful it was when friends or colleagues failed to send a card or make a phone call. "I'm sure they were uncomfortable and didn't know what to say," one respondent wrote, "but it felt to me like they didn't comprehend the extent of my grief and they were trying to just rub it out and move on."

Many people focused on the painful fact that loved ones often ignored their pain or were uncomfortable with it. Discomfort sometimes led to awkward encounters: As one respondent noted, "At my husband's wake my sister actually said to me 'Why do bad things keep happening to me?' after her car broke down." And those who had dealt with serious illness of loved ones noted how hurtful it was when friends or partners refused to acknowledge that death might be the outcome.

The respondents also spoke of the wisdom of following the lead of the mourner. There is a right and a wrong time to express condolences to someone who is grieving. We've both had experiences like this—and so had many of our respondents. "It's difficult when people bring up the loss at totally inappropriate times, like when I'm out on a Saturday night and someone comes up to me and says, "I didn't know that your mom killed herself," and proceeds to talk about it for 20 minutes despite my efforts to change the subject." Two months after Leeat's mother died, she ran into a colleague in the hall as she was about to give a lecture. She had her hand on the door when the woman began to apologize profusely for not coming to the funeral. "She started to ask me how I was doing, how could she help. This was the worst possible time she could have asked me these questions. She was bringing up a lot of pain and suffering for me at a moment when I needed to be focused," Leeat notes. The way to help someone grieving is as much about context as it is about content. Being sensitive to where you are and what the grieving person needs in the moment is paramount.

The survey results also suggested that it's important to be concrete when you offer help. A number of people commented on how unhelpful they found the vague statement "Let me know if I can do anything." As one respondent put it, "I don't have the energy to call you. I'd rather you suggest something then come over and do it. One friend talked so much at the wake about how much she was going to help me, then didn't call for 3 months. When I asked her about it, she said, 'Well, he's still dead, so I didn't think there was anything I can do.' " This insensitive comment about being "still dead" brings up an important point—supporting someone in grief is not about "fixing the problem" but about simply sitting with the pain of the loss and acknowledging that the dead are indeed still dead. Helping does not require heroic efforts: One respondent mentioned an invitation to dinner or the movies; another, a phone call saying a friend was going to bring over a meal or look after their kids or help them clean their house. Of course, as mourners noted, there were times when they weren't up for any of this—and what they wanted was friends who could understand that that was fine too. Sometimes the bereaved just need to rest. Crucially, continuing to call and be present after the first few weeks or months after a loss is also important. The first months after a death are often accompanied by feelings of shock and numbness; for many, the hardest pain comes long after everyone has stopped calling or coming around.

The most important thing the survey found, though, was that grievers wanted recognition. (See our last article for more on this subject.) A death, after all, is not a problem; its pain cannot be hurried through, or tackled. Instead of stressing that one day the mourner would "get over it," helpful friends—according to our respondents—shared stories about the deceased, or just sat and held their hand while they cried. As one respondent wrote, the most helpful thing was simply the willingness or "ability [of others] to listen and accept my feelings, thoughts, memories—whether they brought tears, laughter, questioning—without responding with advice or redirection."

Make a point of knowing the bereaved person's "death dates," which include anniversaries of death, birthdays, and holidays like Mother's Day, Father's Day, or religious days. These death dates are often difficult for grieving people and can make it feel as if the death just occurred. ("The anniversary of his death has always been very hard," one respondent said of their loss.) Simply saying, "I know this must be a hard day for you" is a way to show that you care for the person who is grieving and that you are thinking about them. Another respondent noted, "A very close friend's mother died the same time mine did and we strongly supported each other. We go out to dinner at each year's anniversary for a 'mom dinner' and talk about our moms and how we've progressed coping with the loss."

At the end of the survey, we asked mourners to address the complex question of whether the loss had taught them more about themselves—whether anything positive could be said to have come out of the experience. Many of the answers fell on both ends of the spectrum. Some said they would never find anything positive in it. As one person put it, "I think it has made me more scared, more sad, more nostalgic for the past. It's been very difficult to move on successfully from the loss of someone who was so important to me, yet whom I didn't understand very well."

On the other of the spectrum, some respondents felt that having suffered a loss had made them more empathetic and gave them a better sense of their own ability to survive. "I learned a lot from it. I saw firsthand how my family pulls together and how lucky I am to have them," one wrote. Of course, even those who found a silver lining in loss were eloquently ambivalent. "I am stronger than I ever thought I could be," as one respondent put it, "and I am also weaker than I thought I was."

While most mourners are resilient and will "bounce back" (as it is often put, rather crudely) the alterations of loss are subtly stitched through one's ongoing life. "The one thing that I learned is that you never stop missing those that you love and who have died," one survey-taker wrote. Would any of us want it to be different? Loss is the flip side of love, in so many ways. Judging by the response to the survey, the silencing of grief in American culture feels to many mourners like a silencing of love.

Source: http://www.slate.com/id/2300735/

faith and chances

Try not to think about it
Alice Childress
Try not to think about it anymore
Try not to think about it
Alice Childress
Anymore, no not anymore

Alice, the world is full of ugly things
That you can't change
Pretend it's not that way
That's my idea of faith
You can blow it off
And say there's good in nearly everyone
Just give them all a chance
Now let's give them all a chance

No thanks

It's taken me almost three decades to discover: I am not a Los Angeles-suburb person.

facing the fear

Lately, I have been thinking more and more about the nature of fear.

I have two recurring nightmares. They visit me every once in awhile, depending on my stress level and/or if there is something penciled into my calendar that I’ve been dreading and/or if I’m scared of something. Sometimes, the nightmares appear for consecutive nights; sometimes, I don’t encounter them for months.

Nightmare number one, I am trying to force my contacts into my eyes. My contacts suddenly expand into the size of pancakes. I stuff the pancake-sized contacts onto my corneas, anyway. My eyes sting like hell. Nightmare number two, I am shopping in a mall. There is a sea of clothing. I have no idea what I’m doing. My head is spinning. (Note: I've mentioned the shopping nightmare before: http://sharoninmongolia.blogspot.com/2009/07/recurring-shopping-dream.html and http://sharoninmongolia.blogspot.com/2010/05/pie-in-sky.html)

If you asked me which nightmare was worse, I’d have to point to the shopping one. Both are laced with panic but the shopping one screams of indecision. At least with the contacts one, I have an end goal in mind, however deranged. I am trying to accomplish something. The shopping one, on the other hand, feels lost.

My grandma, the one that I’m sorta mad at right now, has two recurring nightmares, too. Nightmare number one, she’s trying to find the right classroom on her first day of school. Her students are expecting her to teach. She can feel them waiting. Nightmare number two, she lost one of her children. She is running around like a chicken without a head. She is so, so scared.

My grandma’s nightmares are grounded in reality. Nightmare one, she was a history teacher and is a stickler about time. Nightmare two, she packed up her children and ran away from the Communists by dressing in men’s clothing and hiding in the countryside. (Tangent: once, she told me a story I had never heard before, which is rare: she needed to cross a torrential river and the water level was too high. She couldn’t turn back so she clutched a son in each arm and her foot sought out each slippery rock. One misstep and the three of them would have been washed away.)

Compared to my grandma, my nightmares are laughable. Compared to my grandma, I am living a good and easy life. I do not dispute these facts.

I don’t usually think about fear; however, once in awhile, in a particularly panicky and vulnerable moment, I will bemoan my fate, quietly. I will resist the urge to slap myself silly. The inner monologue will sound something like this:

whywhywhy do I do this to myself (insert a multitude of exclamation points and question marks); whywhywhy do I continue to place myself in uncomfortable situations; whywhywhy do I feel the need to prove that I am a capable human being; and on and on, ad nauseam.

It’s almost as if I feel like my life is too easy so I must construct and install obstacles for myself. If it weren’t for this constant stupid urge/need to prove that I’m stronger/braver than I really am, I’d never have tried 99% of the things I’ve done.

For me, the trick is to face the fear and do it, anyway. The trick is to endure. The trick is to keep it cool on the outside so that no one knows about the bundle of nerves on the inside. These little personal fears are comparable to my contacts nightmare. You conquer the fears by facing them, over and over, even when every molecule in your body protests. Even when you’re scared.

It’s an altogether different story for the Real Fears. The Real Fears are the ones that used to plague me when I’d wake up on painful Sunday mornings. The Real Fears are the bigger, vastly more important ones. The Real Fears feel like my shopping nightmare. They are fears which you have no real control over, fears which do not produce results, fears which tap into what it means to be human and alive and here. They’re not like my personal, middling fears that I tackle by doing and confronting. And when the Real Fears strike, which they inevitably do from time to time, the only solace I can find is in other people, in my friends and family and acquaintances who also feel the fear, not myself.

high apple pie, in the sky hopes

1) Two more days until the end of the fiscal year.

2) Speeding thru the mountains vroom vroom + dessert + me pretending to drive fast in the back seat while imitating car sounds.

3) Another amazing trip booked with P. Wheeeeeeeeeee!

take the plunge

I got a new phone!!!! Ahhh it's so cute. I really like it!

It's so nice to use a phone that is in one piece, not two. :)

the difference between Angus and Kobe

I was leaning against the door frame. My feet were planted in the no man’s land between my co-worker’s office and the hallway, a spot deemed safe by the California earthquake league. She was telling me about her date night with her husband.

“So it turned out to be Angus, not Kobe.”

“Angus?”

“The burger,” she said. “Lower than Kobe but still a really good burger. Also, the best shoestring fries.”

“I love shoestring fries.” I didn’t, really, but I didn’t want to impede the flow of conversation.

“Then you should check this place out. Great date spot. It was funny – you could tell all the married couples from the daters. The daters were talking nervously a mile a minute and the women were flipping their hair. They were all trying so hard. And then you see the married couples and they’re on their phones checking emails”-she demonstrated with her Blackberry-“and if they were talking, they were snarling at each other. Like, what do you want, I’m checking work email.”

I laughed.

“I pointed out the differences to my husband,” she continued. “He said, honey, but what we have is real. And it’s true, give me comfort and comfortable, any day.”

---

Some things you remember, suddenly, with no warning. When I turned 21, two of my girl friends took me to Las Vegas. We ate dinner next to a couple who barely spoke to each other during the entire meal. They weren’t sullen or sad or anything-they were just preoccupied with eating. Still, it made me feel a little sad for them. I made a mental note that I never wanted to sit through a silent meal.

So call me naive, but I still want that meal where I can look at someone and not want to look away, even if I have a very fine burger sitting on my plate and a smart phone tucked into my coat pocket.