Why Do We Cliche Grief?
Certainly, we can come up with something more original than “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Have you heard me shout at the TV lately? I have been known to do this.
It’s those journalists and actors that cause me to shout whenever they use this line: Sorry for your loss. You might think I’m just being ornery, but I have my reasons. I’m certain the remoteness of that phrase begs for alternative words — words that are enveloped in thoughtful compassion.
Twenty-six years ago when my four-year-old son Daniel died, empathizers aimed to console me. Sentiments included: “I’m so sorry to hear this,” and “How sad,” and “I can’t imagine.” I don’t recall the cliché sorry for your loss being popular back then. But I do remember how I felt after a salesman stood at my front door and remarked with a sense of joviality, “You son is having that big party in the sky!” Shocked and numb, I wondered how in the world he felt it was okay to laugh at a mother over the loss of her child.
Years later, when I wasn’t as fragile and had adjusted to bereaved life and the odd things people say, a co-worker grieved the death of her mother. She told me that this phrase, Sorry for your loss, made her angry. “Why should someone tell me he’s sorry? It’s not his fault my mother died. There’s nothing for him to apologize for.”
So what are we supposed to say? When introduced to someone for the first time, protocol has us tell the new person, “Nice to meet you.” It’s harmless to quip these words. Society expects them even if we don’t feel them.
Yet when it comes to bereavement, we are operating from a different and distinct set of emotions. The person before us has lost a loved one to death. There is sadness, even perhaps regret and remorse. Learning that someone has lost a beloved should require a heartfelt sentiment.
“Sorry for your loss” is used because society has said it’s a safe thing to say. Sometimes when people say “I’m sorry” I wonder if what they really mean is sorry that I asked about your child or spouse or mom. Sorry that you have made me uncomfortable as I am brought face to face with my own mortality.
We are afraid of death. The fear of death sits at the top of most people’s lists. We want to push aside the reality that death happens, ignoring funeral homes and cemeteries when we drive by. We also fail to understand just what loss is. When a woman’s husband dies, it’s not that she lost him like she lost a set of keys or an address. A relationship on earth is over. A spouse goes from being a living daily companion to a collection of memories. Love doesn’t stop once a loved one dies. Love continues and the partner who is still alive has to adjust and adapt to the rest of her life without him.
Mental Health Professional Jamie Cannon, writes: “Instead of expecting grief to disappear, expect yourself to learn how to live around it, through it, and despite it.” If we accepted that grief does not come and go, but stays with us, perhaps we could learn how to dig deeper into our emotions and offer words of empathy that are not said as though we’re reading off a cue card. Can we allow ourselves to think what if it were my mom, my friend, or my child who just died? What would I want said to me?
Months after my heart had been ripped apart from the loss of my son, I drove my six year-old daughter and a new friend to an amusement park. I wanted Rachel to know that sharing about her brother’s death was acceptable. So as I drove, I told Caitlyn that Rachel had lost her brother from cancer treatments. After I finished, in a voice full of compassion, this nine-year-old said, “That is so sad. You will always have a hole in your heart.”
I wanted to stop the car, jump out, climb into the back seat and give Caitlyn a hug. I wanted to call this child’s mother and tell her what a terrific daughter she had. But I didn’t want to embarrass my daughter so I kept driving. That hole in my heart had been acknowledged; I felt comforted and cared for. I was even able to smile.
Perhaps what our society lacks is the ability to get close enough to empathy. Instead of working so hard to protect ourselves from fear we need to just jump in and offer a hug, a listening ear, even a few words to admit, “I don’t know what to say, but I am here.” There might be moments that are awkward. But a caring heart shines through. A rote line does nothing.
I know that not everyone has the thoughtfulness and compassion of a nine-year-old. But I wish they did take the time to learn.
