|
I was sitting at a table in friendly conversation with a group of people, all of them
strangers to me. The group came together as a result of a business meeting and this was an
opportunity to get to know each other. As usual, the icebreaker conversations began with,
"Where do you work?" "What do you do in your job?" And, inevitably,
"Do you have children?"
It is the question that always seems to surface. Everyone likes to talk about their
children and their children's adventures in life. It's something we all take pride in.
It's safe conversation and generally gives everyone something "common" to talk
about. As the conversation moved around the table, each one related their children's ages
and what their children were doing this summer for fun. Or maybe they were more my age and
talked about their children going off to college. They were looking forward to the empty
nest syndrome.
Why is it my hands begin to perspire and beads of perspiration dot my brow, whenever
this conversation begins? I've been here before. A dozen or more times since my son's
death. I should know the scenario by heart, now. I can anticipate the reaction before I am
called upon to speak. I can hear myself saying the same words. Reciting the same phrases
to the same questions. Seeing the same surprised reactions on my listener's faces.
Don't get me wrong. I love to talk about my children and I'm proud of both of them. But
people with lively, vibrant, successful children don't want to hear about yours who has
died. Especially, when you spring it on them in a conversation like this. I'm not any more
comfortable responding to this question now, than I was four years ago. I shouldn't have
to explain. I shouldn't have to feel guilty. The temptation to dismiss myself from the
group rises with my blood pressure. But I don't want to appear rude. So I sit, waiting my
turn. Then it comes.
"Do you have children?" I'm asked.
"Yes, I have two," I replied, hoping it would end there.
"How old are they; and what are they doing?"
My heart pounds and I can feel the heat rise in my face. "They are both adults. My
daughter is the oldest and she is handicapped. She lives with us, but goes to a special
school. And my son, died."
There, I did it! The same automatic answer I've given as before. And exactly as I
anticipated, the same reaction.
It's funny how quickly the conversation ends with you. "Was it something I
said?"
Few people know how to react to honest answers. Perhaps, I shouldn't have mentioned I
had a son that died. If I had said I only had one child, no one would have thought
otherwise. Or I could just as easily have said, "I don't have any children." But
the point is, I have two.
It really takes courage to speak when you know what you say will not be received well
or comfortably. Perhaps that's why I've always related so well with the Lion in the Wizard
of Oz. Remember how he roared and yet he was cowardly, unless he was put in danger? In
danger, the lion reacted with courage. Grief is like danger; it threatens our life with
severe consequences.
I've used the characters from this enchanting children's tale so many times. There is
so much we can learn from the parts they played. We're all looking for something we don't
have. We all walk a yellow brick road in life; not sure which direction it will take us or
what the hazards will be along the way. And we all know if we only used our brains, our
common sense, we probably would make the least amount of mistakes. We recognize that it
takes a heart and compassion to get along with other people we can respect. And it takes a
lot of courage to speak about things that hurt. Like Dorothy, all we long for is the
comfort of home.
It was difficult for me shortly after Chad's death. I never knew how to answer the
question, "How many children do you have?" If I said, "Two," I knew
the questions would continue and I would end up having to explain Chad's death. If I said,
"Only one," I'd be denying Chad's existence and the important part he played in
my life.
I can't blame the stranger who asks about my children, because they would have no way
of knowing. As a griever, I still find it difficult to deal with. Though I'm doing much
better now. Here is what has helped me:
- If you are the griever, simply state how many children you have. Include your child
(or children) who died in the count. They were your children whether or not they are
living now. Their life was an important part of your life. Don't deny their existence.
Respond by saying something like: "I have two. My son died."
If you are comfortable, (And heaven knows it takes time to pull this one off!) you might
say something like, "But if he was alive today, I can bet you he would be . . . !
(off fishing, going to college . . . etc.) Such a response would certainly put the whole
group at ease. It takes courage to speak up in a situation like this. Rather than leave
yourself in an uncomfortable spot, make it easy to conclude the conversation on a positive
point.
- If the stranger continues to probe for information, keep in mind that they are
probably not trying to infringe upon your privacy. They are probably trying to cover-up
their discomfort for putting you in a difficult spot. If they continue to probe about the
death, it's best to simply state, "I'd prefer not to talk about it right now."
Sometimes you will find the stranger will approach you at a later time, in private, to
talk. It's not unusual to find that they have faced a similar grief situation, too. It
seems, sometimes, that God throws us together in these circumstances only so we can
discover that we are not alone.
- If you are the stranger and find that you've hit upon this sensitive issue, simply
say, "I'm so sorry. I didn't know about your loss. Please accept my apology."
If you have a lot of courage, and the griever seems comfortable with his or her statement,
you might say something like: "What was his name? And what was he like?" We, as
grievers, like to have an opportunity to say the name of our loved one who died.
This takes courage; and most people, when surprised with the answer, don't feel
comfortable to ask more. So, move on quickly to the next person or change the subject.
Allow the moment of surprise to pass as quickly and as naturally as possible.
As grievers, we all know this is one of the situations we will face. It takes time and
practice to find socially acceptable ways to respond. It doesn't come naturally. We are
too overwhelmed with our own pain. Accept the experience as a "learning" one and
be happy if the moment passes with ease. Eventually, you will handle it, just as I am
learning to do.
Speaking up about how we feel is difficult. We are all under scrutiny about everything
we say. It takes courage to do things that aren't popular with the general public. And it
takes courage to follow through with convictions of the heart rather than the discipline
of the mind. We've been taught what is proper and right. We've learned when to keep our
mouths shut and when to speak. We've been disciplined by "better safe than
sorry." We are protective of our rights and privacy. We seldom share the feelings and
emotions of our soul for fear of being labeled "weak" or paranoid. Our parents
taught us well. And we continue the cycle by teaching our children exactly what we've been
taught, in most cases.
I've found that there is a price for courage. You will either be criticized or
applauded for your choice. Not everyone will be willing to pay that price. But like
freedom, it has its benefits.
Today, I spoke publically before a men's group. As I headed toward the meeting I
wondered, "What have I gotten myself into?" I was told that the men's group
liked to have speakers like football coaches or other sports gurus. I thought "This
(the subject of grief) will certainly be something new for them."
There were a few moments of panic attack, initially; and then I mustered up enough
courage to focus on my message, How Do You Respond To Grief? I used my analogy of the
yellow brick road in life and meeting the unexpected. I looked around the group for
attentiveness and saw a few. I included a short true or false, self-test about their
knowledge on responding to grief situations. When I read the questions, I heard the echo
of answers around the room. "True" . . . False." To conclude, I asked them
to score themselves privately. Then I rated their answers comparing the appropriateness of
their response to grief to the characters from the Wizard of Oz.
The Wizard was the standard for those who had every answer right and most certainly
have faced their own grief experience or were natural comforters. The lowest score was the
standard for the Scarecrow, who didn't have a brain. But I quickly reminded them that we
all have brains, we just need to use common sense.
Scoring somewhere in the middle was the cowardly lion, who by his own admission didn't
know how to be comfortable around grievers and tried to avoid the situation whenever
possible. A man from the back of the room called out, "What if we got zero?" I
quickly responded, "I think you've got a lot to learn about being a comforter; and
I'm willing to give lessons." It raised a chuckle, and I felt good. That affirmed we
all have a lot to learn.
My courage was heightened by the audience response. I've come a long way on my yellow
brick road of life. Before, I would have suffered in silence. As always, after you
delivered your message, you wonder, "Did I reach anyone today with a thought that
might make a difference?"
My answer came a few days later, much to my surprise. A man wrote me a letter. I knew
him years ago, as a child. We went to the same church. I'm grateful that he took the time
to tell me his thoughts. Without his response, I would always wonder if my message was
clear. Thank God for such encouragement. He wrote:
As I walked into the meeting and saw you sitting at the head
table, I knew you looked familiar, but it wasn't until you started your presentation that
it occurred to me who you were. I know Chad's loss was tragic. I know that for me, the
loss of one of my sons would be devastating, and something I pray I will never have to
experience. I didn't want this opportunity to pass without expressing to you, my sadness
at your loss, and without letting you know what a positive direction you have taken, not
only by handling your own grief, but in recognizing the need to help others through this
process. Thank you for taking the action you have in helping those who grieve, and for
turning your tragedy into a blessing for the many who must deal with the loss of a loved
one.
It takes a lot more courage for me to speak than it does for me to write. Since Chad's
death, I have freely written this publication, Wings, and written about my grief.
Unashamed. When I cannot speak, I write.
The experiences I related about mentioning your child who died is similar to other
experiences I've had. I've written about them in my book which will be released by the
time you read this article. It is titled, Blessed Are They That Mourn . . . an observation
about what hurts and what heals.
I've used my courage to speak in the written word, to tell you my story, about my
journey through grief. The book was conceived in my mind about two years ago and I've
finally put it on paper to share with others. It's a lesson for the bereaved and those who
are not. It's a lesson about comforting. It's a caution for communities to share in the
awareness. It takes a community to heal the pain.
My journey continues; my pain is healing. But I have a long way to go yet. Finding
courage isn't as easy as having the Wizard of Oz pin a badge of courage on my breast and
expecting me to respond differently. The lion within me still roars. (It still takes
courage to speak.) This isn't Oz and I'm not an animated character. I'm a human being with
feelings. I'm searching for peace at the end of the rainbow, not a pot of gold. And I
believe that somewhere over the rainbow, I'll find my dream.
As grievers, we may find that we have always had the ability to go home . . . (to our
heavenly home) with peace in our heart. Finding that peace is our task. It's not as easy
as clicking our heals together. It comes with a price. A price that reminds us that life
has a purpose. And if we do concentrate on our loved ones memories, when we click our
heels together, we can feel their presence and the presence of home. "There is no
place like home . . . no place like home."
August 18, 1997
|
