Two More Words
I received a wide variety of responses when I told my friends about my miscarriages. They ran the gamut from:
“You wouldn’t have wanted a handicapped child.”
and:
“It’s a good thing, actually. Mother Nature takes care of the ones who can’t survive.”
through:
“Oh well, I hope you can be as brave as someone else I know.”
to a friend who hugged me and wept and just said
“I love you so much!”
Keeping in mind that all of these things were said by people who I know cared, and were genuinely trying to help me feel better, let me state emphatically that the last response was the only one that didn’t add to my hurt. Actually:
I would have chosen a handicapped child over losing her so early.
and:
The bad thing was that my baby couldn’t survive. Calling it a good thing assumed that I didn’t already love that child and lost it before I had a need to really grieve. For me, it was too late for that.
and also:
Courage had nothing to do with the emotions I was feeling. Over the next months - years, really - courage was getting up and facing each day while carrying a monstrous burden of grief. Courage didn’t make it hurt any less, and frankly, at that point, comparison to others was poisonous to my mental health.
All of that may leave you wondering, “How do I avoid saying something wrong? Maybe it’s safer not to mention it at all.” It’s a valid question. It is all too easy to hurt someone who is already suffering emotionally - like touching a raw wound. And yet silence hurts that raw wound too. My opinion is that saying nothing can be just as hurtful as saying the wrong thing. One of the hardest things for me to bear with my miscarriages was the loneliness -the invisibility - of the loss. When people acted like nothing had happened, I felt absolutely lost and alone. There was comfort, even if there was also pain, in the most awkward attempts of caring friends to find the right words.
But let me make a suggestion: when responding to someone’s loss, try a minimalist approach. I heard one couple talk about losing a baby, and about the response of someone who had experienced a similar loss: “They said the least, and it meant the most.” Try paring your words down to exactly two:
“I’m sorry.”
I think people are often afraid that “I’m sorry,” implies they’ve done something wrong, or that it will sound trite. But “I’m sorry” doesn’t mean “I feel guilty” or “It’s my fault.” It means “I acknowledge and share in your sorrow.” While it doesn’t pretend to understand the depth and breadth of my feelings, or to have the answers to my myriad questions, or a quick fix for my sorrow, “I’m sorry” implies empathy, and empathy is powerful. And if you put just an ounce of heart into the words, it is not trite at all.
Everyone who said, in essence, “I’m sorry for your loss,” from close friends to strangers in the hospital,
to those who sent cards
or came with a meal and a hug
let me know that my grief was valid and that I wasn’t alone. I can still get teary-eyed, thinking about those simple, heart-felt messages.
And how do you respond when you are the griever, when you are the recipient of that gift of empathy?
Two simple words:
“Thank you.”
