Years ago, I was in the hospital for a time, staying with crucially and dangerously ill people whom I loved who were not expected to “make it”. Laying vigil with imminent death nearby was painfully excruciating. Friends and family would drop by, as part of showing love and care, often wanting to “cheer me up”.
They would tell funny stories to distract me. Some would offer platitudes to reassure me. They meant well, and I could remind myself of that as my face would smile at the conversations, and I would hear the love and the good intention of their words. Inside, I would die a little myself in the loneliness of my despair.
I had one visitor who said very little. I hardly knew him at the time. There is one sentence he said that I will never forget. It meant a lot. I felt understood. He “hit the nail on the head” and calmly stated his own experience in a way that echoed the silent screams inside of me. I don’t think he said much else, but I don’t remember. I certainly don’t remember anything else that anybody said to me during those dark days, but I remember this line:
“I hate this shitty place.”
Can’t tell you how that line encouraged me. Might seem odd to you how incredibly healing that line was. He’d had a family member die on that same ward a few months before. His ability to encapsulate the dread and the pain and the sorrow and just “say it like it is” was something I found of great comfort. Something I’ve gone back to over the years, and remembered fondly. A line that had me respect and like him ever since. His candidness was refreshing and soothing.
Reminds me of a radio spot I’ve heard a couple of times in the last weeks. I found the story online:
Author and lecturer Leo Buscaglia once talked about a contest he was asked to judge. The purpose of the contest was to find the most caring child.
The winner was a four year old child whose next door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman’s yard, climbed onto his lap, and just sat there.
When his mother asked him what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy said, “Nothing, I just helped him cry.”
It takes wisdom of one who’s been there, or perhaps the wisdom of a child to know that often there is no “making it better”—but that “being there” with someone in the darkness provides a place of safety, a place to just grieve. It is valuable to have someone understand the need to stand vigil with a person who is in an unutterably dark place—for whom “feeling better” is unattainable, maybe even dishonorouring to the situation/loss.
To connect with a person at the bottom of a pit means joining them down there in that pit. Getting a ladder and climbing down and sitting in the icky mud at the bottom. I’ve talked with people fortunate to have had someone join them in their grief. It takes courage to “go there” trusting you won’t be sucked under. You won’t be. But many aren’t sure of that going in.
There is an overwhelming need to want to “fix it” when a loved one is in distress. People who solve problems, make account ledgers balance, engineer complex bridges, pull off concert events successfully—when they see someone they care about struggling under the weight of loss, the automatic instinct is to go in there and make it better.
Except trying to make it better makes it worse…it minimizes the person’s experience into something that can be resolved with a chipper conversation. That’s hard for a “fixer” to understand.
So…if you’re at the bottom, struggling under the weight of sadness and struggle, and you have someone who is working hard to “fix you” into cheerfulness—show them this blog entry. Print it off and give it to them. Ask them to help you cry. Ask them to understand the value of standing vigil in supportive silence as you weep. Ask them to find the courage to join you where you are, rather than attempting to pull you to their good place (they might try, but it won’t work). They might pass you Kleenex, they might ask you to go for a quiet walk, or simply enfold you in a warm embrace that won’t stop. They might offer you a sandwich and silence.
The ironic thing is that after someone helps you cry, you will feel a little better…OK, maybe not any better, but maybe a little “less worse”.
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