At a social event, our friend who was just diagnosed with a brain tumor, had a person come up to him to acknowledge they knew of his condition. This person shared a story with our friend of their experience with a family member, also diagnosed with a brain tumor. It was a grave and pessimistic story that ended with she died. Our friend stood there, soaking in what he had just heard in absolute disbelief. Then, he pulled himself together and went up to this person and told them that this is not what anyone with cancer (of any kind) needs to hear.  He concluded saying, “don’t tell that story to anybody else ever again.”

When our friend told us about this, we laughed. Good on him to have the courage to reflect and then act, replying with a direct WTF! STOP. YOU ARE NOT HELPING. We laughed because it’s how we would all like to react. The truth is, whether it is the loss of a loved one or a terminal diagnosis or a major life challenge given to us, grief arrives. And we are learning how to handle that. Yet, we have all experienced some well-meaning person give advice, share a story or give comments that leave us dumbfounded of how utterly far they are from truly understanding our reality. And in our grief circles we talk about this.

We also talk about the why such might have been said.  We know it comes from the heart.  We understand that this person means no harm. They are trying to relate to our unrelatable. I have said many times, it is us, the grief warriors, that need to educate those trying to support us. If I could hand out a letter to folks, when I began my grief journey, it might have looked like this:

Hello,

I am grieving and you are aware of that. I know you wish to help. In my confusion of what I am living with, it is difficult for me to know exactly how you could do that. So be patient with me.

Recognize my grief. Acknowledge you are aware of what I am living with. A simple, silent hug is usually best. Or tell me, “I’m sorry. I’m here for you.” Please don’t continue with how my loved one is in a better place or this is God’s plan for me.

Converse with me. I don’t want to be the elephant in the room to which everyone scurries to another place in discomfort. Smile at me. I am dealing with grief; I can still be capable of some social interaction.

Ask me not “how are you feeling” but rather “how are you coping” or how is your grief today”. Each day will be different for me, and I don’t want to feel like I need to say I’m ok when I’m not. If my reply is negative, I’m not asking for ideas to fix it. I’m asking for understanding. Reassurance that you are here if I need anything will comfort me.

I may want to talk about it. And all I want you to do is listen. I don’t want to hear comparative stories. I want you to just sit with my pain.  To be comfortable with my tears.

If my grief is loss, I want you to talk about my loved one. Say their name. Don’t be afraid to upset me. I am already, will always be upset they are no longer living on earth. Hearing their name, sharing a memory about them lights up my day in a bitter-sweet way that I treasure.

Never judge where I should be in my grief. My grief is here to stay. My brain is learning how to accept my new reality. My heart is learning how to beat around this massive hole it has.  Time does not exist within these lessons.  

I am not my old self; I am becoming someone new. That is the uneasy and difficult part of grief. You and I wish that I could be the same, but that is not to be. My soul is learning of who I will become with this grief. You too must be strong and accepting of the new path to which I have been forced to travel.