The Healing Power of "The Story"

Father’s Day Hell. Done. Kids Okay. Check. Memorial service for my neighbor….What??

That’s right, my friends.

Most of us have been just trying to get through Father’s Day weekend. Whether it’s because we have kids, we wanted to have kids, or we’re thankful we dodged that bullet…we’ve all been wading through our own you-know-what (I’m trying to keep this PG just in case my mom reads it).

But somehow, this weekend, I got a double helping of grief. Because not only did I have to jolly my kids through Father’s Day, I had to come home to a memorial service going on next door. My very sweet next door neighbor passed away a few weeks ago. He went into a doctor’s appointment on a Tuesday, was diagnosed with cancer, and by the next Tuesday he was gone. We were all shocked, to say the least.

Anyway, I always think it’s important, when it comes to these kinds of things, to just show up and acknowledge the passing. You know...give the wife a hug and let her know that how well liked her husband was. I mean, nothing makes us feel better than knowing that hundreds of people thought so much of our loved one that they decided to come over and pop open a beer with us.

Now, you would think having experienced what I have, that I would be a person who would know what to say. That I would have some magical words of comfort. That I wouldn’t be as stupid as some of the people I have encountered during my meandering walk through the Grief Canyon.

Yup. You would think.

But because of the experience I’ve been through, it makes me more self-conscious than ever that I’m going to say the wrong thing. Because if there’s one thing I know by now it’s that what one person finds comforting will make another person want to smack you. Most of the time, I just try and keep my trap shut.

So after my exhausting day with the kids, I trudged over to my neighbor’s house for (hopefully) a quick glass of wine and a pat on the back. And in my attempt to keep my foot out of my mouth (so that I could drink more wine), I started asking my neighbor questions about how they met, how long they’d been married…you know general things like that.

And then something interesting happened.

My neighbor’s face suddenly lit up (as much as it can when you’re fighting against the rip-tide of grief) as she told me their story. She talked on and on about meeting him in college and how crazy and fun he was. She asked me to go with her to watch a slide show that someone had put together of their life and as I followed her into the living room, the most obvious thing hit me.

We all just want to tell our story.

In everyone’s attempt to “say the right thing” in times of grief they’re ignoring a very simple fact that would save everyone a lot of aggravation. They don’t have to talk at all. They don’t have to worry about whether saying, “I’m sorry” is going to annoy someone. They shouldn’t even attempt to look at the bright side and say, “Well, at least he went quickly.” They shouldn’t make a pathetic stab at philosophy by saying, “Everything happens for a reason.” Or our FAVORITE: “He’s in a better place now.”

They just have to ask one simple question about the person who is gone. And listen.

When I think back to when I lost my husband, I still realize that the most healing time I had was just sitting around with friends while they asked me questions about us and our life. Even in my darkest hour, I enjoyed strolling down Memory Lane with anyone who would take the time to listen. Don’t we all? I LOVE it when people ask me how I met my husband. I love it when they look at me in my younger and more attractive days and ask what we were doing then. I love it when they ask me if all of my kids were fathered by my husband.

(Now, in reality, if you had ever seen my husband and seen my kids, you would never ask that question.)

This realization has been such an “ah ha” moment for me. That listening has more healing powers than saying something that you think is comforting while making the other person feel like they’d rather be walking on glass than talking to you. It’s probably something that you all have known for years, but I’m always a little behind on the grief train. So the best thing you can do is smile politely and nod your head while you let me ramble.

‘Cause it will just make me feel better.

For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2010

Support is Like a Good Bra...You Don't Realize You Need It 'Til You're Sagging

Let’s face it. We’ve all reached an age where we come with some baggage. I don’t care if you’re divorced, married, widowed, or single. We all have friends who have had marital problems, fertility problems, and financial problems. Chances are we’ve all seen some things. It would be next to impossible to get through early adulthood without tasting a little of the spice of life. (In my case, I’ve tasted it, but due to some cheap beer while we were in the military, I don’t remember all of it.)

Those experiences have shaped who we are, the decisions we make, and the way we live our lives. Those experiences have determined what we like and what we look like (thanks for those extra 10 lbs., Cheap Beer). Those experiences have made us more conscious about the people in our lives and who we really invite in.

I’ll admit it. I’m getting pickier. I’m pickier about what I wear, what I eat, and I’m starting to like wine that doesn’t come in a box. I know that I can’t tolerate snoring or people who sing along with the radio when they don’t really know the words. People who can’t go with the flow and who obviously have their own agenda with no room to maneuver usually don’t make the cut.

As I get older, my friends are getting pickier too. They’re going through the same spiritual growth spurt I am. Which means, if you do the very complicated word problem I’ve laid out for you, who we hang out with is who we all really want to be with.

With pickiness comes a little bit of stubbornness. We know what we want. Our decisions are made based on our own past experiences…things that we may share with our friends, but not in 100% the same way. The decisions that I make are not yours. If they were, I’d be you. My decisions are mine and have come together because of the life I have led. I haven’t led your life. You haven’t led mine. So let’s stop trying to lead each other’s.

As we get older, we don’t always have to agree with what our friends do. And they sure as heck don’t have to agree with what we do. But there is one thing that keeps us all together.

Support.

I don’t think most people understand the definition of support. It doesn’t mean that you agree. It doesn’t even mean you have to encourage. It means that you trust your friends to make the best decisions possible…for them. If you start off a sentence with, “Well…if it were me…” then you should stop. Just stop. Because it’s not you.

I would love for everyone to repeat after me.

I support you. And I want you to be happy.

Don’t go any further. No “buts.” No “have you thought about?” No “what ifs?”

When you stop with that one phrase, you’re leaving the door open to be asked your opinion. But there is a difference between being asked and just blurting out what you think. Because when you are asked, your friend wants your opinion. When you offer it without consent…you’re implying that what the other person is doing is wrong.

I know that I’m speaking from the widow’s point of view. I can’t help it. It’s what I know. Most of us widows have been through a very hurtful process when the people we thought were supporting us, were really thinking they would do better if they were in our shoes. And I hope those people never have to really find out.

I thank the friends of mine who have taught me this lesson on how to really be supportive of someone else. I didn’t come up with it on my own. I used to always be the “well, if it were me” gal because I thought everyone should be doing what I was doing. But after so desperately needing just unconditional support and receiving it from a select few, I’ve realized how rare true SUPPORT is.

But "if it were me”…I would have been supportive all along.

For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2010