Hodan Pictures
After reading a recent post from an oncology nurse about how her own diagnosis brought her to a deeper understanding of her patients, I could relate. This week I found myself feeling and saying similar things about people in my life. I was mentally apologizing too, to people who I’d failed to comfort in the past….
Funny how our own problems can breed compassion for others.
… and how we don’t have a clue until we’ve walked in their shoes.
I’d never lost someone close until this year. Now, I’m about to lose the second in eight months.
This week, my mom is dying from cancer-caused kidney failure. Increasingly exhausted and confused, she’ll soon slip into a coma and then peacefully away.
Returning from the hospital yesterday, I held a foil tray in my arms and entered the house.A mom from my small group at church had prepared a lovely supper for my family. The group would provide us with supper every day for a week. I cried with gratitude when I heard. These days, even putting dishes in the dishwasher seems too big a task. I imagined feeding my family canned soup and instant oatmeal until this whole thing blew over. Blech. So, the promise of daily meals for a week was a huge relief.
As I set the warm foil tray on the counter, I wondered at all the ways people had come by and offered prayer, gifts, food, and help. What did I need? What did my family need? I hardly knew.
Suddenly it occurred to me how inept I’d been at comforting others in their times of trouble.Friends and family had lost daughters, sons, siblings, parents, and precious pets. How had I comforted them? I hadn’t gone through such deep loss before, so didn’t understand the toll grief takes. How it unfolds in a life. What needs there might be. I hadn’t come through like I wished I had - like people were coming through for me now.
To those who have lost loved ones, I’m sorry. I didn’t get it.
I didn’t understand how small your world became. How your time and thoughts revolved almost singularly on your family member, the memories, keeping people notified, or on making plans and decisions about finances and burials.
I didn’t understand how energy-draining it was and how normal, mundane daily tasks became undoable. Since doctors broke the news and Mom was checked in, my life became a cycle of checking messages, being at the hospital, going home to serve my kids some semblance of a meal, checking messages again, and returning to hospital. There has not been much time or energy for such basic things as laundry or dishes, or eating, or smiling.
I didn’t realize how stunned and dazed and forgetful grief made you. Your arms may have felt like they were dragging on the ground while your head throbbed and weighed. It was a baffling mystery that the supply of tears never ran dry. And just when you thought you were okay… wait. What was I talking about again?
Then there was the endless repetition of information and stories. You forgot to tell some people important happenings and information – your husband perhaps – and other people got to hear the same story over and over. Who was told what? What day was it again? It’s hard to keep it all straight.
I didn’t realized how the days blurred together. Between the endless waiting in hospitals and the whirring hurry of running last-minute errands to funeral homes and banks and insurance companies, there seems little difference between morning and afternoon. Monday and Saturday. They’re all the same. Weekend? Christmas? They’re all the same grey fog.
I didn’t realize it was okay to laugh or how desperately laughter was needed. – Not about just anything, but about the funny way your loved one was. Their wonderful quirks and silly sayings. The weird things they did, even if it was in their last, confused moments. Or the touching, wonderful memories. There’s a fine, almost invisible line between sadness and joy, and a little celebratory laughter can lighten the crushing weight of sadness. Had I known, I would have visited with some memories of your loved one. Perhaps we could have smiled together even in the grief.
I also didn’t realize how much you needed someone to tell you to stop. Take a break. Rest your mind by doing something different. Eat. Sleep. Go for a walk. And it should be done guilt-free, too. What is it in us that makes us want to cling to a hospital bed for hours on end, waiting for… what? What are we hoping for? One final coherent moment? That they’ll sit up and we’ll celebrate the miracle? For the coroner to tell us that there is actually a heartbeat and we don’t have to say goodbye? I don’t know. But being encouraged to take a break is important. I would have said so, had I known.
I had no idea that, after your loved one passed away, sentimentality took root. I never understood graveside visits or the way a person can become attached to an object their loved one once owned. I didn’t realize how Christmas, Thanksgiving, or the anniversaries of their birthday or death could intensify gravity’s hold on your heart and head. I hadn’t realized what a comfort it is to think your loved one can see and hear you even after they’re gone.
I didn’t realize that their passing created anxiety even long after. Their winter car accident left you terrified to drive in winter. Their cancer made you question every skin tag and flu bug. For a moment, every cough and joint pain makes you wonder if you’ll suffer the same fate.
I would have done things differently had I known.
I would have brought you a big box of Tim Horton’s coffee to save you buying cup after cup in the hospital cafeteria.
I would have made you supper and brought it to your house.
And given you gift cards to the cafeteria or the gas station instead of flowers. And offered to watch your kids. Or picked up some groceries for you. Or just gone for a walk with you.
I wouldn’t have stayed away in an attempt to ‘give you space’. I would have come to the hospital or to your door to wrap my arms around you and say I’m sorry this happened. I didn’t realize that people don’t necessarily need space and solitude in the fog and sadness.
I didn’t realize that coming to the hospital to say hello and laugh and cry with us would mean so much. But it did. I didn’t realize every email and text sharing a memory or offering a prayer would mean so much. But it did. I’m sorry. I wish I had known so I could do that for you.
My friends, family, neighbors, I’m sorry. I wish I could have been there for you better. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t understand. Your help and support and compassion now though, is helping me not just weather this storm, but also know how to comfort others. Slowly, more and more, I’ll get it.
I didn’t understand how energy-draining it was and how normal, mundane daily tasks became undoable. Since doctors broke the news and Mom was checked in, my life became a cycle of checking messages, being at the hospital, going home to serve my kids some semblance of a meal, checking messages again, and returning to hospital. There has not been much time or energy for such basic things as laundry or dishes, or eating, or smiling.
I didn’t realize how stunned and dazed and forgetful grief made you. Your arms may have felt like they were dragging on the ground while your head throbbed and weighed. It was a baffling mystery that the supply of tears never ran dry. And just when you thought you were okay… wait. What was I talking about again?
Then there was the endless repetition of information and stories. You forgot to tell some people important happenings and information – your husband perhaps – and other people got to hear the same story over and over. Who was told what? What day was it again? It’s hard to keep it all straight.
I didn’t realized how the days blurred together. Between the endless waiting in hospitals and the whirring hurry of running last-minute errands to funeral homes and banks and insurance companies, there seems little difference between morning and afternoon. Monday and Saturday. They’re all the same. Weekend? Christmas? They’re all the same grey fog.
I didn’t realize it was okay to laugh or how desperately laughter was needed. – Not about just anything, but about the funny way your loved one was. Their wonderful quirks and silly sayings. The weird things they did, even if it was in their last, confused moments. Or the touching, wonderful memories. There’s a fine, almost invisible line between sadness and joy, and a little celebratory laughter can lighten the crushing weight of sadness. Had I known, I would have visited with some memories of your loved one. Perhaps we could have smiled together even in the grief.
I also didn’t realize how much you needed someone to tell you to stop. Take a break. Rest your mind by doing something different. Eat. Sleep. Go for a walk. And it should be done guilt-free, too. What is it in us that makes us want to cling to a hospital bed for hours on end, waiting for… what? What are we hoping for? One final coherent moment? That they’ll sit up and we’ll celebrate the miracle? For the coroner to tell us that there is actually a heartbeat and we don’t have to say goodbye? I don’t know. But being encouraged to take a break is important. I would have said so, had I known.
I had no idea that, after your loved one passed away, sentimentality took root. I never understood graveside visits or the way a person can become attached to an object their loved one once owned. I didn’t realize how Christmas, Thanksgiving, or the anniversaries of their birthday or death could intensify gravity’s hold on your heart and head. I hadn’t realized what a comfort it is to think your loved one can see and hear you even after they’re gone.
I didn’t realize that their passing created anxiety even long after. Their winter car accident left you terrified to drive in winter. Their cancer made you question every skin tag and flu bug. For a moment, every cough and joint pain makes you wonder if you’ll suffer the same fate.
I would have done things differently had I known.
I would have brought you a big box of Tim Horton’s coffee to save you buying cup after cup in the hospital cafeteria.
I would have made you supper and brought it to your house.
And given you gift cards to the cafeteria or the gas station instead of flowers. And offered to watch your kids. Or picked up some groceries for you. Or just gone for a walk with you.
I wouldn’t have stayed away in an attempt to ‘give you space’. I would have come to the hospital or to your door to wrap my arms around you and say I’m sorry this happened. I didn’t realize that people don’t necessarily need space and solitude in the fog and sadness.
I didn’t realize that coming to the hospital to say hello and laugh and cry with us would mean so much. But it did. I didn’t realize every email and text sharing a memory or offering a prayer would mean so much. But it did. I’m sorry. I wish I had known so I could do that for you.
My friends, family, neighbors, I’m sorry. I wish I could have been there for you better. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t understand. Your help and support and compassion now though, is helping me not just weather this storm, but also know how to comfort others. Slowly, more and more, I’ll get it.
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