Her child was stillborn. It’s a year since the death.
His grandmother died from dementia. It’s a year since the death.
Their teen was killed in a traffic accident. It’s a year since the death.
Children gather to honor a father’s birthday. It’s a year since the death.
She lays a Christmas wreath on her husband’s grave. It’s a year since the death.
Which death is the most difficult for the living grievers? Which person, a year after a loved one has died, should be in “better shape” and “moved on” in their life?
Unfortunately, I think many folks—including me—compare the severity of another person’s situation. We do that with most of life: comparing jobs, homes, our child’s successes, the cars we drive, the vacations we take, and so forth. Advertising relentlessly reinforces comparison, from the new solar panels on the neighbor’s roof to the next best smartphone in a classmate’s hand. The person beside you or across the street or on the pharmaceutical commercial is better off than you. (Or, whew, is just a smidgen worse off than you!)
If we compare the things of life, why not compare the ways of death? Isn’t a young and vibrant teen dying in a traffic accident much, much worse than the elderly grandparent dying from dementia?
However!
What if the nineteen-year-old got high—and it wasn’t the first time but one of multiple times of partying with alcohol and drugs—and later rode his motorcycle without a helmet? And so, at a blind turn, he roared off a rain-slicked road and smashed into a tree. (I could keep making this worse.) I’ve heard the perverse jokes whispered by hospital staff as they referred to motorcycles as “organ donation machines.” Wasn’t the death that stupid kid’s fault? Or maybe you would never ever think that way? You feel rotten for his parents . . . but for how long and with how much sympathy, once you learn more of the details?
What if the grandparent who died—old and feeble—was the one who raised the now mourning grandchild? No one had cared for that grandchild like the grandparent. What if, as years went by, roles were reversed and the youth once supported by the grandparent now unselfishly cared for him or her in the waning years? No one else in the family stepped forward and only that singular, loving grandchild was there to make a grandparent’s final days as safe and dignified as possible. (I could keep making this better.) Will those details change your heart about the death of an elderly person and a young person’s reactions a year later?
It’s seductive to play the what-ifs. What if the stillborn child was born to a sixteen year-old? (She’ll get over it. It’s better this way.) How can those adult children continue to grieve their parent a year later? (After my great aunt’s funeral, I was fine. Dying is part of life, you know!)
What I try to remember—though it’s amazingly hard—is that I don’t know about another’s life. Or how another’s death will, or will not, impact a person. When I worked with the bereaved, one of their most common experiences was being compared to others.
Are we judged by the absence or presence of tears?
Are we judged for how quickly it takes to return to “normal?” (What is “normal?”)
Do you admire (or resent) the colleague who apparently dealt with a loved one’s death by plunging back into the pressures of a job? Our cultural values celebrate those who work hard, right?
Are you bothered by (or even angry at) the friend moping around the house: the one who can’t “get their act together” a week/month/year after the death? Don’t most companies give employees three bereavement days (or maybe a full work week) . . . and therefore isn’t that a sufficient period of time for mourning?
What I also try to remember—though it’s amazingly hard—are the different reactions when a celebrity dies. Robin Williams’s death back in 2014 served as an excellent, troubling example. His suicide triggered myriad feelings. As the funny Mork on television, the rambunctious genie in Aladdin, and the compassionate therapist in Good Will Hunting, Williams resonated with several generations of fans. For many, it felt like a dear friend had died. But for others? Just another death in the news? What’s the big deal?
What I try to remember—though it’s amazingly hard—is that I truly don’t know how I will react to the death of a loved one. We often judge ourselves even more harshly than we judge others!
Stop it.
As tempting as it is to compare one person to another, or what I want to feel versus what I actually do feel, I hope we resist the lure of comparisons.
Take the time to learn how someone is truly feeling (including yourself), rather than deciding how he or she (or you) should feel. Which will be amazingly hard, and amazingly important.
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Photo from 1998’s Good Will Hunting
My book, A Companion for the Hospice Journey is available at Amazon.
Thank you Denise. It’s getting harder for me to try to communicate now with pain. I do have a hard time now seeing my oldest friend pulling away while I’m still here. Strange how people deal with “your” dying. If I had the time to write a book.... 💜
That was a great piece. My first thought of which loss would be the hardest was the teen and the baby. Because I am dying.
I’m a mother of two adult daughters and I’m thankful that I know I will not have to bear the pain of outliving one of my two adult daughters.
They are handling it very differently. The older one and I have had a strained relationship for the last several years. While news of my impending death has brought us some togetherness, the reason for the estrangement has not changed, so I try to ignore it, because it will never change. I won’t mention why. People would have to know us to understand the dynamics that caused it.
My younger daughter is very emotionally bound to me, and is single. She lives with me as so many young people have to do nowadays due to the financial burden of ever skyrocketing costs of living in these times. She takes on chores I can no longer complete as well.
I find I’m consoling my youngest daughter over having to watch me die slowly. She does see a grief counselor, which I could use myself--but my counselor is my God and Savior and my faith has taken the fear of dying away, but it doesn’t make it less painful physically or for how I see my daughter struggling in advance of the inevitable. I sometimes fall asleep on the sofa in the evening while watching a movie with her. Instead of going to bed, she’s sleeping in a recliner next to me on those occasions and wakes every time I stir to ask “are you okay?” It breaks my heart how terrified she is of my inevitable death. I try to hide my physical pain to spare her. Yet, I realize she needs to face what is coming and that one day soon I will not be here anymore.
I miss my grandparents, parents and a brother who have already passed. One of my dearest friends in the world died suddenly 2 months ago and I wasn’t able to have one last chance to say I love you.
Everyone has every right to grieve for however long they need to. Regardless of whom they lost. My husband died a dozen years ago from cancer. The company I worked for typically gave a three day bereavement period. However, they told me (as was typical for all their employees) to “take as long as you need.” I took two weeks which they paid for before I went back to work. I appreciated the kindness of my boss and coworkers.
Sometimes being the person dying, is the hardest role to play. My husband would try to hide his pain and fear (he was not a believer unlike myself), to try to ease the sadness of our family members especially the adult kids. So when his death came suddenly one day when his heart could take no more, it was still a shock even though he had fought stage 4 cancer for fifteen agonizing months.
My dying is different. I have literally developed organ failure over a very short period and for no medical reason they’ve yet to discover. I already imagine myself on an autopsy table, as they try to figure out why my kidneys decided to go from normal to stage 4 failure in literally three weeks. It’s very painful as my body fills with toxins it can’t filter and I’ve refused dialysis because I don’t want to draw out the inevitable by just existing to spend every other day in a dialysis clinic for half of my day. To me, that would not be living. That would just be existing until I could exist no longer. And I feel it would make it even harder for my younger daughter to cope with. But that is my choice.
I could never judge any ones grief and mourning. Only they know how the death of a loved one will affect them. I suspect, that my death will be much harder on my younger child than her older sister. And I pray that family and friends will be compassionate and allowing her to grieve for as long as she feels necessary. We should all give each other that space, however long it may be.
But one thing is sure, we will all die one day. It is just the how of it that most of us will not know until that time comes.
Have compassion. The world needs more of it.